Three days. That was all that separated me from the tournament now, and yet it loomed in my mind like an unpaid debt I didn't have the money for and certainly didn't intend to repay.
The market district of Graywatch was as crowded as I'd ever seen it, and it wasn't just the usual noise of vendors shouting over each other about the superior quality of their cabbages.
There was a tension in the air, that electric prickle that says everyone's pretending to be cheerful but secretly stockpiling something sharp under the counter. People smiled too much. Laughed too loudly. They glanced over their shoulders in the way prey animals do when they can smell the predator but couldn't see them.
I walked beside Salem, who for all his quiet, looked like the kind of man who could walk through a war camp and somehow keep his boots clean. The man had that infuriating air of self-possession, the one that suggested he'd not only anticipated every possible thing that could go wrong today but also had at least three uncomfortably efficient plans to make it worse for someone else.
I was in the middle of deciding whether the smell in the air was roasted chestnuts or overcooked regret when Salem spoke, and in true Salem fashion, it was not what I was expecting.
"Cecil, you suck with the sword."
I turned my head slowly, the way you do when you're deciding whether to be offended or simply resign yourself to the fact that the other person's mouth is connected to some unfiltered place in their brain.
"Well, good morning to you too," I said, deadpan. "And here I was thinking we were going to ease into the insults with a gentle warmup before the main event."
"It's not an insult," he replied, though he didn't bother to look at me. His eyes were scanning the crowd, cataloguing something. "It's an observation. If you go into that tournament with a weapon like that, you'll be dead before the crowd even sits down."
"That's comforting," I muttered. I would've asked him how he planned to bolster my morale, but knowing Salem, his idea of encouragement was reminding me how many ways I could die in the next week. "So, what then? You going to teach me the ancient, secret art of winning without touching your opponent?"
He gave me a glance, the kind that suggested he'd briefly considered throwing me in a canal just to see if I'd swim. "No. I'm going to get you a weapon that doesn't make you look like a child who stole his father's cutlery."
"Ah, so we're going shopping," I said, because if there's one thing I love, it's wandering through stalls of overpriced steel while being judged by a man whose idea of small talk is reminding me of my mortality. "And here I thought I'd be spending the afternoon doing something fun, like stabbing myself in the hand repeatedly."
"You've been using that dagger too much," Salem continued, ignoring my perfectly good sarcasm. "And you gave it back to that women, what was her name?
"Willow," I replied, and I understood what he was trying to say. Against all the styles, all the opponents who would be heading into the tournament, a mere dagger wouldn't cut it, not by a long shot. In that instant I knew that I needed something more...versatile.
We turned down a side street, the main clamor of the market fading into a lower, more dangerous hum. I'd just started to wonder if Salem was taking me somewhere that required a tetanus shot when a blur of movement brushed my side. My hand went instinctively to my coat pocket—empty.
I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, Salem's arm moved so fast it blurred, his hand snatching something from midair before returning to his side in one smooth motion. He didn't even look at the man as he handed me back my coin purse.
"There," he said simply.
I stared at the purse in my hand, then at the man staggering away with a look of bewildered violation. "You just pickpocketed the pickpocket," I said, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. "I didn't even see you move."
"That's because you weren't looking," he said, then turned down an even narrower alley without another word.
I followed, because at this point my life had become one long sequence of following dangerous people into dangerous places and hoping they didn't decide I'd outlived my usefulness. The alley ended at a single, battered wooden door with no sign above it. Salem stepped up and knocked—not the casual rap of someone hoping to be let in, but a precise, rhythmic pattern that immediately made me suspicious.
I raised an eyebrow. "What was that? Morse code for 'please don't stab me'?"
Salem actually smiled at that, which was concerning in its own way. "Something like that."
The door creaked open to reveal a gruff-looking man with golden teeth who eyed us like we were both already on his bad side. "Salem," he said with the kind of curt familiarity that implied this was not their first shady transaction.
"Open," Salem said simply.
And just like that, we were let through.
The scent hit me first—cheap perfume, stale ale, and the kind of sweat that clings to furniture. The sound followed: raucous laughter, the slap of cards on tables, the clink of coins, and beneath it all, a low undercurrent of moans and groans that didn't come from the losing gamblers.
It was a whorehouse tavern, and not the subtle kind.
Women moved between the tables in dresses so tattered they were less clothing and more suggestion, exposing their breasts to the open air. Men grabbed at them openly, laughing when the women flinched or bent away, pulling them into laps or whispering things that made my skin crawl. At one table, a dark-haired girl with soft lips was on her knees before three men, one of whom slapped her ass hard enough to make her whimper while another forced her head back and shoved himself into her mouth.
I turned to Salem with the most twisted expression I could muster, the one I usually reserved for looking at badly overcooked meat or political corruption at its most blatant. He didn't so much as blink.
"Follow me," he said.
Before I could take a step, we were intercepted by three women who seemed to know Salem far too well. They pressed against him, fingers curling in his coat, voices syrupy with affection. Salem greeted each of them by name, his tone calm and polite, before patting one on the head. She looked like she'd nearly climaxed from that gesture alone.
He slipped past them like water through a sieve, beckoning me to follow.
I nodded, which was my first mistake, because that was when they turned their attention to me. The look they gave me was pure disdain laced with jealousy, the kind of expression that says they'd cheerfully poison my drink if it meant getting me out of their way. Obviously, they thought I was a woman, and that I was here to take their place with Salem.
Perfect. Just what my ego needed.
A few moments later, we reached the bar. Salem leaned against it and ordered a drink, but there was something deliberate in the way he said it, as if each word was a key in a lock I couldn't see. The man behind the counter nodded and disappeared into a side door.
I rolled my eyes. "You know, you could just tell me where we're going instead of doing the whole mysterious act."
Salem didn't look at me. "If you're going to survive the tournament, you need a weapon forged by the best of the best." His voice dropped slightly. "And she doesn't exactly keep a stall in the market. This blacksmith comes from the city's undernet."
The moment Salem said the word undernet, something cold slid down my spine, the kind of chill that doesn't belong to the present moment but to an older, darker place in memory. A place of dripping stone, stale air, and the sense that every shadow is watching you just a little too intently. My mind tried to drag me down there again but I shook it off before the past could sink its teeth into me. Now wasn't the time. Whatever waited below us today, it wouldn't be the same thing I left behind. Probably.
We were led through a narrow corridor that smelled faintly of oil and smoke, the sounds of the tavern receding until all that was left was the faint ring of metal striking metal. It grew louder as we turned a corner, the temperature rising along with it. Then, stepping through the last doorway, I saw her — and whatever I'd been expecting, it wasn't this.
She was small, barefoot, with the kind of compact, sinewy muscle that says she could probably knock me flat if she felt like it. Her dark hair was tied into one massive braid that swung behind her like a whip, and her blacksmith's clothes were smeared with soot and grime, the fabric clinging damply to her from the heat of the forge. She was sweating like she'd been standing over the sun, which in fairness she basically had, judging from the glowing steel on her workbench.
And gods help me — she was cute. Insanely cute, but in the kind of rough, sparky way that makes you think she might punch you in the face for complimenting her.
"Salem!" she called without looking up, voice bright and sharp as she slammed her hammer down one last time before letting the piece rest. She whipped around then, lifting the goggles off her face to reveal a pair of deep amber eyes that seemed to glow from the forge light. Her grin was wide and toothy, the kind of smile that could be either a greeting or a warning.
"Back from the dead, I see," she teased.
Salem inclined his head, that infuriating almost-smile tugging at his mouth. "Sasha."
Her gaze flicked past him and landed on me, taking in my Divine Femmeform with all the grace of a punch to the ribs. "Well, well," she said, voice dropping into mock suspicion. "Did you finally get yourself a girlfriend?"
I dragged a hand down my face in slow, painful resignation. Right. The hips. The hair. The general, glaring lack of anything to suggest I might be armed and dangerous. This was supposed to be practice, after all — a little dry run in keeping up the mask I'd have to wear during the tournament.
If I couldn't keep my cover in a forge with a stranger, I didn't stand a chance in front of an arena full of bloodthirsty spectators and potential assassins. Still, knowing the purpose didn't make the execution feel any less like trying to hide a wolf's snarl behind a lace fan.
"Perfect," I muttered, "another person who's going to make assumptions."
"Oh, don't pout, sweetheart," she said with a wink that made me want to hurl something at her. "If you hang around Salem, people are bound to talk."
"They'll talk less if you stop feeding them material," I shot back, but she only laughed — loud, open, and completely unbothered.
"Enough," Salem said mildly, though the corner of his mouth was still twitching. "We need a weapon."
"Do we now?" Sasha asked, turning back toward the forge. "What kind?"
I opened my mouth, already feeling the weight of indecision pressing down, but before I could so much as inhale, she began pulling weapons from racks and tossing them at me. Swords, axes, something that looked like it had been designed specifically to take out a cavalry unit and then double as a cooking utensil. Some I recognized, others looked like they'd crawled out of a fever dream. I caught one, dropped another, and side-stepped a third before blurting, "A spear!"
The room went still for a moment, Sasha glancing over her shoulder with a slow, wicked smirk curling her lips. "A spear, huh? Interesting choice."
In my mind, I told myself it was purely practical. But the truth — the one I didn't feel like examining too closely — was that it was the first weapon I'd ever been trained to use. Not by my father, as I'd thought for years, but by Japeth, if Vincent's words were true. That truth tasted like ash, but it didn't stop the choice from feeling right in my bones.
I set the other weapons down gently, and Sasha crooked a finger at me. "Sit."
"I can stand," I said.
"I wasn't asking," she replied sweetly, which is how I found myself sitting on a low stool while she pulled out a measuring tape. The first few measurements made sense — arm span, grip width, shoulder height. Then things got weird. She began sniffing my chest, squinting like she was identifying a rare spice.
"What exactly does that tell you?" I asked flatly.
"Everything," she said without explanation.
Before I could protest further, she swung one toned leg over mine with the easy balance of someone who had no interest in asking permission, settling herself squarely in my lap. The worn leather of her apron brushed against my thighs, the faint grit of soot and ash smudging onto my clothes as her weight pressed down.
She leaned in without hesitation, close enough that the heat of her body mingled with the faint tang of forge smoke and sweat clinging to her skin, intoxicating the air around her. Underneath that—fainter but unmistakable—was something darker, sharper, almost animalistic in its pull, a scent that made the back of my throat tighten.
My heartbeat stuttered, traitorous and far too loud in my own ears. I tried to tell myself it was just the proximity, the novelty of it—but the truth was, she carried herself with the same brazen energy as the forge fire she worked beside, and it was crawling over my skin in ways I didn't particularly approve of.
"You're awfully fascinated," I murmured, letting the words slide out in a lazy drawl that didn't quite disguise the hitch in my breathing. I forced the smirk into place, the kind of slow curl of my mouth I'd use at a high-stakes card table. "And pretty cute up close."
That earned me a light slap to the cheek, quick and playful. She slid off my lap with a little pout, fiddling with the end of her braid as a faint blush crept across her cheeks.
"Fine, I'll get you the spear," she said.
Salem nodded once, as if the world had simply bent to his will. "By the end of the day."
"You got it," she replied.
Later that day, Rodrick and I found ourselves sitting on the dueling grounds of Graywatch Academy, basking in the kind of evening where the air feels soft but heavy, like it's holding its breath.
The torchlight flickered over the packed dirt of the arena, throwing long shadows of the duelists still practicing long past sunset. Rodrick was giggling at my commentary — which, admittedly, was top-tier — as we watched one student get smacked in the face for the third time in under a minute.
"You think that's going to be you?" he teased.
"Please," I said, leaning back on my hands. "If I get hit in the face, it'll be part of an elaborate and deeply calculated plan that you're just too simple to understand."
"Uh-huh," he said, smirking in a way that made me want to throw something at him.
We were still mid-banter when a shadow fell across us. Salem had appeared silently behind the bench, which I was beginning to suspect was a supernatural talent of his. We both jumped like guilty children.
Without a word, he tossed something at me — a flash of silver that caught the torchlight and held it. I caught it by instinct alone.
The spear.
It was wicked, every line of it carved with intricate patterns that looked almost alive in the light. The shaft was perfectly balanced in my grip, the silver cool and solid under my fingers. I spun it once, feeling the smooth weight shift, the center of gravity settling into my palm like it belonged there.
I smiled, slow and sharp.
Rodrick caught my eye, and I gave him a single nod.
It was time for our final duel.