One Hour Earlier

  “Lucon Edelyn, you dare disrespect the betrothal you have with my sister?!”

  Lyris’s accusation drowned out the street noise. Her pale eyes blazed with the righteous fury of youth as she stood before the wagon, her finger trembling as it pointed straight at Lucon.

  To Lucon, her words were just another ripple in the endless Flow. Yet they parted the world’s currents, unearthing a memory.

  Suddenly, he was back in his father’s study…

  Lord Auric Edelyn, his once-proud face drawn with disappointment, pacing before the hearth. The flicker of firelight played across his pale-blue eyes as he spoke.

  “You need to marry, Lucon. You need roots. Deydor Serbal is my oldest friend—before titles, before wealth. A little late to politics, but he is looking to rise to army general. House Edelyn can help him. His daughter Klara would make you respectable again, and your union would strengthen both our houses. Do this, and people will start to forget...your mistakes. The temple, this ‘Prince of Ruin’ business—everything.”

  Lucon remembered standing there, barely listening, wine still burning in his blood. When he learned it was Klara Lysenne Serbal—the war-obsessed acolyte of the noble house connected to the Warfaring Temple—he nearly laughed. Of all the girls in the world, fate had chosen her.

  They’d known each other as children. She was the type to seize the helm of any situation; he was the type who passed it to the nearest person. Oil and water. Steel and smoke. When they met again after the engagement was made by their fathers, she’d been as stiff and disciplined as ever.

  Lucon wasn’t thrilled to be with a zealot, but her appearance was considered best in the kingdom. She earned the title of Red Storm in Vursic Academy for her prowess in battle. Yet, despite her battle-hungry demeanor and devotion to the Warfaring God, suitors never ceased.

  Even Lucon from time to time had been embarrassed more than once, caught by her while he ogled her curves and her shapely thighs when she wore her acolyte garb.

  But when they met as betrothed, she had been cold, dismissive. She crossed her arms like a shield.

  “I don’t like men,” was the first thing she uttered when they were alone. Then she told him how the betrothal would remain only that. Once she joined the Hero’s Party, nothing could hold her back, not even an engagement to the powerful House Edelyn.

  Back in the present, Lucon blinked, the Flow closing over the vision like waves swallowing a footprint. He exhaled.

  “That’s right,” he said, his tone almost meditative. “I have a fiancée.”

  Lyris was visibly shaking, her fists balled.

  Lucon turned to the two courtesans still lounging nearby, their perfume clinging sweetly to the wagon’s air.

  “Off you go, my lovely flowers,” he said. “I can no longer play in the garden.”

  They pouted dramatically.

  “So soon?” The first whined.

  “But we were having such fun,” the second added, running a hand down his arm.

  He smiled faintly and flipped each of them a gold coin. “Consider this for your troubles.”

  They nearly whooped with celebration, managing at the last second to simper and sigh.

  “Think of me when you use it, my prince,” the first courtesan said, nodding toward the pipe he still held.

  As they climbed down from the wagon, Lucon felt a flicker of detachment. He didn’t even understand why he’d invited them aboard. It had felt natural in the moment, a whim carried on the current of the Flow. He had simply let it happen.

  “I’m going to tell Father everything!” Lyris declared. “I will expose you and save Klara from this…this farce!”

  She turned on her heel and marched toward a waiting carriage, her gray hair bouncing behind her.

  Bethea scrambled after her, but not before turning back to Lucon, her eyes full of sincere gratitude. “Thank you again, Young Lord! Truly!”

  Hilda watched them leave, a complicated expression on her face.

  “It’s a shame,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “The betrothal won’t work out. Lord Deydor is a good man.”

  But in the Flow, Lucon saw the truth she hid. There was no regret. Instead, a bright ribbon of relief wound through her energy. She was glad the engagement was crumbling.

  At the reins, Skhav’s tattooed face turned, his brown eyes utterly bored with the entire drama.

  “Where to next?” he grunted.

  Lucon took a long pull from the long pipe, then exhaled a swirling cloud of smoke into the evening air.

  He then looked from the barbarian to the crates of Mana Crystals, then back again.

  “Where else?” he said, smoke rising from between his smiling teeth. “Let’s go get rich.”

  ***

  From his seat atop the now mostly empty wagon, Skhav watched in silence as the deal concluded.

  Lucon clasped hands with a beaming merchant. The man, dressed in a garish velvet doublet and idly twisting the ends of his long, oiled mustache, couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Behind him, his workers were already loading the crates of raw Mana Crystals into a secure warehouse. The deal was done. The “bandits’” stolen hoard had become profit for the very lands it had been stolen from.

  Lucon looked every bit the noble son then—earning a fortune with charm and ease, smoke curling from his mouth as he puffed on the pipe. That confidence never wavered.

  An imperceptible pulse of Mana radiated from Skhav—Mana Sense, the extension of a mage’s perception usually used to scout for danger or probe another’s strength. It reached deeper than an Arisen’s enhanced five senses, into depths unseen.

  Skhav sensed Lucon’s holy power—the blessing he had received from the Merciful Goddess.

  It was a pitiful amount.

  Skhav should’ve been able to beat someone like him with his [Mana Beast Form]. “Helto,” a name Skhav knew to be fake, should also have been able to defeat Lucon easily.

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  Yet neither of them had beaten him. They had been defeated while Lucon held the same lazy smile he wore now.

  The boy clearly had a touch of Himrvrakkar… but that could be both good and bad. Well—bad for the Himrvrakkar, good for those who benefited from their actions.

  Skhav’s gaze drifted to the single remaining crate in the wagon bed behind him. It hummed with a dense, potent energy that resonated deep in his Mana Pool. These were the choicest shards—the purest ones he had personally selected from the entire haul. Lucon had ordered him to do it, then simply nodded.

  “That’s your portion,” Lucon had said, voice retaining the same smoothness it always did. “Consider it a down payment. This is just the beginning. Stick with me, and you’ll get more than you ever could have dreamed of with Helto.”

  The words had been casual, but the action was profound. Skhav’s original plan had been simple: play along with this unpredictable nobleman just long enough to gather a few resources, then disappear into the wilderness.

  This crate of high-grade crystals was not “a few resources.” It was a fortune. It was a statement. It was far more than the pittance he’d been promised as a hired tool in the bandit operation.

  This changed things. This made it serious.

  His calloused fingers—tattooed with the same dark ink that covered his body—rose unconsciously to his neck. They traced the jagged lines of the brand hidden beneath his high fur collar. The memory surfaced not as a story, but as a visceral flash: a single moment of pain and rejection.

  The Abandoned Verge.

  The mana storms raging.

  The altar atop the redstone pyramid.

  His own people turning against him—declaring him unworthy.

  He looked down at the crate of glowing blue crystals. Each one was a compacted shard of the power the gods had used to shape the world—a key to greater strength. With enough of this… with the wealth and resources Lucon had promised…

  He allowed the thought to form, fragile and dangerous as a tonic that could grant life or deal death depending on the dose.

  Not just to survive in the Heartlands, but to grow stronger. Strong enough that one day he could return to the Abandoned Verge—not as an outcast, but as a force. Strong enough to walk back through those gates and reclaim everything that was rightfully his.

  ***

  The celebration was reaching its zenith, the air now crackling with a different kind of energy. At the center of the manicured lawn, a sunken arena had been carved into the earth, its edges clean and precise.

  Lucon pushed through a cloud of his own pipe smoke and leaned against a tree to observe. Toloris, he thought, spotting the family’s last Adept Mage looking weary but satisfied. An earth-shaping spell of that scale would have drained him; he’d have needed a Mana Crystal to finish the job. The thought of the cost—something that would never have crossed his mind in more prosperous days—was now an automatic calculation.

  Encircling the earthen pit was a shimmering, mostly transparent dome of golden light. Near its edge stood Georgi, the family monk, his shaved head gleaming in the lantern glow. A strict pacifist, he had refused to accompany Lucon into the Wilderwood, unwilling to serve as healer for a “violent excursion.” Now he was using his holy magic to ensure no one got hurt in a spectacle of violence. The irony was not lost on Lucon.

  “Young Lord!”

  Bethea came running through the throng, skirts gathered in both hands, her mousy brown hair bouncing with every eager step. Her smile was wide.

  “I’ve already prepared a table for you!” she said, breathless but pleased. “And I told the cooks to make you a hot meal.”

  Lucon paused. Being welcomed home with something other than obligation was…certainly something else.

  From just behind him, Hilda spoke up, her voice carrying a note of warmth.

  “You’re so thoughtful, Bethea.”

  Bethea responded with a quick, grateful nod.

  “It’s the least I can do.” She gently urged Lucon toward the table. “Please, milord—sit. You should enjoy the celebration.”

  No one noticed the eldest Young Edelyn Lord enter. Every eye was fixed on the sparring match, watching the brother with the brightest future.

  As he settled into the chair, Lucon looked up at the servant girl.

  “Bethea, go fetch your brother for me.”

  “He’s guarding the manor, Young Lord,” she replied, her voice dipping slightly. “And you’re not going to guess who showed up.”

  Lucon took a slow pull from his pipe, the rising smoke making him look as though he might breathe fire.

  “Swordmaster Eregnil and Dragnol Fire-Storm,” he said—not a question.

  The maid’s eyes went wide. “How did you know?”

  “I always know,” he said, a faint smile ghosting across his face.

  Bethea giggled. “Of course you’d know. You’re so smart.”

  He knew because of the nature of the party—this gathering was the official, unmistakable beginning of Claude’s ascent. The presence of those legends made it a coronation.

  A peculiar tension in the Flow from Hilda tugged him from his thoughts. She stiffened where she stood behind his chair.

  “Tell Kaeson to come regardless,” Lucon instructed Bethea, his eyes drifting toward the arena. “It’s important.”

  “At once, Young Lord,” she said with a quick bow before hurrying off.

  Below, in the earthen pit, Claude and Klara faced each other. The crowd’s cheers rose to a fever pitch, a roar of anticipation that swallowed all other sound. The duel was beginning.

  The first clash was not of steel, but of earth.

  [Great Upheaval]

  Klara’s body ignited with crimson Aura. She drove her greatsword into the ground at her feet. With a roar of effort and power, she heaved a massive section of the arena floor upward, sending a wave of dirt and shattered turf directly at Claude, meant to blind and disorient him.

  [Riposte Stance]

  Claude glowed with the same crimson energy, but his was a contained, focused flame. He settled into a perfect, elegant stance—one foot forward, one hand held behind his back for balance, his sword held before him.

  He didn’t retreat.

  As the wave of debris crashed toward him, his sword became a blur of precise, minimal movements. Chunks of dirt and clumps of grass were effortlessly sliced apart, deflected, or knocked aside. Not a single speck of dirt touched his uniform. His eyes, moving in a hyper-focused blur, tracked every piece of the chaotic onslaught.

  The crowd erupted in applause at the display of flawless skill.

  Meanwhile, at Lucon’s table, Lieutenant Kaeson approached and offered a bow deeper and more sincere than protocol demanded.

  “Young Lord,” he said, his voice low. “Thank you. For my mother. There are no words.”

  Lucon smiled amiably around the stem of his long pipe. Kaeson’s eyes flicked to the pipe and the bottle of liquor on the table, but the soldier knew better than to comment.

  “No matter if the barony suffers,” Lucon mused, blowing a smoke ring, “if those who protect it cannot protect those closest to them, what is the point? Is the barony just a platform for the Edelyn name?”

  Kaeson’s stern expression softened, visibly moved by the sentiment.

  Down in the pit, Klara, frustrated by Claude’s defense, changed tactics.

  [Great Red Whirl]

  She became a spinning top of destruction, her greatsword a blazing circle of crimson light. The move was as much for the crowd as for the fight, drawing ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ as she dominated the arena, giving Claude little to no room to maneuver.

  [Bulwark Stance]

  Claude’s stance shifted. His feet planted firmly, his sword held in a two-handed, solid block. This was pure defense. The impacts were brutal and relentless, the clang of steel on steel ringing through the garden. He was being pushed back, inch by inch, under the overwhelming force of her assault.

  At the table, Lucon kept his eyes on the fight but spoke to Kaeson. “I need your help.”

  “I am willing, Young Lord,” Kaeson replied without hesitation.

  Lucon blew a stream of smoke toward the moon. “This will not involve the elite guard. Or Captain Mavor.”

  Kaeson paused. The implication was clear: this was not official duty. This was something else entirely.

  Sensing his hesitation, Lucon assured him, “It isn’t illegal.” When Kaeson still seemed uncertain, Lucon gestured with his pipe toward the cheering guests. “The barony is not in a good state. No doubt some of these people came with the sole purpose of extracting what little wealth remains through my father’s kindness.”

  Kaeson’s expression darkened, his eyes scanning the crowd with a flicker of resentment. He had stood guard for Lord Aurc; there could be no doubt he heard the endless petitions and thinly veiled requests for loans and gifts.

  “The difference between Captain Mavor and you, Lieutenant,” Lucon said softly, “is that Mavor knows what should be done. You know what must be done.”

  Lucon attempted to call Hilda to pour him a drink, only to find she had vanished. He shrugged and reached for it himself, but Kaeson was faster, smoothly filling his glass.

  “My thanks,” Lucon said, accepting it. “The money for Bethea was simply a reward. For being your sister, and for her hard work in this noble house.” He nodded toward where Bethea was scrambling to refill a noble’s wine glass. “That gold was a small token. In the future, there will be enough that she will be served, rather than serve.”

  Kaeson followed his gaze, watching his sister for a long moment. When he turned back to Lucon, he bowed again, deeper than before, his decision made. “I am willing to do what must be done.”

  “Good,” Lucon said. “We’ll talk later.”

  As Kaeson departed, the crowd gasped. In the arena, Klara’s assault seemed to be reaching its peak. Claude was cornered, his defense holding but offering no counter-threat. To everyone watching, she was on the verge of victory.

  But Lucon, immersed in the Flow, saw a different truth. He could feel Klara’s own energy—a swirling mass of insecurity and growing worry. Because she realized one thing.

  Despite the relentless pressure, her dominating attack, the seeming inevitability of her victory…Claude had yet to use his magic.