Lionel’s Aunt, Althea, visits us before the final week of training, healing the worst of our aches and pains. Strained muscles go back to normal, but there’s little to be done for the mental fatigue that’s set in over the last few weeks. Without healing magic bolstering our bodies and enhancing our regeneration, we wouldn’t be able to push so hard and for so long.

  The conditioning work was hard, but combat training is brutal. Endless repetition of the same three drills, over and over again, in the yard outside the glassworks studio.

  “This is boring,” Klaarson mutters at the end of the day’s drills as he steps through the choreographed movements of a pincer maneuver. “When do we try something new?”

  Ember holds up her fist. “Halt!”

  We all turn toward Klaarson with reproachful stares. Pausing our training early will only mean making up for it twice over once Ember resumes tomorrow.

  He glares back, undaunted. “What? I’m tired of this. When do we advance? Pincer, flank, shield; pincer, flank, shield. It’s maddening!”

  “My job is to keep you alive, Klaarson,” Ember says, speaking more patiently than I ever expected from her. “You matter to my nephew, so I’m taking the course of action that gives you the best chance of survival. When these three formations are second-nature, we’ll move on to another set.”

  Klaarson groans. “I’m dreaming about them each night, in endless loops! Isn’t that good enough?”

  “Maybe. But you only have a week left until your next delve. Do you really think you’ll be able to master a dozen new drills by then?”

  He hesitates a half-second before nodding, but Ember pounces on his brief moment of weakness. “You’re having trouble memorizing all the new information, aren’t you?”

  “It’s—look, I’m fine,” he insists.

  “You don’t have to pretend,” Trevour says with a sigh. “We’re all struggling.”

  Marta bites in the inside of her cheek, looking down at the ground. “Formations aren’t so bad. But it’s difficult to keep all the details of footwork and combat straight, I gotta admit. When I was an apprentice, everything fell into place. Now it’s all getting tangled.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a bad arrangement,” Klaarson mutters under his breath, but I hear him through my Domain.

  He looks off into the distance, body shifted away from me, as though unwilling to meet my eyes. Embarrassment leaks out of him, along with irritation, like he’s preemptively annoyed at me for saying I told you so.

  Except, I had no plans to say I told you so. I might be a smug little jerk at times, but even I’m not so oblivious that I can’t see his obvious frustration and confusion. Right now, Klaarson needs encouragement, not to feel like he’s on trial.

  “Even if I could formally induct you into a [Soldier]’s apprenticeship, I can’t reliably cram a half-year officer’s training course into a few short weeks,” Ember says firmly. “If you freeze up trying to remember a complicated maneuver and get hurt, then your blood is on my hands.”

  “I won’t freeze!” he protests.

  “Probably not. You’re doing well,” Ember agrees easily. My second surprise from her today. Her praise isn’t quickly given. “But I can’t take that risk. You’ll practice these few useful formations that give your team the best chance of success. Want to do more? Earn it in the Rift.”

  Just as I’m about to intervene on his behalf, Klaarson salutes. It lacks the crispness of a well-trained military salute, but his heart is in it nonetheless. He draws himself up, his shoulders back and his chest out, and lifts his head. “Yes, Ma’am! I won’t let you down.”

  Ember nods. “I don’t believe you will.”

  Well, huh.

  Maybe I should give the man more credit. He doesn’t need me to babysit him. He can make his own way, with his dignity fully intact. People often rise to challenges. I should keep that in mind more often. Klaarson isn’t weak-willed; he’s just figuring things out. Coddling him isn’t the right move here.

  “Take a break. Dinner time anyway,” Ember announces. “Heard you had a treat for us, Klaarson?”

  Immediately, the big man brightens. “Yes! I prepped the dough last night. Anyone want to help me chop up potatoes and herbs? Meat should be ready to take out of the slow-roaster by now. We can finally make dumplings!”

  My mouth salivates at the thought. I’ve rarely met a new dish I didn’t like. It takes all my willpower not to pull the ingredients out of the cold box with my Domain and slice them up with sharpness so we can eat more quickly. I don’t want to take the fun out of it for the rest of them, though.

  Marta and Trevour brandish their glass knives, competing to see who can get through the vegetables and herbs the fastest. Soon, bets are flying, and we’re cheering them on as they cut so quickly that I’m worried they might lose fingers.

  Tension bleeds out of the atmosphere, and it doesn’t take a Domain expert to track the rise of happier emotions. Conversation flows freely over the bonding experience of chopping onions and blinking away tears. Even Ember smiles.

  Mikko presents a flat stove-top he hammered out at the forge, and he and Klaarson rig it up over a fireplace enhanced by Marta’s flames to bring it up to temperature. They spread a thin layer of oil on top, and its fragrance makes my stomach gurgle.

  Avelina offers to help, but tosses her dark braids in a huff when I tease that we want to enjoy our food, not crunch on charcoal and ash.

  Club rolls out dough after Klaarson shows him how, and the two men construct each dumpling, adding potatoes, veggies, and seasoning to the middle, then folding up the edges and pinching them together. Basting them with butter is the last step before tossing them onto the scalding heat of the makeshift stove.

  Mouthwatering scents soon fill the studio yard, and the [Glassblowers] and [Gaffers] wander out at the closing bell to line up in anticipation. I bought extra ingredients at the market, determined to treat my old coworkers to a hearty feast. I’m in such a magnanimous mood that I even invited the grumpy pants Bijan and his crew to join us.

  The man can’t stop staring at my hand, fully restored and in full working order, but the arrival of the first batch of food distracts him. I slip away, not interested in a confrontation, and take my place at the back of the line, content to fade into the background while I still can. The studio has moved on without me. No need to act like a little prince.

  After everyone is served, happily devouring the savory dumplings, Klaarson and Club get their own plates and cede the cooking to a couple of men from the Silaraon Glassworks. The two former caravan workers mosey my way, finding seats on the soft grass in the studio yard, and we soon strike up a conversation.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Mikko said you made a training dummy that fights with a big mace, just like me,” Club says, getting the words out in between bites of the perfectly seared dinner. “How come we’ve never tried it out?”

  My mouth is full when he asks, so it takes me a moment to work through the food and wash it down with a cup of plum wine—courtesy of Yuvaan, of course. “Ember is better than that old hunk. You’re more experienced than we were when we made it.”

  “Heard it’s got various levels of challenge. Might be fun to see who gets the furthest,” Klaarson interjects.

  He and Club both lean closer, a shared gleam in their eyes, and I realize that I’ve been had. Sly caravaners! They ganged up on me.

  “Sounds fun! After dinner, we’ll take turns with the Iron Lunk,” I promise.

  Excitement sparks through my Domain at that. They tuck back into the food, and for a few moments, blissful silence reigns supreme.

  “How about a prize for the winner?” Club asks in a too casual tone of voice, as though just thinking of the idea on the spot.

  “I can make you anything you want,” I say with a laugh. “Just ask for it.”

  Club shakes his head. He lifts his chin defiantly. “More satisfying to win.”

  “Exactly,” Trevour chimes in from where he’s been lurking behind the pair. “Competition makes it all the sweeter.”

  “What are we winning?” Avelina asks, lifting her head up from where she was resting against Mikko’s shoulder. The pair is sitting across the circle from us, leaning into each other for support since there aren’t any chairs on the lawn.

  Oh. Or maybe they just like being close together, I realize belatedly.

  “New weapons!” Trevour exclaims at the same time as Club, who looks up in surprise at their synchronization.

  “Again. I can make those any time,” I remind them.

  “Better get started now,” Klaarson says, jumping to his feet and rolling his shoulders. “I’m gonna hit that old hunk of junk so hard it crawls back into Mikko’s forge and melts itself down.”

  “It’s tougher than you’ll ever be,” Mikko tells him. He pretends to scowl at Klaarson, then breaks out laughing. “Know why? I designed it to survive collisions with Nuri’s hard head!”

  Like floodgates opening, Klaarson’s declaration releases a torrent of competitive talk. If I had any qualms about their plan before, they’re gone now, swept away in the veritable flood of verbal jousting.

  I cram the last of my dumplings into my mouth and spring up to standing. Motioning for them to follow, I jog away from the studio, leading them to my adopted parent’s house and their fateful date with the Iron Lunk.

  “What do you want if you win?” I ask.

  Everyone talks over each other all at once, tossing out ideas that range from outlandish to downright impossible. I flip around and run backward, relying on my Domain sight to avoid running into any trees, and hold up my hands. “One at a time! Club first, since he asked.”

  “Oh, uh. I’ll probably just keep my cudgel,” he says in a rush, his face flushing. The early evening sunlight paints him gold, but it’s not enough to cover the blush of red creeping up his neck.

  “Where’s the imagination in that?” Klaarson complains, gesturing wildly. “What about an amazing spear like that scary Army guy who smashed all those bugs?”

  Club nods gravely. “Great man. I picked up some pointers from Nicanor, you know. I’ve been working on extending my cudgel to use it more like a spear. But my little ‘thwacking stick’ as he calls it isn’t truly a spear. If anything, it would be best if I get a shield. We won’t always have a golem like the one Master Nuri made for us.”

  I tilt my head, frowning. “Why not? You’re the first team of many more to come. Outfitting you each with a golem is the best way to ensure your safety. If anything, I’m embarrassed that I didn’t spend more time on it and improve the imbuements so it will keep you protected longer.”

  “Even so, it can only be in one place at a time. I need a shield,” Club grunts. He grimaces a moment later. “No offense, Sir.”

  “I’m too young for that kind of respect,” I say, dismissing him with a grin. “But maybe we can use Mikko’s old shield as a prototype. I thought it was going to be awesome, but I never did figure out how to fuse the ability from the crystals we took from the badger effectively. I’ll bet I’d do a lot better now. Maybe he can make you a heavier club, too. You’re strong enough to swing it around, I’ll wager.”

  Club latches on to the lifeline I’ve thrown him. “Absolutely! Then I can use it more like a warhammer. Wouldn’t that be something? The lads would never believe it if they saw me now.”

  “Don’t get too attached to your idea. I’m gonna win. Then you won’t get anything at all,” Trevour teases him, slashing toward the sky with his glass knife and sending an arc of bright orange flames toward the few clouds floating lazily overhead.

  “Not with wimpy fire like that,” Marta shoots back, summoning her own, much hotter fire bolt and almost roasting an unfortunate bird flying by.

  It squawks in outrage, dodging out of the way at the last second, and Klaarson claps in sarcastic appreciation. “Sparrows everywhere are quaking in fear.”

  “What would you want if you win?” I prompt him, cutting off what’s sure to be a spirited argument before it breaks out.

  “A new Class,” he says, meeting my eye and not backing down even when I snort in incredulous laughter.

  At his continued glower, I cough into my fist and smooth out my expression. I guess I owe it to him. “You’re sure, Klaarson?”

  “You think I like being a cripple?” he challenges.

  “Not that. I just can’t help but think that pinning your hope for a new Class on a friendly competition seems, well, short sighted. I’ll help you regardless. So why not ask for a weapon instead?”

  “Because I want to earn this with my own two hands,” Klaarson growls, his face pulled tight into a scowl of concentration.

  Through my Domain, I can tell he’s not angry. Just determined. How could I turn that down? If he wants to earn it fair and square, I won’t stop him.

  “Then I hope you win,” I say.

  He huffs. “No favoritism.”

  “No worries there, ‘cause I’m his favorite,” Mikko says, jostling me good-naturedly as he pushes past on the way to the family homestead. “See ya when you catch up, little brother!”

  “No cheating either,” Klaarson insists.

  “I never cheat,” I reply haughtily.

  No one in our little entourage even tries to conceal their skepticism. I sweep my gaze about, looking at the Linas, Ember, Club, Marta, Trevour, and Klaarson, searching fruitlessly for an ally against the slanderous allegations. Their boasting about winning falls silent, and for once they’re all in accord, presenting a completely unified front.

  “What’s wrong with putting a finger on the scales in our favor once in a while?” I ask them, smiling innocently. Before they can reply, I spin around and run, forcing them to sprint to keep up with me.

  Speaking of cheating . . .

  With a smirk, I bear down on them with my Domain, making every stride a little bit harder than it would be otherwise. It’s not enough to stop them, but they’re panting from fighting the pressure by the time we arrive at my parent’s place.

  Mikko has the Iron Lunk set up already. He’s stepping through the first level, twisting his body and shifting his footing just enough to dodge each moderately paced strike. He hops back, avoiding an overhead blow, and spins on his heel to bow in our direction.

  “Welcome, friends! I hope you’re ready to fight. Prepare for fresh bruises and glorious prizes. Who’s first?”

  Excitement ripples through the group when Ember steps forward. She shoots a look at me. “What do I get when I win?”

  I tap my finger against my chin, making a show of thinking it over. “How about this. I won’t ever call you Auntie Em again.”

  “You promised not to call me that in public,” Ember admonishes me sternly, but she still doesn’t box my ears. Progress!

  Mikko thumbs the linked control rune on his armband, cranking the levels up as high as they go. The Iron Lunk whirs to life, stabbing and scything in a blur of metal and danger, and he grins at the former [Soldier]. “All yours.”

  Ember darts forward, ducking and dodging to avoid the violent blows. She drops into a low stance, her feet slamming into the ground like blows from a triphammer, and launches herself between two of the gleaming metal arms to soar above the training dummy, landing behind it with a half twist and kicking it so hard it dislodges from its heavy stand and crashes to the ground.

  Scattered applause breaks out from the Linas and Mikko, and I grin as I levitate the lunk back into place with my Domain. The new team stares with slack-jawed shock.

  “Is everyone out here a hidden master?” Trevour squeaks out in a strangled voice, and Marta nods along in fervent agreement.

  “I believe the bar has been set,” Ember says nonchalantly as she saunters back to us, barely breathing hard despite the impressive display of explosive strength.

  “I can’t beat that,” Club says, shaking his head. He regards Ember with new respect, and I hide a smirk at the open admiration shining in his eyes.

  Beside me, Klaarson tightens his fists. “I probably can’t either, but all I can do is try.”

  He squares his shoulder and approaches the Iron Lunk. Mikko holds up the controls, about to begin, when a strange sense of urgency thrums through my upgraded Domain and I shout for my brother to stop.

  All eyes turn to me in confusion, but all I can do is shrug. I don’t understand it yet, but for some reason, the remnant runic arrays of my [Legacy of the Scalpel] Skill are going absolutely crazy.