James couldn't sleep. He didn't want the nightmares to return, tonight of all nights, but the worry in his gut ate at him. Soon, the faintest hint of morning light crept in through the window and James got out of bed. Quickly, he moved down the ladder, his sword firmly in hand.

  He hated the thing, hated the care and love he knew had gone into it, but it was a tool, and you used a tool no matter how much you wanted to throw it away.

  He stomped into the practice pit, boots kicking up sand. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the crisp morning air that smelled of pine and sand.

  With a grunt of effort, he struck the air with the blade. Turning and pivoting on the balls of his feet. Earth stance flowed to Water, to Air, and to Fire. James forced his body to avoid Heart, the stance to guard others, to protect. It seemed wrong to practice that today, a day where he had given his word to turn away, to simply watch.

  The Fire stance was filled with fast, brutal sequences, slash, step, slash, step. Each one meant to come harder and faster. His world narrowed, vision tunneling to a small awareness of only each movement, nothing more. His blade met something hard and firm. Opening his eyes, he didn't realize he had closed; Max stood before him. Sword crossed in a defensive stance. James struck. A swift uppercut with his fist and pommel of the sword.

  Clang.

  James spun the blade around him in a flourish, slashing at Max's center. Skates on Ice.

  Clang.

  Max parried the blow to the side, Rock in a Storm.

  Clang.

  Fox through the Woods. A move to spear Max.

  Clang.

  Max blocked the tip of the blade, countering with Swatting a Fly, a move to off-balance your foe's attack.

  Clang.

  Max stepped inside James' guard, driving a fist into his stomach. Rock of the Mountain.

  The breath left James' lungs in a rush. He collapsed to the dirt, sweat pouring off him. He could feel the gritty sand, the leather of his hilt, and Max's stare as he looked down at him. He could feel it all, and it was too much.

  James beat at the earth, a scream ripping from his throat.

  Grabbing a handful of dirt, he rose, throwing it into Max's face and the judgment he thought he saw there. He lashed out with his boot, kicking Max square in the chest, sending the taller boy cartwheeling backward, sword skittering to the side. James was atop him in a moment, fists grabbing Max's tunic and lifting him up before shoving him back into the ground with a thud.

  "I can't do this, Max." He screamed, "I can't let him—you go."

  Max just lay there with his hands wrapped around James' wrist.

  "You have to." James slammed him down again.

  "No. I—I can stop it."

  "No, you can't, ya gave ya word, I did." Max tightened his grip. Months at the forge had strengthened them both, but Max had always been the stronger. Slowly, he pried James' hands away. "I don't wanna leave either, but I got dis feeling I will."

  "Then go." James climbed off the taller boy, spitting at the ground before him. "Run to your fate if you're so sure it's coming. At least then, he won't have to fight for you."

  "Boys?" Ser Edwin stuck his head out the kitchen door. "What's all this now?"

  "Nothing." They both said, picking up their swords.

  "'Ight, time for breakfast."

  The three sat in silence over a meal of cold cheese and bread. There was no fire in the hearth, no smell of a cooking meal. Ser Edwin was in his best, well-made shirt and pants, a dark coat he only wore to days of thanks after the harvest. James could see his beard and hair were freshly trimmed as though he was heading to a funeral, and James thought he might be.

  James couldn't take it, couldn't sit there; he stood, knees knocking against the table. The growl that escaped him was one of frustration and anger. Ser Edwin reached out a hand, but James didn't see it in his rush from the kitchen. Half-eaten meal left behind.

  James stormed up the road, dust filling the air in his wake; he couldn't go to town; he couldn't go to Miss Silvia; before he knew it, he was at the Orchard, the tall, almost impossible apple trees looming over the crumbling wall.

  James didn't care if he wasn't supposed to be here; everything had started here, the good, the bad, and the painful.

  James climbed over the wall in one smooth motion. The trees around him, silent in their prayers, to the temple they haunted.

  James screamed.

  He pulled at his hair, banged on his chest, and screamed.

  The trees listened and did not judge.

  Finally, his voice, hoarse, and muscles were taught with frustration. A single apple fell.

  Thunk

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  It landed beside him where he lay on the ground, bright and red, its scent sweet.

  James reached for the apple and threw it into the nearest tree, the apple bursting apart.

  "I don't need your help," James screamed to the trees around him.

  "Okay." The soft voice from his dreams said. "I am here when you need me, little-seed."

  James' breath came in ragged gasps. The trees whispered above him, shifting with a wind he couldn't feel.

  Clang

  James' chest tightened as ten more times the bell rang. One hour to go.

  With all the rage and pain, he ran back to the forge, to an empty house, a table empty of all but, a handwritten note resting on the scabbard of his sword.

  James, I know you have to work through this on your own, and while he will never say it. Ed needs you there. He needs your support, your strength. Please, go to the fight, please go to him. Make amends before it is too late. ~Silvia

  He folded the note, tucked it into his shirt, buckled on the scabbard, and ran.

  Clang.

  Two quick rings. The half-hour toll.

  The trees that lined the road rustled in the breeze as though calling out to James as he ran.

  You're too slow; you won't make it in time; you ran when you should've stayed.

  That rustling said.

  The town grew in the distance, the large gates growing larger and larger.

  He could hear them, the roar of the crowd, the wave of cheers, at the spectacle unfolding.

  James tripped, his foot caught on a rock, and sent him sprawling. Pain lanced his hands, but he couldn't stop. He was so close. The gates were just ahead.

  He pushed himself up, pushed through the pain, pushed through the crowd.

  The gleaming white armor of the Justicar greeted him with golden eyes framed by a dark face.

  "I wondered if you would make it." The rich tone vibrated through him. He is just ahead. "I suggest saying your peace quickly, as we will not keep the Lord of Light waiting."

  He saw that Ser Edwin had shed his fine coat and shirt. Max wrapped the older man's fists, carefully checking each pass around the knuckles and wrist. Edwin's gaze was far off once more, as though seeing through time and distance. James ran.

  "Edwin," James called. Just as the bell tolled noon. His call got lost in the ringing, and Edwin stood and walked into the ring, where the Master waited.

  The Master stood in the ring, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms—unhurried, unconcerned. His expression was the same cold amusement he always wore as if the fight ahead was just another lesson, just another child to break to his will.

  His sleeveless and fitted tunic showed the tight cords of his arms and the coiled strength in his stance.

  Golden tattoos of dragons and monsters twisted over his arms like trophies of fights won.

  Ser Edwin walked forward, fists wrapped in thick linen, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. He carried no smugness, no arrogance. He simply stood, adjusting his stance, rolling his wrists. A soldier, a blacksmith, a man who had never stopped fighting.

  The two men stood before the Justiciar. The air was thick with heat, with expectation.

  "The Rite of Judgment is now enacted," the Justiciar's voice rang out, deep and commanding. "The fight ends when one of you can no longer continue. There will be no further appeals. Do you both understand?"

  Ser Edwin nodded once. The Master gave a slow, condescending bow.

  "May the Lord of Light's Judgment commence."

  The Master moved first.

  In a blur of muscle and force, his first strike came fast, aimed straight for Edwin's ribs—but Edwin was ready. He caught the blow on his forearm, pivoting to roll the impact along his shoulder instead of his side. The ground shuddered beneath him. A lesser man would have staggered.

  Edwin didn't. He struck back.

  A short, brutal jab—straight into the Master's stomach. It sounded like a hammer on steel. The Master grunted, stepping back a half-inch, his teeth bared in something between a grimace and a smile.

  James could barely breathe. He could feel the force of each hit in his chest, in his bones. The fight had just started, and it was already a war.

  "Come on, Edwin," Max whispered, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides.

  The Master came again, faster. Left. Right. Left. A flurry of strikes, each one designed to break a rib, to cripple. Edwin took them. One to the ribs—he grunted. One to the shoulder; his body barely moved. The last came for his face—Edwin ducked.

  Then he countered.

  A right hook. A heavy, punishing thing, like the swing of his hammer. It connected hard.

  Crack.

  The Master's head snapped sideways, spittle flying from his lips.

  James' breath caught.

  He hit him. He actually hit him.

  The crowd roared.

  The Master stumbled—only for a heartbeat. He turned back to Edwin with a slow, awful grin. His lip was split, blood running down his chin.

  The Master laughed. Raising his hands in the air, the crowd roared.

  Then he came forward again. And this time, it was brutal.

  His fists rained down like falling stones, calculated, precise, each one aimed to break Edwin apart piece by piece. Edwin blocked high and low and took a hit to the ribs, but he stood firm. He didn't move.

  Then Edwin stepped in close, inside the Master's guard.

  The Master's eyes flashed—he tried to backpedal—too slow.

  Edwin's forehead slammed into his nose.

  Crack.

  The Master reeled back, blood gushing from his nose. His expression twisted, the amusement gone, and rage took its place.

  James felt a thrill of hope.

  He's winning. He can win.

  The Master wiped the blood from his face, eyes narrowing. Then he took a deep breath and smiled.

  Something in James' gut twisted. He knew that look. That was the look the Master gave when he was about to deal out a special punishment.

  The Master stepped forward—and Edwin wasn't fast enough.

  A low punch, straight into Edwin's side—an explosion of pain. James saw his mentor's whole body seize. Edwin tried to block—another hit, but it was to the same spot.

  James' stomach dropped. The Master had found a weakness. And he relentlessly punished it.

  Edwin couldn't get his arms in place to block.

  Left rib. Right rib. Left again.

  Edwin coughed a wet sound that made James' stomach turn.

  No. No. No.

  Max's breath hitched beside him. His eyes darted to James, desperate, as if willing him to do something—anything.

  Edwin swung wild, trying to create some distance.

  The Master stepped inside Edwin's guard again, a single crushing blow into the same ribs again.

  Something cracked. James saw the way Edwin's chest buckled.

  James felt the blow in his own bones.

  Edwin dropped to one knee.

  The crowd gasped and then roared.

  James' hands shook.

  Max stepped closer. "James—"

  "Don't," James whispered, eyes locked on the ring. He felt it. The power inside him, the door that was barely cracked open, begging to be unleashed. To be ripped for its hinges. He could feel it in his fingertips, in his bones.

  The Master circled Edwin, breathing steady and measured. A predator over wounded prey.

  Edwin forced himself up.

  James' heart slammed against his ribs. He could taste sick in his mouth.

  "Stay down," the Master murmured loud enough for Edwin to hear. "Know when you've lost, dog."

  Edwin spat blood onto the dirt. He lifted his fists. With a small wave, he seemed to say. Bring it on.

  The Master sighed. Tossing back his head and laughed.

  Then came the final blow.

  A single, devastating uppercut. That snaked through Edwin's guard.

  James felt the impact in his soul.

  Ser Edwin's body lifted from the ground—lifted—before crashing onto the dirt.

  His head lolled to the side, eyes rolled back in his head. James could see Edwin's chest rise and fall—shallow, as though struggling for air.

  The Master straightened. He wiped the blood from his mouth. Raising his hands high over his head.

  And turned to the Justiciar.

  "It is finished." The Master smirked.

  The Justiciar looked down at Edwin's unmoving form, his expression unreadable. Then, in a low, solemn voice

  "Ser Edwin can no longer continue. Regillius has judged in favor of Master Declin Garp. The boy known as Maximus of Oakwood shall join the ranks of the Imperium."

  The roar of the crowd was the loudest James had ever heard.

  The Justicar's words slammed into James like a fist.

  Max's breath hitched beside him.

  "No," Max screamed, the word laced with pain and terror. He clung to James as though the world had fallen out below him.

  Ser Edwin lay on the ground, chest barely moving.

  James saw the soldiers moving closer and couldn't feel his legs.