“He dies today!”

Taren grabbed his arm but he pulled himself free, raising his voice even louder.

“Him and that dumb cunt brother,” he sneered. “And that fucking brute Kalys Murk. I’ll kill them all and finally wash my hands of this miserable hell.”

Taren hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning just loud enough for him to hear over the murmuring of the crowd.

No one spoke that way about the Master of Arms. Even less so about the twins.

“Can they even face me man to man? All they know how to do is piss themselves like cowards if they have no pack of dogs to hide behind.”

He shoved his way through the crowd, earning himself a few glares and pointed looks, and hopped lightly onto a wooden bench on the far side on the street.

Taren followed closely apologizing to the villagers he bumped into along the way.

“Sometimes I think you’re a lot smarter than you are.” Taren said, readjusting his travel sack. His dark blue eyes flicked back and forth underneath his long blonde hair.

On the other side of the crowd a dozen young men and women lounged at the base of a large wooden stage where a lone guardsman stood beside a pair of identical twins.

His fists clenched and unclenched at the sight of their golden heads.

“We both know you’re not a killer. So stop pretending already.”

He took a deep breath and slid his gaze away from the stage.

“What do you know about me?”

Taren hesitated. He stopped eyeing the crowd and fixed him with a pointed stare.

“Saul, I’m serious. Don’t do this.”

He hopped off the bench and came in close to the young man until their foreheads nearly butted.

“You never said a thing all these years as I bled every day, breaking every bone in my body. You knew this day would come. And now you dare to stop me? What kind of a brother are you?”

Taren winced as though he’d jabbed him with a straight punch to the jaw.

He waited for another one of his brother’s excuses but when none came he folded his arms beneath his cloak and took Taren’s silence as him finally giving up.

Suddenly Taren grabbed his shoulders in both hands, gripping them tightly. His voice trembled in a way he’d never heard before.

“It’s hardly been a month since you broke into the first World. If you fight them now you’ll die!”

The fear in Taren’s voice brushed over his will.

He grimaced and steeled himself. As if his brother’s lack of confidence was not enough he even had the gall to state the outcome as if his fate had already been decided.

He curled his right hand into a fist and clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together.

If another moment passed with his brother’s hands still on him he would have broken Taren’s nose but a movement in the crowd drew his attention back to the task at hand.

He smiled.

Kalys Murk returned his smile with an ugly, crooked grin.

“Ahh, the little mutt finally bares its fangs,” Kalys said. “I always knew you’d do something stupid like this.”

Taren dropped his hands and moved out of the way, cursing under his breath.

Kalys stood taller than either of them. He tucked his thumbs behind a wide leather belt that hid mostly beneath his gut.

Although he’d grown fat over the years, his past lived on as deep scars crisscrossing his meaty hands and forearms.

His biceps bulged through his coat and his shoulders were wide as mountains with long blonde hair slicked back and streaked with white hugging them like clouds.

He peered down at them with a pair of narrow blue eyes from underneath a heavy brow and set above a wide square jaw that jutted out like a cliff.

He stood close enough that his nose burned when the man spoke. It was only the middle of the day but the Master of Arms had been drinking all morning.

“I didn’t think my words would travel that fast. This crowd sure likes to gossip,” he said.

Kalys hefted a thick metal studded bludgeon from his belt and bounced the tip of it on his palm.

“I’d flatten that shit stained head of yours but our young lords would like a word.”

A hint of regret behind the man’s gravelly tone made his smile grow into a smirk.

He offered Kalys a mocking bow which got him a scowl and a flash of yellow crooked teeth. Taren fell in beside him as Kalys led them back to the large wooden stage.

A silence broken by a gust of wind whipping a flag back and forth hung over the crowd when he stopped in front of the twins.

They were young men, a little older than him. And tall. Perhaps a little over six feet. A good several inches taller than him.

And they were blonde with hair as yellow as gold and long and thin as if spun by the most talented craftsmen.

In every sense of the word the young lords were handsome, so long as no one bothered to look over their pretty smiles and fine clothes at the ugly rot and decay beneath the surface.

“I couldn’t help but notice the stage,” he said.

The twins smirked in unison.

Jon Albryte studied him with eyes as cold and blue as a thin sheet of ice covering a lake in winter and set into a pale face with angles that could have cut stone.

His twin brother Barin circled him like a beast eyeing its prey.

“Did you think it was for you, mutt? Someone who couldn’t even break into the first World has no business thinking about the sword skill tournament.”

Barin sized him up and jabbed a finger into his chest.

“And trash like you shouldn’t dare utter threats against his betters.”

It struck him as odd how he could have ever feared the young lord.

Barin had always been a weak little boy, even after gaining power. His urges were cruel and his bearing too conceited. It made him sick how someone like that could ever be allowed to walk around a free man.

He could have easily snatched that finger and twisted it but he wanted to savor the moment. Let it build until it was ready for the proper time to let it all fall down around their golden crowns.

“A Dragon doesn’t soil his reputation by falling for the taunts of a wolf,” Jon said smoothly. “But there may be a reason behind his confidence.”

Barin glanced back at his twin with a tilt of his head.

“How long ago did he become an Essence Practitioner?”

“What!” Barin spun around and scrutinized him closely before barking out a laugh.

Jon shook his head and chided him. “Your essence perception needs training.”

“Fuck off,” Barin said with a flick of his wrist. “His cultivation is so small I just didn’t notice it at first.”

“Cultivation isn’t everything,” he said, interrupting the young lords. “Let me show you.”

He moved toward the stage before they could say another word.

Kalys reached out for him but he ducked the big man and swept his legs, toppling him onto his back. Kalys cursed and rolled quickly back to his feet. But he was already vaulting himself over the edge of the stage before the man could stop him.

He turned around and eyed the twins coldly.

“Get up here. Now.”

Barin gaped.

If Jon felt shocked by his unusual behavior the young lord kept it hidden from his face.

Kalys shouted at his men. His cheeks were flushed and spittle flew from his lips as he waived vigorously toward the stage.

He turned to face them as they climbed the steps and smiled at the caution in their eyes.

“Stop right there!”

The guards hesitated as a young woman brushed by them, glancing between her and Kalys with uncertainty.

She stepped gracefully across the stage and stopped just in front of him. She came up to his chin and frowned up at him, unfazed by the difference in their height.

He stared down his nose at her, wondering what Cera Albryte wanted with him.

Short blonde hair framed a small heart shaped face with pale green eyes that held his gaze for several moments before she grunted softly and turned on her heel to stab a finger at the twins.

“How could you let a mere first Worlder – and a peasant – talk to you like that? He needs to learn his place or people will laugh at us behind our backs.”

“Some of us already do,” he said.

“Quiet” she snapped, glancing back at him sharply. “There’s a limit to how arrogant you can be.”

He chuckled and folded his arms.

“I didn’t let him do anything, Cera.” Barin said hotly. “If he wants to die so badly I’ll remind him of the difference between us right now.”

“I have a better idea,” Jon said, stepping between the two Albrytes. “Let’s have our cousin here test whether he’s qualified for the sword skill tournament. If he wishes to fight so badly he can do it there with the rest of us.”

“Fine,” Cera said. “I was already here to test the other peasants. What’s one more?”

She sighed and planted herself in the middle of the stage.

“You should consider yourself lucky for getting off so easily. I don’t care about trivial matters like propriety. If I want someone dead, they die.”

“You know, I never disliked you Cera,” he said. “But you’re in my way.”

She snorted and pointed her chin at a rack of wooden practice swords off to the side. “Let’s get this over with.”

“No need,” he said. “I brought my own.”

Her brow furrowed when he unclasped his cloak and tossed it aside. On his hip he had strapped a short undecorated saber. He drew it casually and held it up under the sun. It gleamed as the light danced upon its polished surface.

“The testing uses wood,” she said. “You won’t need a real sword.”

“I prefer it this way.”

Cera tilted her head back and frowned.

“You never had guts like this before. I guess even a dog that’s been beaten its whole life will bare its fangs sooner or later.”

She smiled at him suddenly, a gleeful, predatory smile that ignored everything else around it as she lurched forward, whipping out her own saber and slashing it across his eyes.

He stepped back, feeling the air brush past his face. She followed immediately with an overhand strike from above that became a swift thrust aimed at his heart.

His blade took the brunt of her stab and deflected it just enough for it to graze his shoulder as he twisted away. At the sight of first blood her smile deepened and her strikes grew faster like a sudden burst of wind.

She spun, slashing her saber over his throat and spun again, dropping and aiming to cripple one of his legs. He parried low to save his leg and slid back as her strike reared like a snake in the grass and almost bit him in the throat.

If he hadn’t stepped back in time her saber would have pierced the bottom of his jaw and exploded out the back of his skull.

Cera laughed, a lighthearted sweet melody that perfectly suited how amused she looked at that moment. No doubt she thought she could kill him whenever she pleased.

He smiled softly as she appraised him with a mockingly respectful look in her eyes.

“Not bad for a first Worlder,” she said. “But an Essence Practitioner can only do so much against an Essence Channeler, even if I don’t manifest the form of my soul. Running is the only thing you can do. And you can’t even do that very well.”

He glanced over his shoulder. She’d backed him into a corner. Evidently she didn’t think he’d jump and carry the fight into the street, not that he would, but he played along with her assumption.

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong,” he said slowly. “A second World Essence Channeler like you should be able to handle me without exerting much effort. But that’s only if I were kind enough to give you the moment you need to manifest your soul. Besides that? The gap between our cultivation isn’t actually that far apart.”

Her smile faltered and she frowned, wary for the first time since she stepped onto the stage.

“I could be manifesting it right now,” she said.

“You’re not.”

She blinked, taken aback by his certainty.

“I’ve trained with essence perception just as much, if not even more, than I have with a sword,” he explained. “The essence flowing in you looks to be about that of a first realm, second Worlder. Like I said, the gap isn’t far because I’m in the eighth realm of the first World.”

She scowled and took a step back, squaring her shoulders, leveling her saber in front of her as though threatened by how clearly he could see through her.

“If I remember correctly,” he said. “The tournament you were going on about has one important rule. You can’t manifest your soul. Because it’s not a tournament of power, it’s a tournament of skill. Anyone with enough time and resources can cultivate essence, but skill takes hard work and perseverance.”

He walked calmly toward her, staring into her pale green eyes.

“By the way,” he said. “This is the first time we’ve fought since we were kids, sparing in the manor’s courtyard. You weren’t very good back then. Let me show you the proper way to cut your opponent.”

Cera watched intently as he lunged, striking her from above, and gasped when her parry missed. His blade swerved at the last moment, sliding along the thin surface of her saber in the opposite motion of her parry and traveled all the way down to the hilt where it bit deep into her forearm.

He frowned, feeling his blade grind against bone, failing to cut all the way through. Perhaps it was instinctive, or maybe it was a reflex aided by the strength of her cultivation, but Cera recoiled from the strike enough to save her arm.

The silence in the crowd burst as dozens of people holding their breaths gasped collectively. Cera shuddered, eyeing the trail of blood running down her arm.

“Would this be the first time you’ve seen your own blood?” he said coldly. “I wonder how many other people had to shed theirs for you instead.”

Her eyes bulged. She gaped but he didn’t offer her a chance to speak. The essence flowing in her began to rise and peak like a storm.

“Didn’t I just say I wouldn’t let you manifest your soul? Cera!”

He broke her concentration by targeting her wounded arm. Their sabers clashed and she bit off a curse as the storm broke as quickly as it rose.

She couldn’t effectively use her off hand and it weighed her down as she didn’t know how to handle it. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her breathing came out ragged.

He spun his saber, abandoning precision for dramatic swirls and over the top flourishes.

She parried again and again until he spun around her and smacked her in the back of her knees with the blunt edge of his blade.

He caught her as she stumbled forward by grabbing a fist full of her short blonde hair. She swung wildly until he tossed his blade and grabbed her wrist, twisting it behind her back. Her saber clattered onto the wooden stage where she kneeled.

“Pathetic. Is this all a second Worlder amounts to? Weren’t you going to kill me, Cera?”

He let her go and kicked her between her shoulders. To her credit she didn’t cry out. Instead she hunched over her knees and cradled her injured arm, sobbing quietly.

“I wasn’t here for you anyway,” he said. “Get off the stage.”

He turned away and looked over the crowd. The faces looking back stared wide eyed and muttered to each other, shaking their heads as if they couldn’t believe what he’d just done.

Taren was no where he could find but the twins were not hard to spot. Other than the way Jon’s eyes narrowed as they studied him, his pale face remained impassive.

Barin on the other hand paced back and forth, looking up at him with a wild rage that could melt his twin’s icy glare.

“Come on, Barin,” he called out. “I couldn’t care less about your stupid tournament. Let’s get it over with right here. Right now.”

Barin stomped over to the stairs but stopped when a shrill voice cut through the air.

“Peasant! I’ll kill you!”

He spun, looking back at Cera who now stood, still cradling her arm, staring at him with undisguised hatred. The essence in her swelled and burst before he could stop her.

Her soul manifested in a column of light that swirled around her, starting from the stage’s wooden floor and disappearing above her head.

He cursed.

His skill was nothing small but a fight with a Dragon was well beyond him.

The light flashed and as quickly as it appeared it vanished, revealing a seven foot tall monster in Cera’s place.

He scrambled off the stage and fled into the crowd. A bare several moments passed before a shadow fell over him. Pain exploded through his shoulder as Cera threw him onto the cobblestones.

He flipped several times, scrapping his face against the uneven stones. The air vanished from his lungs and when he rolled onto his back he gasped.

He fumbled at his empty scabbard and looked up at Cera who loomed over him like a golden tower.

The afternoon light danced on her scales as she raised one of her hands to the side.

A green flame blossomed in her palm and a long sword emerged from the fire until the hilt dropped into her hand.

He hated Cera at that moment.

She was about to render everything meaningless! All that he had suffered through to get to that point would have all been for nothing.

He balled his fists, reaching for more power, but the essence coursing through him reached its limit and wouldn’t break.

Was he really going to die here?

He looked up at her. A pale green fire flickered inside her slanted eyes that looked nothing like a human’s. Her sword moved faster than he would have thought possible.

Goosebumps flashed over his neck as the force of her blow hit with a strong blast of cold wind.

He blinked.

Her sword stopped, quivering only inches from his neck. It struggled to bite his flesh. But another sword, one much smaller than hers and leveled over his shoulder, held it in place.

“A beheading goes a little too far. Don’t you think?”

Cera hissed and pulled back, releasing her soul.

An old man standing over him sheathed his sword and offered a hand. He took it without any thought and instantly regretted it.

The old man’s grey eyes crinkled as he smiled and patted him on the shoulder but he knew later that there would be no more smiles for a while.

“It doesn’t concern you, Silvertree.” Cera said, seething with anger about to boil over again.

“His father is an old friend who I’m very much indebted to. How can I not be concerned?”

“This peasant dared insult me and threaten murder against my family. He’s earned his death and I’m well within my right to kill him.”

“Oh, is that so?” the old man said.

Cera scowled and took a deep breath when Jon interrupted.

“We Albrytes are not known for bullying the weak,” he said loudly. “A fight should end when a winner is clearly decided. Whatever grievance we have can be addressed at a later date.”

Cera began to protest but Jon cut her off with a slap that echoed through the air over the now silent crowd. She held her face and gaped in disbelief at her cousin.

“Who told you to manifest your soul?” Jon scolded her. “Could you really not win against a first World peasant without it? It’s your loss.”

The old man nodded his agreement and took his arm, leading him away from the crowd speaking wildly in hushed whispers.

Taren reappeared, red faced and breathing heavily. He joined them, handing him the sword he’d thrown away on the stage, and thanked the old man who curtly cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear it,” the man said. “Your father has been waiting months for you two to come back. And as you both should very well know by now, he doesn’t have much time.”