The training yard stretched ahead with dozens of trainees standing around, their breath misting in the cool air. Friends reconnected after the week off as they limbered up for the morning's work to come.
He searched the assembled faces.
There. Finn stood with Durk and the Greenshade boys, all five huddled like abandoned sheep. Finn's skittish confidence had collapsed into hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. Durk kept glancing at the empty space where Narbok always held court, as if expecting the Mycari to materialize.
Unsurprisingly, the other trainees gave them a wide berth after their conduct during the Reaping Tournament.
"Valorn."
Captain Hatch called out to him as the man entered the yard. Cal straightened despite the protest from his ribs.
"Come with me." Hatch jerked his head toward the garrison proper, then looked at Corinne who was still supporting him. "Hearthsong, join the rest of the cohort."
She shot Cal a worried glance, but he managed a fractional nod and she peeled away toward the ranks. As he approached the captain the man's eyes tracked his every movement, appearing to note the way Cal favored his left side, the stiffness in his gait, and the swollen discoloration across his right knuckles.
Hatch remained silent until Cal reached him, then turned and set a brisk pace toward the garrison's main entryway.
"Report," Hatch said.
Cal matched speed despite his condition. "Narbok and his friends jumped us on the way here."
"Injuries?"
"Stab wounds to the kidney and left palm. Multiple broken ribs. Two fractured fingers." Cal flexed his right hand. "Corinne got roughed up but nothing serious."
"Theirs?"
"I managed to stick Narbok in the leg with his own dagger." Cal smiled grimly. "The others scattered when I threatened his life."
They left the open air of the yards and passed through the garrison’s reinforced doors. His mind automatically overlaid the route from his last visit: three rights, two lefts, up the stairs to the administrative wing. But Hatch marched past the stairwell without a glance, keeping them on the ground floor and heading deeper into the facility’s operational core.
"Will the Dominion do anything? It's not the first time I've been jumped by Narbok, and I could have been killed this go-around."
"To what end?"
"Zarven Mault ordered the attack! While Narbok supposedly got carried away, that's still conspiracy to commit murder. Even out here—"
"Stop." Hatch raised a hand and paused, turning to face him. "Mayor Thorne is the only person in the village with the ability to stand up to Zarven. Let me give you some perspective. A rotcap troll killed Recruit Roberson on patrol last week. When I delivered the news, Thorne’s immediate focus was the man's liability waiver. He treated the document like an escape clause, searching for any missing signature that would legally void the Dominion’s obligation to the recruit's family. That is the man who governs Deadfall: someone who guards his coffers and protects his comfortable exile above all else."
"You're joking! Selara said the Dominion would intervene for an Aspirant!"
"Lady Veil is a noble, and her understanding of the world is shaped by high-born privilege. The Aspirants she knows are the sons and daughters of Paragons and Luminaries, children forged in family traditions older than this village. The Dominion protects them because it is protecting its own interests, not because of a title."
He gestured dismissively. "That protection is for established personages with political backing. It's for people who matter before they ever walk the Path. You? You're a no-name from the edge of nowhere. To men like Thorne, your status is more liability than asset."
"My status—"
"Is based on potential," Hatch cut across him. "Potential doesn't pay taxes. Potential doesn't employ thirty percent of the town's working population. Potential doesn't mean much to C-tier strength."
Hatch didn't let up. "And be aware the Path provides him the perfect shield. Legend and tradition demands a Sovereign stand alone. To the orthodox, external aid stains the process. Thorne could cite that convenient tradition to justify his inaction, and if you pressed, he would use it to disqualify you from the Path exception altogether before having you conscripted and shipped off to some front, never to be heard of again."
Cal was beginning to think that this 'Sovereign Path' might not be worth much more than draft dodging in the short term. They continued on, past a window to a training yard where Legion warriors practiced formation drills.
"You need to understand, Zarven Mault is power," Hatch continued. "Current, established, revenue-generating power. You, on the other hand, are an asset the Dominion has yet to see a return on. Until you prove otherwise, you're on your own."
On my own. The phrase mixed with memories of corporate politics, of middle managers crushed between competing interests. He'd spent years navigating organizational hierarchies, learning when to fight and when to duck.
This was the same game. The stakes were just higher.
"What about Narbok? He's just a trainee, surely—"
"He's a Blackbriar." Hatch's tone suggested that explained everything. "His father has delving contracts worth more than you'll see in decades. They're connected."
"So I'm supposed to just accept being hunted in the streets?"
Hatch stopped again, turning and taking a step towards Cal. As he bent closer, he said, "You're supposed to become too dangerous or valuable to hunt. That's the frontier rule, lad: power above all. Everything else is noise."
Cal stepped back and swept his arm in a wide gesture, the frustration a hot knot in his gut. "Then what, I should have just killed him!?"
"Probably," Hatch confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion. "The Sovereign Path is long and hard. If you intend to reach the end you will need to be ruthless."
Ruthless. The word rang in Cal’s mind, a bleak counterpoint to a lifetime of different rules. He didn't want to become that man, but he feared he wouldn't be left with a choice. In a world where justice was a commodity, the only law was strength.
Cal met the man's stare, seeing neither sympathy nor condemnation—just hard, practical truth delivered by a man who'd survived long enough to become a D-tier captain in a world that ate the weak.
So be it.
They resumed walking, passing deeper into the garrison's interior. The architecture shifted here—less functional barracks, more specialized training facilities. Cal caught glimpses through open doors of equipment he couldn't identify, sigils carved into the stone in intricate arrays.
"Speaking of power," Cal said. "I need to ask about perception techniques."
Hatch grunted. "Problem?"
"I'm blind unless I actively scan." Cal gestured at the space around them. "Which means I'm either breaking propriety with every high-tier in range, or I'm getting jumped by people I should have seen coming."
"[Feathered Edge]."
Cal blinked. "What?"
"It's a technique." Hatch slowed his stride. "You're thinking about perception wrong. Active scanning is like holding a lantern—it's bright and intrusive. Passive sensing is letting your eyes adjust to darkness. You want something in between."
"A… shuttered lantern?"
"Not exactly." Hatch shook his head. "Push your perception out like you would for a Mana-backed active scan, but thin the density at the perimeter. Let it diffuse instead of staying concentrated. This creates a gradient that mimics passive spiritual feedback rather than an obvious probe."
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"I suppose that makes sense..."
"Practice it. Master the edge control before you try to watch half the garrison."
Cal nodded, [Savant of the Mind] already building the framework. Mana expenditure should be moderate. No, depends on the radius. Smaller field means less volume, easier control. But maintaining the gradient requires constant regulation.
He pulled on his Mana, feeling the cool rush from his core. Trying to project his awareness outward with his typical control, he thinned out the fringe—
His control slipped and his perception rippled away from him in a crude blast wave, completely lacking the subtle feathering Hatch had described.
Through a window to the adjacent training yard, a woman in meditation snapped her eyes open. Her aura spiked—a brilliant corona of blue power that made Cal's perception recoil. The D-tier mage fixed him with a glare that could have curdled milk.
"Sorry," Cal waved meekly, pulling his perception back.
Hatch chuckled. "That was terrible."
Cal shot him a glance.
"Your Wisdom's likely too low." The captain resumed walking. "You're trying to flood a field with a thimble. The control you need requires capacity you're currently lacking."
Cal followed. Another attribute bottleneck. Another limitation his Soul Impartments couldn't shortcut.
"So I'm blind until I dump stones into Wisdom?"
"You're learning until you develop the requisite Mana pool to sustain a technique that's difficult at your tier." Hatch's tone suggested this was an important distinction. "Throwing stones at a skill deficiency can help in the short term, but you're better off taking it slow. Master the narrow focus first. One target. Try to maintain the [Feathered Edge] on me for the next minute without making another mage want to fry you."
Taking a breath, Cal centered himself. This time he pulled his perception in as a single strand like he would for [Spatial Mapping], extending from his spirit to Hatch's aura, attempting to thin out the edge as it traveled. He drew more Mana from his core to bolster the effect, following the captain's instructions.
The energy moved more smoothly, though maintaining the gradient felt like balancing a coin on edge while walking. His concentration narrowed to the invisible connection between them, the delicate pressure required to keep it from collapsing into either nothing or an intrusive probe.
"Better," Hatch said. "Rough, but better. I can still feel your perception so you don't have it thinned out enough yet, but you're on the right track."
They emerged into a larger courtyard, and Cal's concentration snapped.
A D-tier arena sprawled before them like a different world. The space itself was massive—easily twice the size of the Mandate grounds—surrounded by reinforced walls etched with protective runes that hummed with constant power.
Twenty people moved through combat drills that made Cal's tournament matches look like children playing with sticks.
A pair of fighters streaked across the yard in a dance too fast to follow. Cal caught only snapshots—a blade appearing here, a counter there, positions shifting faster than his eyes could track. The shockwave of their clash sent dust spiraling in concentric rings.
On the far side, a woman channeled fire that didn't behave like fire should. The flames moved through the air with liquid grace, forming geometric patterns before lancing toward automated targets with terrifying speed. The energy coming off the Spell felt dense enough in his [Mana Sense] that it'd reduce him to ash had it grazed him.
"This is the heart of the Legion in Deadfall," Hatch said quietly. "Real soldiers. Real delvers."
Cal swallowed. He'd beaten Finn in seconds, survived Narbok through desperation and grit, and won matches in the tournament by exploiting openings and developing superior technique.
None of that would matter here. These people would obliterate him before he registered the threat.
"They're… impressive."
"Are they?" Hatch gestured at the yard. "Because I watched you puff up during the tournament, and I saw someone starting to believe their own legend. This?" He pointed at a warrior who'd just punched through a reinforced training dummy, his fist wreathed in brown Mana. "This is what actual power looks like. Remember it."
The words stung because they were true. Cal had felt the rush after his victories—the confidence of winning, the satisfaction of proving himself. The roar of the crowd. Part of him had started to think in terms of dominance rather than protection or survival.
Hubris.
"Yes, sir.”
They skirted the edge of the training yard, heading toward a smaller building tucked against the eastern wall. The structure had the sterile look of a medical facility, with white stone and narrow windows, runes etched around the entrance.
Hatch pushed through the door without knocking.
Inside, the air smelled of herbs and some sort of cleaning agent. Shelves lined the walls, filled with vials, bandages, and tools Cal didn't recognize. A woman in immaculate white and silver robes stood over a metal table at the end of a row of beds, methodically grinding some powder in a mortar and pestle.
Specialist Marlena Spinova didn't look up when they entered.
"Captain," she said. "Your timing is disruptive."
"Our Aspirant needs healing."
"Schedule an appointment."
"Now, Specialist."
When she finally looked up, her grey eyes regarded Cal’s injuries coldly. "Street fighting?" Her tone made it sound like a diagnosis of terminal stupidity.
Cal attempted a smile. "Tripped and fell on a dagger. Several times."
Spinova didn't blink. She gestured curtly at a nearby bed. "Sit."
He complied. As Spinova approached, her palms already glowing with golden light, Cal could sense the Mana’s affinity better, a sensation he could only describe as standing in the sun.
"Hold still."
She pressed her hands against his torso. The golden light flared, bringing the searing heat of accelerated healing. He clamped his jaw, riding out the pain like he had too many times before; but beneath the agony, he paid attention to a deeper, more primitive sensation taking hold.
He’d been hungry before entering the room—presumably from the healing potion—but as the magic seized the remainder of his broken ribs, that hunger worsened into something more akin to starvation. A ravenous void opened in his gut. It felt like his reserves were being violently siphoned, his body cannibalizing its own stores to pay the price for the bones fusing in his ribcage. He was getting hollowed out.
Equivalent Exchange. He recalled Aurelian's lecture. The material must come from somewhere, so Spinova was forcing his body to redistribute mass.
"You waste my time," Spinova said while the magic worked. "I am assigned to maintain the readiness of D-tier delvers. Veterans who risk their lives for the Dominion and keep Deadfall safe. Instead, I heal children who brawl in alleys over playground disputes."
Cal felt his ribs finish fusing.
"I'll try to get jumped somewhere more convenient next time."
He extended his right hand and she gripped it without warning, her magic flooding into the fractured bones mercilessly. Cal heard the small pops as fragments realigned, felt the cartilage reconstruct.
"I am doing this for Captain Hatch," she said. "Remember that distinction."
Spinova stepped back, the golden light fading from her palms. "Done. Do not return unless you are dying. These squabbles are beneath Legion resources."
Cal flexed his newly healed fingers, then pulled his pack off his back and retrieved a sausage he'd purchased from the inn. He had to hold himself back from devouring the thing like an animal after the intense healing he'd received. Thinking about the healer's complaint gave him something to distract himself with from his famished state; namely, that dependence was vulnerability.
Relying on Spinova's charity meant accepting her contempt. He was at the mercy of someone who viewed healing him as a chore, one more person who could control his survival by withholding aid.
He needed to accelerate getting access to alchemy training. That would allow him to brew his own healing potions and maintain a personal stockpile of regenerative salves that didn't come with a side of judgment.
And beyond the vials... actual restoration magic.
If he could cast the Spells himself—if he could master the arts of recovery to ensure his survival without submitting to someone who despised him for reasons he didn't understand—then he'd have true independence.
He was starting to rethink his decision to slow roll his Willpower…
"Thank you, Specialist," Cal said, meaning it despite her attitude.
Spinova made a dismissive sound and waved him off.
Hatch jerked his head toward the door. Cal stood and followed the captain out of the sterile clinic, stepping back into the biting morning air. They moved along the perimeter of the high-tier sector, the hum of the rune-walls fading as they cut through a side passage of the main garrison building to reach the next yard.
The corridor spit them out into the F-tier training grounds, an expanse of packed dirt and sawdust. The air carried the dull thuds of fists striking meat and the impact of bodies slamming into the earth.
Cal surveyed the drills. Dozens of legionaries, stripped of their armor despite the chill and grappling in the mud. Steam rose from their shoulders, mingling with the dust. It was crude violence—a mass of bruised skin, heaving chests, and the guttural grunts of men and women trying to beat the consciousness out of one another.
A man detached from the crowd as they approached. Sergeant Torric Tanner moved with the contained power of a wound spring, his compact frame radiating authority that belied his size. Black hair cropped to military perfection framed blue eyes that assessed and catalogued threats from ingrained habit.
"Captain." Tanner's voice carried the gravel of someone who'd spent years shouting orders across battlefields.
"Sergeant." Hatch gestured at Cal. "Trainee Valorn. He's yours for hand-to-hand instruction."
Tanner nodded at him. "Aspirant," he said, the title rolling off his tongue dryly. "I thought the strategy for his kind was a long spear and a safe distance."
"Change of strategy. He needs to learn what happens when the spear breaks."
"Does he." Tanner eyed Cal. "You know anything about close quarters, boy?"
Cal met the sergeant's stare. "Only what I've learned in alleys."
"Alley fighting teaches you to survive. We'll teach you to win." He turned back to Hatch. "How long do I have him?"
"Until he's competent."
"That's not a timeline, Captain."
"Then I suggest you work fast." He glanced at Cal one last time and exchanged a knowing look with Tanner. "Based on this morning's condition, he desperately needs it."
With that, Hatch strode away, leaving Cal alone with Sergeant Tanner.
The sergeant watched his captain leave, then returned his attention to Cal and sized him up.
"Hatch said 'work fast'… I don't like to disappoint the captain." He turned toward the mass of sparring warriors. "Vane!"
The shout cracked like a whip. Cal followed his line of sight to the center of the yard, where a bare chested trainee blurred under a wild haymaker. He spun, unleashing a dizzying combination of strikes that dismantled his opponent’s guard before a final leg sweep sent the man cartwheeling face-first into the dirt.
He waded toward them, tall and rangy, his skin covered in a light sheen of sweat but otherwise free of damage. Wiping a smear of blood from his knuckles, his eyes locked onto Cal as he approached.
"Sergeant?" Vane stopped a few feet away.
"Your next sparring partner," Tanner said. "Our newly minted Sovereign Aspirant."
Vane looked Cal up and down. A grin split his face, revealing flawless white teeth. "He looks soft, Sergeant."
"Then harden him up." Tanner stepped back, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "Welcome to the Legion, Valorn."
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