The next day, Seraphiel awoke on the top bunk of a bed. The room reeked of sweat and odour, like a crew of fishmongers on a dingy ship. The salt in the air was revolting.

  Seraphiel jumped out of bed. Madarame had told him earlier of the routine expected of him if he wanted to join this band of misfits—the New Shadows. Madarame had been the High Pontiff of the Umbra in Rea, but he relinquished the title to pursue his own misadventures. A mercurial man.

  As Seraphiel walked out the door, his sword was flung toward his face. He reached out, grabbing it without the slightest hesitation. Madarame rushed him; no words were exchanged. Madarame’s katana sliced through the air, creating a sharp whistle as it arced toward Seraphiel.

  Seraphiel lifted his rapier instinctively. The tip met the edge of the katana, like a pin stopping a hair. He gritted his teeth and calmed himself, allowing the adrenaline to flow. He pushed back, knocking Madarame away slightly, then closed the distance and launched his blade toward Madarame’s chest, stopping just short of contact.

  “Well played,” Madarame said with a smile.

  Seraphiel grunted.

  “But you don’t have to worry about hurting me.”

  The blade in Seraphiel’s hand oozed into a black sludge like tar, then disappeared as it evaporated into the air. It was an umbral construct, designed to pierce enemies and spare allies—something Madarame had already explained to him.

  They restarted.

  Madarame launched himself into the air and dove toward Seraphiel like a missile, striking at his eye—an attack that would have sliced the top of his head off if it were real.

  “We need to get you more prepared for overwhelming power,” Madarame said, “so when you’re faced with anything lesser, it’s a breeze.”

  They continued.

  A few hours passed.

  Seraphiel sat at the table in the parlour, now adorning an eyepatch to hide his status. The symbol of a crow marked him—an offshoot faction of Rea, perhaps. He leaned on his palm, fingers curled toward his lips, observing the game of poker.

  Cards slid across the green felt. Chips clicked and stacked, broken only by murmured bets. One man smiled too easily; another drummed his fingers, nervous. Seraphiel said nothing. His single visible eye tracked the smallest tells—the hitch of breath, the pause before a wager. When the final cards were revealed and groans followed, Seraphiel straightened, the crow’s mark catching the light. He hadn’t played a hand, yet the table felt as though it had already lost.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The air around him felt different. Though Sol’s presence had been brief and the incident in Seriol only hours ago, the volatility of recent events had awakened something within him—indignation and impatience.

  He flipped his cards, revealing a royal flush. He had played these games with his tutor back in the castle. He was never very good at bluffing, but he was sharp with card mechanics—counting, probabilities, hand formulation. His newfound cold expression helped; his eyebrow never twitched, no matter the stakes.

  “What the—” a burly, bald man with a crow tattooed across his scalp called out as he looked up at Seraphiel. “You’re a cheat, kid, aren’t ya?”

  The table turned toward him with impertinent expressions before erupting into laughter.

  “Amazing.”

  Madarame wrapped an arm around Seraphiel’s shoulders and took a seat beside him. “Y’know, kid, you’re not half bad at this.” He poured Seraphiel a drink of cognac.

  Seraphiel lifted it and drank. The liquor burned his throat as he stifled a cough.

  “You heard about the meeting in Verez coming up, kid?” Madarame asked, lifting his own drink and taking a sip as he licked his lips.

  “Verez?” Seraphiel blurted, ruining his insouciant appearance somewhat.

  “Mhm. A meeting with the most powerful leaders—regarding that king in Cairnreach’s attempted assassination.”

  He poured another drink and spun the bottle across the table. It landed pointing toward the burly man, Derek. The table erupted in laughter.

  “As the former High Pontiff,” Madarame continued, “who resigned by his own violation”—he lifted a finger, scanning the table for agreement—“I have a seat reserved. Say, would you like to show up in my stead?”

  Seraphiel’s eye widened. “Yes—absolutely. Thank you,” he said quickly. He paused. “In exchange for…?” he added, hesitantly.

  “Your undying loyalty,” Madarame said plainly. His eyes were flat, his voice cold. The table fell silent.

  “Of course,” Seraphiel replied. He had no reason to dissent—yet.

  Madarame stood and placed a hand on Seraphiel’s head.

  They continued the game.

  Later, Seraphiel headed out with a young member of the New Shadows, welcoming the breath of fresh air.

  “Hiro, what are you doing here?” Seraphiel asked. “I still don’t understand it. You’ve got a loving family, a normal home—and you’re here?”

  “Yup,” Hiro replied, stuffing his face. “Y’know, I was bored at home. Bit of a miscreant. My family was always stuck-up and stuff.” He paused to chew. “I like it here. The sense of family’s stronger than at home. And Madarame doesn’t shout at me—well, only when I lie.” He looked up, thinking, then nodded to himself. “Yeah.”

  Seraphiel didn’t mind the sound of that. He had no reason to lie—yet.

  They turned a corner and stumbled upon a street fight.

  Hiro rushed forward before Seraphiel could say anything, punching one man in the back of the head before wrapping his legs around his waist and locking him into a chokehold. The man gagged.

  Another raised a stick over his head, aiming to smash it down on Hiro. Seraphiel ran forward, grabbing the stick. Wide-eyed, he drove his fist into the man’s face, knocking out a tooth, then followed with a headbutt to the nose. The man staggered, eyes watering from the pain.

  The crow.

  The man bowed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt your friend.”

  Then he vanished into the crowd.