The training dummy splintered under the force of Klara’s greatsword, wood chips raining in every direction. Her breath flashed into vapor before her flaming Aura vortexed the heat around her, leaving the chilly air unfelt.

  “Liar,” she hissed between strikes.

  She didn’t know who she was angrier at—Lucon for his empty promise, or herself for actually believing him.

  She stopped.

  It wasn’t just Lucon. Her mind drifted back to Vursic, to a memory that still tasted like bile. A spot in the Hero’s Party had been dangled before her like a prize, but the cost was a piece of herself she wasn’t willing to sell.

  She roared and struck the dummy.

  Both Lucon and the offer at the academy paled in comparison to her own weakness. She only chose to come here because Lucon’s offer didn’t require she degrade herself!

  A horn blared.

  “MANA BEASTS!” someone screamed. “MANA BEAST ATTACK!”

  Klara spun toward the sound.

  Her Aura ignited, war blessing thrumming inside her.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  She charged.

  The moment she turned a corner, multiple shapes blurred past her—massive, fast, wrong.

  She barely had time to backpedal before a Mana Wolf skidded to a halt inches from her.

  It was enormous. All muscle and thick gray fur, its eyes glowing dimly with light. Its breath steamed in the air.

  It growled.

  Klara grinned.

  [Great Splitter]

  Crimson light erupted around her blade as she lunged, a vertical cleave meant to bisect the beast from skull to tail.

  The wolf leapt sideways.

  She twisted, slashed again—

  Missed.

  It didn’t counterattack.

  It just…watched.

  Klara frowned, adjusting her footing.

  She attacked again.

  And again.

  Each time, it evaded her, never striking back, never truly engaging.

  “What is this beast doing?” she muttered.

  A sudden snarl to her left.

  She pivoted just in time to see another Mana Beast—something feline, all sinew and sharp claws—spring toward her.

  Klara met it head-on.

  It veered away.

  She spun, slashing at a third beast, then a fourth—horned, scaled, monstrous—

  Miss.

  Miss.

  Miss.

  They circled. Watched. Avoided.

  None of them struck her.

  Klara’s grin faded.

  Then her Arisen hearing picked up something—faint, almost musical, carried on the wind from somewhere beyond the manor walls. A series of short, discordant whistles.

  Every beast became still.

  Ears twitched. Heads lifted.

  Together, they turned toward the sound.

  Then, without another glance at Klara, they bounded away, vanishing into alleys, over rooftops, between buildings like smoke.

  Klara stood there, alone again.

  “…What?”

  She didn’t have time to think about it.

  If Mana Beasts were attacking, people needed help.

  She took off.

  ***

  From a wooded rise far beyond the manor’s walls, Skhav watched the beautiful chaos unfold.

  Before him, arranged on a fallen log, were a dozen carved taming whistles, each one unique. When he wasn’t cultivating Mana Crystals, he was taming Mana Beasts; he’d learned the value of strength in numbers from his life in the Verge.

  He blew a complex sequence on one whistle.

  In the distance, a winged serpent veered away from a guard tower, shrieking but causing no real damage.

  He blew another.

  Three bristle-backed boars charging a gate suddenly lost interest, milling about in confusion before trotting away.

  When Lucon had returned to the Wilderwood after so long, Skhav was sure he was about to pull him into danger again. What Lucon did was worse. He spoke to the slaves and said he would offer them freedom. Skhav needed those slaves.

  Lucon then said he wanted to stage an attack on his own family’s manor—put his tamed beasts at risk—after all his hard work in taming them!

  Skhav put up resistance, but Lucon had found his Himrvrakkar side again and convinced him with more promises. The Young Lord’s confidence was back, along with his competence. He wasn’t sure if there was another Himrvrakkar in history like him who would be weak one day then strong the next.

  Hoofbeats approached.

  The crunch of wheels in the dirt announced an arrival. A wagon of Mana Crystals rolled up, driven by the scarred mercenary who had been captured. He wore a ridiculous, floppy farmer’s hat now.

  From behind Skhav, Lion Mane emerged.

  “Try not to get caught this time,” the mercenary captain grunted. “You’re lucky our client is clever enough to get you freed.”

  The man laughed and pointed at his hat. “Don’t worry! This time I put on a disguise!”

  And then he rode off. Another load to sell. More riches to gain.

  Lion Mane watched him go, then turned his assessing gaze back to the distant, lit-up manor. “That Young Lord…the same night one of my men was caught, he orchestrated his release. He is…”

  Skhav finished the thought for him.

  “Himrvrakkar.”

  Lion Mane squinted at him. “What?”

  Skhav smiled. “It means he’s special. He will die—yes. That is certain. But before he does…he will bring fortune like you’ve never seen.”

  Lion Mane glanced at the departing wagon full of Mana Crystals.

  “I’ve seen quite a lot already.”

  Skhav shook his head.

  “This is nothing. Himrvrakkar will show you another world.”

  ***

  Lucon sat with Hilda on the manor’s roof, hidden from view by a stone gargoyle. The Flow swirled around them, a map of endless streams. Below, Mana Beasts darted and roared, sending guards scrambling, but never closing in for a kill. They herded, they startled, they distracted.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hilda smiled, leaning against his shoulder. Her energy in the Flow was buoyant, happy—a stark contrast to the terror of hours before. The secret was out between them, and instead of driving them apart, his acceptance had forged a new, unspoken bond.

  Lucon’s eyes were fixed on the treasury building as he spoke.

  “So…your magic is sealed?” Lucon asked, careful with his tone.

  Hilda nodded, resting contentedly against him. “It happened after our party was defeated. I am no stronger than any other maid.”

  The Flow revealed she was telling the truth.

  Then it showed him the same door. No lock. No handle.

  Again, there was no way in to the secret it held. Hilda’s emotions of happiness and safety could climb no higher. Why her magic was sealed, why Brunhilde the Star-Eater became a maid—every secret she still hid lay ready to be unearthed—except one.

  A flash of moving firelight compelled him to postpone the subject for later.

  From a high window in the treasury building, a single torch waved in a slow, deliberate arc.

  Peytr’s work was done. The ledgers had been “fixed.”

  [Immovable Hand]

  Lucon raised his hand and concentrated his holy magic there, waving it in the direction he knew Skhav to be conducting the Mana Beast “attack.”

  In the Flow, Lucon sensed a final, commanding whistle in the air—a long, sustained note.

  Across the manor grounds, every rampaging Mana Beast halted mid-motion. Then, as one, they turned and fled, melting into the darkness of night, leaving behind bewildered guards, trampled flower beds, and a profound, ringing silence.

  ***

  Georgi moved through the aftermath of the attack, ready to heal, searching for pain, for serious injury—and found none. A few scrapes, a twisted ankle, guards more winded and frightened than wounded. It was uncanny.

  He scratched at his bald head, confused.

  “…Huh.”

  He turned.

  Lucon stood there, smiling.

  Peytr was beside him.

  Lucon was carrying a chest.

  Georgi blinked.

  “…Lucon? Peytr?”

  Lucon lifted the chest slightly, as if in greeting. “Come with us.”

  Suspicious but curious, Georgi followed.

  They walked in silence through familiar halls, past shaken servants and bewildered guards, until they reached the small temple.

  Lucon set the chest down.

  Opened it.

  Gold.

  Georgi’s jaw dropped.

  “…What—what is this?”

  Lucon folded his hands behind his back. “Funding.”

  “For…?”

  “The barony needs more monks.”

  Georgi stared.

  Then narrowed his eyes.

  “What’s the catch?”

  Peytr shook his head. “There isn’t one. We just need more healing—across the barony. More presence. More response. It will save lives. It’ll stabilize the territory as a whole.”

  Georgi looked between them.

  Suspicion clashed with awe.

  Peytr cleared his throat. “We were hoping you could move the money to the main Merciful Temple in the Capital as a ‘donation.’ The temple leadership could formally acknowledge it, send monks, even approve the construction of a full temple here—not just this house chapel. And you…you’d be its head.”

  Georgi’s massive frame went rigid, eyes flicking back to the gold.

  “I told you, I don’t want to be part of secret operations anymore. I can’t.”

  Peytr sighed, rubbing his temples. “We could do it without you. But you’re our friend, Georgi. To rise to lead your own temple would take you decades of petitioning and politics. This is a chance to actually help people on a scale you can’t alone, in this tiny temple.”

  Georgi’s jaw tightened, conflict warring in his eyes. He was silent for a long moment.

  Lucon stepped forward.

  “And,” he added softly, “it’s not just because you’re our friend. It’s also because I made you break your vows.”

  Georgi stiffened.

  “This is my apology,” Lucon said. “One that actually means something.”

  Georgi looked down at the chest of gold.

  His jaw clenched.

  “…Healing magic is rare,” he said quietly. “And winter is here. The poor will suffer first.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “…I’ll do it. For them.”

  Lucon clasped his hands together, delighted.

  “Then that’s settled. Work hard, Abbot Georgi.”

  Georgi’s face went red. “Don’t—don’t call me that yet!”

  They turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Georgi blurted.

  They paused.

  “I…I’m sorry for ignoring you earlier. I still view you both as friends. Even when you’re dragging me into your messes.”

  Lucon grinned.

  And pulled Georgi’s book from inside his coat.

  “That’s what I was waiting for.”

  “That’s mine!” Georgi flushed and snatched it back.

  Peytr snorted. “You still read fairy tales?”

  “They’re not fairy tales!” Georgi snapped. “They’re accurate historical accounts!”

  Lucon laughed as they left him there, flustered and clutching the book like a sacred text.

  ***

  Lucon stood in the maze garden, hands folded behind his back, the night air stinging with the first bite of early winter.

  Kaeson approached from between the hedges, boots crunching softly on gravel.

  “You never cease to amaze,” Kaeson said.

  Lucon smiled. “I only do what needs to be done. Tell me, why did you want to meet?”

  Kaeson became solemn. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m not overseeing slaves. I won’t be part of it.”

  Lucon nodded. “It seems these slaves are from the Abandoned Verge, judging by their tattoos. I didn’t know the Abandoned enslaved their own.”

  Kaeson’s lip curled. “They’re cursed people. If that barbarian doesn’t leave, I will.”

  “I intend to free them,” Lucon said. “Skhav won’t have a say in the matter. Mana Crystals are legal, though Father hates the risk. Slavery is, however, far from legal.”

  Kaeson seemed relieved but still hesitant.

  Lucon produced a folded parchment and handed it to him.

  Kaeson frowned, then unfolded it. He stared at the elegant script and official seal.

  “…Why am I holding an enrollment form for the Marial School?”

  The Marial School—the most prestigious all-girls academy in the kingdom

  Lucon smiled. “It’s for your sister, Bethea.”

  Kaeson went very still. His hands trembled slightly.

  “Young Lord…this school costs a fortune.”

  A lazy grin spread across Lucon’s face. “Have you not seen the amount of Mana Crystals we’re moving, Lieutenant?”

  Kaeson stared at the paper.

  Then slowly folded it.

  “I…” He swallowed. “I will try. To work with the barbarian. As long as the slaves are freed.”

  Lucon placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “This is only the beginning, Lieutenant.”

  Kaeson met his gaze, gave a single nod, and slipped the precious parchment inside his tunic.

  That takes care of that, Lucon thought.

  ***

  It was deep into the night.

  The manor had settled into uneasy quiet—too quiet. Extra guards paced along the walls with lanterns in hand. Windows glowed faintly where sleepless servants and shaken clerks lay awake, listening for lurking Mana Beasts that weren’t there.

  Klara returned to the training yard after the strange incident, her Arisen body unfazed by the night’s creeping cold.

  She moved carefully, deliberately, keeping her breaths controlled, her steps light. Even with a greatsword, she practiced as silently as possible, running through her forms for the twentieth time.

  Swing. Pivot. Guard. Reset.

  Her muscles burned.

  She welcomed it.

  On the twenty-first form, she sensed it.

  A presence.

  She turned.

  At the far edge of the yard, leaning lazily against a stone column, was Lucon.

  The ember of his pipe glowed faintly. A glass bottle caught the moonlight in his other hand.

  Smoke curled from his mouth as he grinned.

  “You’re still practicing in the dead of night,” he said. “Why come to me when you already have this much dedication?”

  He began to walk toward her, unhurried.

  Klara exhaled sharply and turned back to her forms. “I was a fool to come here.”

  Lucon chuckled. “Visiting your betrothed does not make you a fool. It makes you quite loyal.”

  Her movement changed instantly.

  She pivoted and pointed her greatsword straight at his chest.

  “We are not getting married.”

  Lucon lifted both hands in surrender. “I know. But we’re supposed to pretend, aren’t we?”

  She didn’t answer. She resumed her practice, thick blade slicing through the air with sharp precision.

  Lucon watched her for a moment, smoke drifting up from his lips.

  “Shall we see if we can make you strong enough to achieve your dream?”

  Klara stopped.

  Slowly, she turned.

  Her eyes flicked from his face…to the pipe…to the bottle.

  “Just admit you don’t know how to help me, Lucon.”

  He tilted his head. “Are you rejecting my offer, then?”

  “It’s obvious you don’t know how to help me!”

  Lucon nodded once.

  “Very well.”

  He turned away.

  Klara’s grip tightened on her sword.

  He took three steps.

  “Wait.”

  Lucon paused.

  She swallowed.

  “…What do you propose I do?”

  He turned back, his expression suddenly different—sharp, focused.

  “Have you ever tried to shift your war blessing before?”

  Her brow furrowed. “What?”

  She hesitated, then closed her eyes and focused inward.

  Red flames of Aura flickered around her, dancing softly.

  She concentrated.

  Then she opened her eyes. “That’s impossible. Blessings don’t move like Aura.”

  Lucon held out his hand. “May I check your blessing?”

  She immediately crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back.

  The Flow revealed embarrassment. Indignation. Suspicion.

  Lucon kept his hand outstretched, his voice calm. “I don’t have any ill intentions, Klara.”

  Her pale eyes fell.

  “It’s just that…”

  The Flow whispered something deeper.

  Shame.

  An emotion that was at odds for a person like her.

  Something had happened.

  After a long moment, she stepped forward.

  Reluctantly.

  Lucon placed his hand gently over her chest.

  She turned her face away.

  Her eyes suddenly widened.

  She gasped.

  “I-I feel it—!”

  Her Aura flickered wildly.

  “M-My war blessing…”

  She stared at him, trembling.

  “…It’s moving!”

  The Flow spun in deep, silent tides around them, currents of intent and energy that only Lucon could see.

  Lucon’s gaze softened, distant.

  What Simple Lucon didn’t know was that there were far more types of energy than Aura and Mana. The energy that could move blessings, the energy that could help mimic Claude’s skills—they were only a drop in the bucket.

  All one had to do was reach out and…

  He withdrew his hand.

  “Try to move it yourself now,” he said. “In the same way you felt me do.”

  Klara hesitated, then focused inward again. She summoned her Aura. Red flames licked around her skin again. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by her sharp exhales. Finally, her shoulders slumped.

  “I can’t,” she admitted, frustration tightening her voice. She looked up, pale eyes searching his. “What did you do? How—”

  But Lucon wasn’t listening. He was staring at her chest, his gaze analytical.

  Klara immediately crossed her arms over herself. “Stop that.”

  Lucon shook his head helplessly.

  He then sighed. “It seems my original idea won’t work. You can’t manipulate the blessing on your own.”

  Her shoulders slumped.

  “That is…I see...”

  She turned away, gripping her greatsword. “Then I’ll return to the guest quarters.”

  She took one step.

  “The secrets of the divine are quite hard to understand, aren’t they?” Lucon mused, almost to himself.

  She paused.

  “What?” she muttered. “How can anyone even begin to understand their ways…?”

  Lucon stepped forward and reached toward her chest.

  “I need to see something.”

  Klara stepped back. “Lucon—”

  “I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Klara.”

  She studied his face. There was no smirk, no lazy amusement—only focus. Reluctantly, she let her arms fall and nodded.

  His palm settled over her sternum once more. Behind her head, where she couldn’t see, Lucon raised his other hand and stared at it.

  [Glyph of Brotherhood]

  The divine symbol Herephyn had given to him in a drunken act of camaraderie flared into existence.

  In the Flow, everything else moved—the tides of endless energy, the whisper of emotions and intent—but the Glyph remained still. Timeless. A fixed point in the turning world.

  Lucon’s eyes moved rapidly, tracing its complex lines, using the Flow not just to see it, but to read it. Klara’s war blessing beat in rhythm with her Aura Heart like a war drum. He compared both, attempting to gain some form of understanding.

  Klara tried to turn her head. “What are you looking at—?”

  Lucon’s free hand shot up, gently but firmly holding her head in place.

  “Don’t look,” he said, his voice deadly serious. “If you see this, both of us and everyone we know could die.”

  The sheer certainty in his tone froze her. Disbelief warred with a creeping fear in the Flow around her.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  Lucon’s lips curled into a wild, reckless grin, his eyes still locked on the divine glyph.

  “I’m trying to dissect the power of the gods.”