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  There was an old sound from Earth that Lulu had showed him one time. A sound from when the internet was first invented, she said it was called ‘Dial-Up,’ and made this irritating noise whenever someone tried to connect.

  There was a low, buzzing drone followed by screeching—high-pitched tones that warbled up and down, jagged and uneven, like metal scraping across glass mixed with a robot trying to sing off-key. The sounds stuttered, sometimes bursting into rapid static crackles or deep electronic growls, before cutting back into another wave of squeals. It was grating, messy, and almost painful to the ears—like a machine shrieking while drowning in static.

  Soren’s brain was currently making this noise—or at least it felt like it—as he tried to comprehend the absurdity of what stood before him.

  Warmaiden Hinakané, The Blade of the Matrons, was a title that sounded almost as cartoonish as the massive greatsword she was holding. But something about her told Soren that she was no joke. He was getting the same strange feeling of Aether Dust reverberating that he’d felt from Serava during The Departure.

  “No, seriously—Brolgar,” he finally snapped out of it. “What the fuck am I looking at?”

  The d’moria looked up at him and shrugged. “What, lad? Y’said y’wanted a greatsword, did y’not?”

  “I WAS JOKING!” Soren blustered, eyes wide. “I have no idea how to fight with a sword! Or an axe for that matter!” He looked at Aurania’s massive weapon, still in his hand.

  “Oh.” Brolgar looked at Hinakané, then back to Soren. “Well this should be very entertaining then.” He loudly chuckled and made his way into the crowd to watch.

  Soren looked back towards Hinakané, skepticism coursing through him. Despite looking barely older than Aurania, she radiated experience. Lacravida did seem to age slower, however.

  “Does Aurania know about this?” he finally asked Hinakané.

  “Yes, I do,” Aurania’s voice cut in from the edge of the ring. “And you’d better not lose.”

  Soren’s head snapped toward her. It threw him off—he hadn’t noticed her before, even though he’d known she was nearby. Something about Hinakané was clouding his awareness, like her presence was tugging at the edges of his perception.

  He forced himself to step into the circle.

  Hinakané regarded him with a calm, almost kind expression. “I understand you’ve been training with Riza for the past several months. And that you haven’t beaten her once—except the first time.”

  Soren let out a dry breath. “That’s true. I’ve been trying not to lean on my… other abilities when we spar, so I’m not dependent on them. Sometimes she gives me no choice, though.” He let out a single laugh, trying to ease the tension in his chest.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I see. And I also hear you are… somewhat invincible. Is that correct?”

  Soren sighed, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know that for certain. But—yes. Nothing has managed to draw blood since I woke up like this.”

  Hinakané tilted her head, her long hair spilling over her pauldron. “Do you still feel pain?”

  He hesitated a heartbeat too long. “All of it.”

  He should have lied.

  Her voice was quiet, but carried through the hush of the crowd. “Then feel free to use whichever abilities you must. I will not hold back either.”

  Soren laughed longer this time, but more awkwardly. He was trying to wrap his head around what was about to happen. “Are you more formidable than Aurania?”

  “Master Hina trained both Riza and myself how to fight,” Aurania called out. “She is one of the finest weaponsmasters our people know, and she has been training warriors on Lacravi for over seven decades.”

  Soren blinked hard, nearly choking on his own breath. “Seven decades?!” He whipped his head toward Aurania, then back to Hinakané. “How old are you?!”

  Hinakané’s lips curved in the faintest smile, her head tilting just enough to seem almost playful. “The standardized galactic calendar would mark me at one hundred and seventeen.”

  Before he could even process, she was flying towards him, the greatsword arcing up at his face. The air hissed as it cut the space where Soren’s head had been an instant earlier. He ducked so fast his balance almost failed.

  On her next swing down, the sword struck the ground and sent a spray of shattered stone into the air, the blade ringing like a struck bell.

  Soren stumbled back, eyes wide.

  She swings that thing like it’s nothing.

  Hinakané didn’t charge recklessly, every motion had the precision of a master who had spent a lifetime correcting mistakes.

  He raised Aurania’s greataxe instinctively, holding it across his body as Hinakané pivoted and pressed forward. Their weapons collided, the tantalum–karsanite alloy booming with a deep resonance that carried through the arena. The clash rattled through his arms, shoulders screaming at the impact. His feet skidded across the stone floor as the weight behind her strike shoved him backward.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd.

  Hinakané’s face remained calm, but her eyes were alive—assessing, measuring. Her follow-up came without pause: a rising slash, then a sudden twist as the flat of her blade shoved his weapon wide, leaving him open.

  Soren barely managed to twist his body, his axe haft scraping against her sword with a nails-on-glass screech. He lashed out with his boot, connecting with her thigh, just enough to shove her momentum off track. She staggered a fraction, the only opening he got, and he swung the greataxe in a desperate counter.

  She dropped low under it, moving with terrifying speed for someone wielding such a heavy blade. His swing whooshed over her head and nearly yanked him off balance again.

  “You swing like you’re chopping lumber,” Hinakané muttered.

  Soren gritted his teeth, sweat already beading at his brow. He tried to adjust, forcing his breathing into rhythm. Trying to out-muscle her was making him too slow. He couldn’t out-technique her. His only edge was the thing he was trying not to rely on.

  He reached for it.

  When Hinakané’s next strike came, he braced, then shoved with more than his arms. Gravity bent. The greatsword’s arc slowed just enough in the air, tugged off-line by a force she couldn’t see, and his axe slammed up to meet it.

  The clash cracked like thunder.

  The ground beneath them groaned, dust lifting from the packed circle floor.

  Fire lit in Hinakané’s eyes—not in anger, but interest.

  “Better. Again.”

  And then she was on him, every strike faster and heavier. Soren parried, deflected, sometimes outright failing and catching the bite of her blade as reward.

  She wasn’t slowing down.

  He caught one downward strike on the haft of the axe, the shock jarring all the way to his teeth. He snarled, shoving her off with a burst of gravity that sent her sliding back a step, hooves grinding against stone.

  Her expression shifted into something faintly like satisfaction. “You do have teeth.”

  She surged again.

  Hinakané’s next strike slid past his guard and bit into his ribs. The karsanite edge failed to draw blood—but the force behind it was enough to make his chest flare with pain, air exploding from his lungs. Soren staggered, nearly dropping the axe. He caught himself just in time to meet her next blow, but his arms screamed, shaking from the impact.

  He tried to reach for that flicker of perception again—the strange clarity he’d learned fighting Riza and Veolo. He needed to stretch the time, see his opponent’s next move unfold ahead of her.

  But with Hinakané, nothing came. She had obviously trained not just with a blade, but something else that disrupted his Aether Dust fueled abilities. As the realization sank in, the greatsword’s tip connected with the side of his head.

  His entire body spun once in the air before he caught himself back on his feet.

  She was already driving him back again.

  “You rely on them, don’t you?” she said between strikes, her greatsword moving like liquid. “The abilities that make you more than mortal. Do better.”

  Her hoof slammed into his stomach, sending him tumbling backward. He crashed through the wooden wall that housed the battle circle, splinters exploding around him. The crowd gasped and lurched back as he rolled to a stop against a stone post.

  Hinakané leapt after him, greatsword raised. Soren barely rolled aside before the blade carved through the stone pillar like butter.

  The crowd cleared wider as they fought, but they didn’t flee. They followed as the battle shifted, forming a living ring as the duel burst free of the ceremonial ground. Dozens of voices rose, not in panic, but in awe.

  Soren dragged himself upright, coughing and clutching the axe. His ribs screamed. “You’re… fucking terrifying.”

  Hinakané advanced, eyes alight. “And you are still standing. Good.”

  She spun, greatsword whistling, and the edge caught him across the shoulder. His entire arm went numb, the axe slipping for half a second before he seized it again. The ground around them cracked under each exchange, dust raining down from rooftops as they crashed into walls, shattered beams, sent clay tiles tumbling from the pagoda roofs above.

  Soren tried gravity again, shoving hard, and it worked just for a blink. Hinakané staggered, then she slipped away somehow, twisting with the momentum. Her blade swung around in a savage backhand, slamming him across the chest and hurling him through a stack of market crates. Fruit burst into pulp around him as he lay stunned.

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  She didn’t immediately follow this time. She let him drag himself out, bruised and wheezing, commanding in a firm, absolute voice:

  “Get up.”

  When he rose from the wreckage, she was standing in a calm stance—tip of her blade in the dirt and both hands on the hilt of her sword.

  Just like Aurania.

  Except he now saw where Aurania had learned it.

  “You’ve hidden behind resilience long enough,” Hinakané’s voice was a hammer of judgement. “You return to this planet without answers, carrying the body of a man you failed to protect.”

  Soren felt rage grow inside him. She was poking at a sore spot on purpose. The crowd surged around them, clearing space as the two fighters squared off again in the broken street.

  “Who do you plan to carry home next?”

  The Aether Dust ignited in his veins, a surge that made his skin prickle and the air hum around him. He tried to keep it in check, but still he charged, greataxe raised.

  Hinakané didn’t move until the very last instant.

  When she did, it was like watching lightning change direction—one moment stillness, the next a blur. Her blade met his with a thunderclap that rippled through the air. She twisted, redirecting his strength with surgical precision, and Soren’s own momentum hurled him shoulder-first into the wall of a nearby building. The plaster cracked, dust exploding outward, and he stumbled forward, spitting grit.

  “Better,” she said again—calm, cold, measuring him like he was still nothing but a student fumbling through forms.

  Soren snarled and swung wide, greataxe carving through the air as the street buckled beneath his feet. She ducked, stepped inside his guard, and slammed the pommel of her greatsword into his jaw. His vision went white for an instant.

  The crowd gasped, a ripple of sound that chased them through the wreckage.

  He staggered back, trying to summon the perception again, force the glimpse of her next move—but there was nothing. Her blade bit into his thigh, a shallow graze that made his whole leg seize with pain.

  She pulled back, eyes locked on him, unflinching. “You’re trying that again? Relying on the same ability that failed once against me? Pathetic.”

  Soren bared his teeth. “Shut up.”

  The axe came in a vicious downswing, dust blasting away as gravity crushed into the arc. Hinakané dodged as he left a small crater in the ground. Buildings groaned as beams cracked, the two warriors crashing through another wall in a burst of wood and tile. The crowd roared and poured after them, scattering aside only to swarm in closer once they had room.

  Hinakané shoved back and reset her stance, her chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. “Violet? Veolo? Aurania herself? Who dies next for your hubris?”

  “Is that what this is about?!” Soren spat. “Pissing me off until I break?!”

  “It’s about stripping you bare,” she said, and then she was in his face again, blade sweeping with relentless precision. “Because if you cannot fight without your crutches, then you cannot fight at all!”

  It was unreal, he couldn’t seem to gain any ground against her, and the next thing he knew—the greataxe flew from his hand. Soren landed on his back in the dirt. The Aether Dust still coursed through him, but she’d managed to overpower him.

  Hinakané stood above him, one hoof on his chest, the tip of her blade pressing where his throat met his jaw. The weight of the blade on his trachea felt like fresh hell.

  “Aurania, come here,” Hinakané said calmly.

  Soren heard her hooves as she approached. “Yes, Master Hina,” Aurania said respectfully.

  “He can calm this little light show, can he not?”

  “He can.”

  Hinakané looked back at him. “And yet he doesn’t. It’s like he refuses to learn. Soren—do you want to see more of your team fall?”

  He struggled under the tip of her blade, snarling.

  “I thought not.” Hinakané eased the pressure a little, but kept the blade there. “Do you know why you’ll never beat me like this?”

  His nostrils flared as he glared up at her.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing. You are trying to emulate Aurania’s combat style, but she is a berserker. She has been honing her abilities for over 40 years. You awoke with these abilities less than a year ago, no? Who were you before?”

  “Soren,” Aurania was looking down at him, arms crossed. “Calm your powers.”

  He looked up at her, feeling weak. Through gasped breaths, he sputtered, “I won’t even—have a chance—if I do.”

  “Little Earthling,” Hinakané cooed, “either calm yourself, figure out who you are underneath all of this, and learn to fight,” she pressed the blade into his neck even harder than before. “Or I am going to make you wish that you could die.”

  Soren’s chest heaved underneath her, the greataxe lying useless several feet away. The golden shards inside him were struggling to contain the roiling silvery-green light. It was begging to erupt again, to tear free of his control. His vision buzzed with static, every nerve in his body screaming for release.

  Aurania’s eyes bored down into him, but as she spoke, it wasn’t as sharp as he expected. “Calm yourself.” The tone was deep, soothing, an almost motherly comfort that wrapped around him. And then he heard her voice in his mind.

  Trust me.

  Slowly, painfully, he forced his lungs to obey. One breath in. One breath out. The golden shards grew steady, the sphere recoiling while the power clawed at his veins. He kept pressing it down, demanding it to obey, until the crackling aura faded into stillness. His hair and eyes stopped glowing. The air around him stopped humming.

  Hinakané studied him like a hawk, the point of her blade still poised at his throat. For a long, suffocating moment, nothing moved. Then she lifted her sword, stepped back, and removed her hoof from his chest.

  “Good.”

  Soren lay there a heartbeat longer, gulping air like it was water after a drought. Every muscle screamed at him, but he rolled onto his side and staggered back to his feet. He retrieved the greataxe, leaning on it like a crutch.

  The crowd murmured, a wave of hushed voices rippling through the streets. Some looked disappointed at the pause, others leaned in closer, waiting. Hinakané set her stance again—serene, steady, her greatsword gleaming in the daylight. “Now. Show me who you truly are.”

  Soren spat into the dirt, then looked at the axe in his hand.

  Don’t emulate Aurania. She is her own person.

  “You are more than your powers,” Aurania said, completing his thoughts for him.

  He locked eyes with her, then tossed her the greataxe. “Thanks, Boss.”

  She caught it, barked a single, loud laugh, and strode back to the edge of the crowd. His heart hammered as he looked back at Hinakané. His ribs burned and his body shook.

  But his mind was quiet.

  “Fine,” he muttered, voice raw. “Round two.”

  Hinakané’s lips quirked, the faintest ghost of approval. Then she lunged, greatsword cutting the air like a falling star.

  Soren stepped to the side, letting it bite through empty air.

  The ground split where it landed.

  His body screamed at him to throw up his powers, to shove her back with gravity, but he forced himself to hold steady. Her follow-up came sharp and brutal, a sweeping cut meant to catch him off-balance. He ducked under it, close enough to feel the rush of displaced air, and drove his shoulder into her chest. She staggered half a step, more from surprise than force, but it was enough.

  He backed away, regaining space.

  The crowd roared approval.

  Hinakané pressed him, each swing merciless, the karsanite edge flashing. Soren didn’t try to match her power. He slipped aside, shoved, ducked, rolled. Every move was raw, unpolished, ugly—but it kept him standing.

  The crowd cheered as she struck again, a sweeping cut that could cleave a man in half. He stepped in close, catching her arm with both hands. He twisted just enough to send the blade soaring over his head. The tip buried itself in a low, broken wall.

  Soren staggered back, chest heaving, eyes locked on hers. She yanked the sword free with one effortless pull, expression calm as stone.

  “Better,” she purred.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re going easy on me, aren’t you?”

  Her lips curved into a genuine smile.

  Hinakané’s blade sang through the air. Soren ducked one swing, slipped past another, his feet dragging through dirt as he scrambled to keep pace.

  Instinct took over and he found an opening. When her greatsword came arcing down, he stepped in, hands snapping up to catch the flat of the blade. The impact jarred every bone in his body, but he didn’t let go. He wrenched with everything he had, twisting his hips, and felt the impossible happen—

  The weapon tore free of her grip.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd.

  Hinakané’s eyes widened a fraction. It was the only chance he had—Soren grasped the hilt and swung her own weapon back at her. The edge cleaved across her left pauldron, shattering plates and biting into flesh. A light spray of red misted through the air, stark against the gleam of her armor.

  For a heartbeat, the arena went silent.

  Hinakané looked down at the cut, then back at him. Her expression didn’t change, but the air around her shifted—calm serenity giving way to something cold as death.

  She was on him in an instant, faster than before, her strength fully unleashed. Every strike hammered him back, every blow rattled his bones. He barely parried, barely stayed standing.

  In mere seconds, the greatsword was back in her hands.

  She hammered him back, further and further, until he once more felt the ground rush up to meet his back. The all-too-familiar feeling of blade-tip against his throat returned.

  The crowd roared, half in shock, half in awe.

  Hinakané held the blade steady a moment longer, then eased it away and stepped back. “Enough.” Her voice carried clear over the square. She extended her hand to him. “You are untrained, reckless, and unrefined. But you are… acceptable.”

  Soren looked at her hand for a long moment, then finally reached out and took it. When she pulled to help him to his feet, she barely looked surprised at how heavy he was—but she didn’t struggle.

  Aurania approached with Orlina, Brolgar, Miraen, and all the rest of his team. He looked around at each of them, his chest heaving, before his eyes finally landed on Veolo.

  “The next time I come to Berilinsk, I’m not stepping foot in a battle circle.”

  After the crowds had dispersed, Hinakané asked to speak to Soren and Aurania alone. She took a quick breather to treat her shoulder wound, and they waited for her in the pagoda where the fight had started.

  “You didn’t do half bad,” Aurania told him. “Not many people ever get the chance for a one-on-one match with Master Hina.”

  “What makes me so special?” Soren asked, laughing through his pain with a grimace.

  “Well, a lot, actually,” Aurania answered genuinely, looking off towards the sky. Then she looked back at him. “But I suspect it was a combination of favors for me and Samara, helping prepare us for the Conservatory, and because she probably hasn’t had a decent challenge in a long time.”

  Soren was sitting on the steps of the pagoda, drained from his battle. He looked up at her, affectionate warmth spreading throughout his body. “I kind of like this sincere version of you—giving me compliments and whatnot.”

  Aurania looked down at him over the bridge of her nose. When they first met, she would have glared. Aboard The Resolute Wind, she might have cracked some snide remark. But this was different.

  She stepped closer without a word, placed a hand on his head, and ran her nails across his scalp.

  His heart nearly leapt from his battered chest.

  They both looked over as they heard Hinakané enter the pagoda. Soren stood and followed Aurania’s lead, bowing in respect as she approached. She stopped in front of them, her greatsword held atop one shoulder, although now sheathed. Her movements had that same calm precision as before, but the air around her felt less like a stormfront, and more steady rainfall.

  “You did better than I expected,” she said, tone matter-of-fact. Her eyes flicked to Aurania. “Your pupil has spirit.”

  Aurania smirked. “He’s not my pupil.”

  “Lover?”

  “No,” Aurania sighed. “Not for lack of effort.”

  “Hmm.” Hinakané’s lips set into a flat line. She unsheathed her greatsword and held it out in front of them. Up close, Soren could see the gouges carved into the edge, the worn lines across its face. His arms ached in memory of every one. “You beat the shit out of my sword, Soren. I will need to forge a new one.”

  She held it out to him. “Take it. It will serve as a fine tool for you to learn. And it is still an effective weapon for one that can hit as hard as you.”

  He stared wide-eyed at the massive weapon, then looked up at her. “You’re just… giving me your sword?”

  “A weapon is only as good as the one who wields it,” Hinakané said calmly. “For me, this blade has already served its purpose. Now it will serve another.”

  Soren swallowed, then reached out and grasped the hilt. It was heavy, but no heavier than Aurania’s greataxe—just balanced differently. When his hands closed around it, the blade didn’t feel impossible to hold—just daunting. Like everything else in his life these days.

  “What she’s not telling you,” Aurania quipped, “is that she likes her weapons and armor to be all shiny and match. And you fucked her sword up hard enough that she now wants a new one.”

  “Aura!” Hinakané gasped.

  Aurania smiled. “Sorry, Master.”

  Hinakané returned the smile, then turned to leave, bidding them farewell. Soren clumsily inserted the greatsword back into its sheath, pulling a laugh from Aurania.

  After Hinakané had gone, Aurania said, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. As much as I enjoy the sight, your robes are torn to hell. I don’t need Kizara catching sight of you and going into heat.”

  They started walking back into town.

  “Oh, no worries,” Soren said casually, his new weapon resting atop his shoulder. “She should already be making me new outfits. I had breakfast with her this morning.”

  Aurania’s head whipped toward him.

  “You did what?!”