Dale threw a punch—a simple straight right, the same sequence he’d used a hundred times in their old sparring sessions. In the past, Carter would have slipped it with ease, maybe countered with that quick uppercut.

  Instead, the blow cracked against his jaw.

  Carter staggered back three steps, arms pinwheeling, and barely kept his feet.

  “You see what I mean?” Dale rested a hand on his hip, his robes flapping in the wind. “How many times in the past have I used the same sequence of fists against you, Carter? How many?”

  Spitting to the side, Carter wiped a drop of blood from his lip and met Dale’s gaze. There was—what? Determination there? Something else that Dale couldn’t quite place. It definitely wasn’t resentment. How could Carter resent him for simply showing him he’d lost his way in more ways than one?

  Both of them should have been aiming for the Phoenix Company, aiming to join the high commanders outside the walls of Middlec. Instead, Carter had left the dojo to scamper about with thugs who didn’t know what was good for them.

  It was pathetic, really. Part of Dale wanted to clobber the boy for his immature fantasies.

  “And what do you know?” Carter replied. “What do you know of all that’s going on? I saw what was happening to my people. Saw what they were going through. Because dojos like ours take up the talent and filter it straight to the nobles. We give it to them like begging dogs, hoping to get something back.” His voice rose, cracking a little. “And what do they give? A festival. A blighted festival to make us feel like we’re doing something, feel like the slums matter. But let’s not forget: fifty years ago, they slaughtered us like animals. Killed us with no regard for anything, because according to them, we would just breed back all the same.”

  That earned a few low murmurs from the crowd. Many of them shifted, scratching awkwardly at arms and necks. Even the commoners coughed. They’d probably heard about the events of the Nightcroft tragedy in some classes. Ordinary slum dwellers only knew of it by word of mouth—schooling wasn’t exactly a priority for them, after all.

  “And what of it?” Dale said. “The strong defeat the weak. That was how it was. That is how it has always been. We are mana cultivators, and we fight and die by our strength. Why fuss about it now, Carter? Why?”

  Carter’s gaze drifted past him—out toward the rolling hills that stretched to the horizon, their grass rippling in the wind. The sun hung overhead, draping golden light across the land. For a moment, everything was still. Peaceful. A view that made you forget the world had teeth.

  Carter sighed. The sound came from somewhere deep within his chest.

  “Because, unlike us, the Collar Gang sees something within the slums. Not just profit—but a way to organise. A way to change the world.” He turned back to Dale, and there was something fierce in his eyes now, something that almost resembled the spark Dale remembered. Almost. “And I want to climb its ranks. Become someone that—within the organisation—people look up to. Change the way its structure works. Make it so that the slums become a better place. A safer place. That is my goal.” He straightened. “And it’s a noble one.”

  A noble one.

  Was that what Carter thought? Seriously? He was out there wasting his time hoping to climb some pathetic ranks with petty criminals because he thought they were noble? They were no more noble than the rats were clean swimming around the gutter.

  Dale set Carter with a heavy gaze. “And do you really think your desire—this little goal of growth for the Collar Gang—will ever be reached? You believe that their leader, a man who I’ve heard is so ruthless he would kill a mother’s child just to prove a point to her, would let someone like you come in and change things?”

  That seemed to set a wave of hesitation through Carter. He fidgeted with his hands, fingers twisting together as if unsure how to continue. After all, a man such as Bobbie cast a shadow over any light others tried to bring.

  “I believe I can.”

  That was surprising.

  Even after that knowledge—something Carter clearly hadn’t known—he still believed he could change the game.

  “So you believe you can grow stronger than the man and overtake him?” Dale shook his head slowly. “Your fundamentals are something, Carter. But as I have said, and as you’ve shown in our spar—you have lost the spark.”

  “And yet still I will persist.” Carter’s jaw set. “I will make sure that the Collar Gang can become something that is no longer feared. No longer hated.”

  He was a na?ve fool after all.

  Dale let out a sigh. Whatever hopes his master had in this idiot, they were not well placed. What a waste he had really become.

  “Then I will ask that you at least return to the dojo and explain yourself to the master once this trial realm is over. He deserves that much.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Carter nodded, biting his lower lip for a moment. “And what of the tournament?”

  “The tournament?” Dale blinked. “Ah—you mean the Ascension Tournament?”

  He thought about the tickets he’d claimed. He’d gathered enough for everyone within his group—six in total. Even had a spare that Carter could take if he wanted to. A team like theirs could surely make it to the middle of the tournament table. Dale held no fantasies of winning himself; no, he wasn’t that na?ve. But he should be able to make it far enough to cause those noble brats to be a little spooked by the potential of the slums.

  And with the Phoenix Company as his backer, there’d be no threat of retaliation for disgracing a noble within the event. It was a chance to put himself on display. For all those involved to know how strong he was.

  No other dojo within the slums could compare to the Feather Dojo. And to him, it's one true successor.

  “We’ll be participating,” Dale said. “Though I ask: under which group will you be fighting? Are you going to be joining us, or the Collar Gang?”

  Carter hesitated.

  Not a smart move for someone with such lofty goals. You had to be brave. Chase those goals down with almost reckless abandon. He truly had lost his spark and lost his way.

  A fish beached and gasping.

  “I think I’ll join—”

  “You think? You do not know?”

  Carter gulped. “I’ll be joining…”

  —- —- —- —-

  Jodie woke with a start.

  Sunlight slanted through her window in pale golden bars, dust motes drifting in lazy spirals through the beams. She blinked against the brightness; the warmth pressing softly against her face, and for a moment she just lay there—half-tangled in her sheets, heart still thudding from whatever dream had jarred her awake.

  The smell hit next. Worn wood and old varnish, the familiar mustiness of her room. And below that, drifting up from somewhere outside, was the faint sour tang of the sewer that ran behind their building. Voices filtered through the thin walls—the slurred cadence of drunken men, their laughter barking in short bursts, words tumbling over each other in that sloppy way that meant they’d been at it since the night before.

  She wrinkled her nose. Same as always.

  Rolling out of bed, she swept the sheets aside and planted her feet on the cold floorboards. That had been a crazy dream, though she couldn’t exactly remember what it was about. Something urgent. Something that had felt important in the way dreams sometimes did, all weight and no substance, dissolving the moment you tried to grab hold.

  She crossed to her dresser and pulled out an assortment of clothes—a worn tunic, trousers that her mother had patched twice at the knee—throwing them on with little thought. The fabric was rough against her skin, familiar.

  And then—

  Was that bacon?

  The smell curled up from downstairs, rich and savoury and unmistakable. They hadn’t had bacon in months. Father had said the meat wasn’t worth the price, that they should make do with vegetables instead. Save the coin for materials. For the forge.

  It seemed Mother had won the argument in the end. Gotten them a little treat.

  Something warm spread in Jodie’s chest—a small, childish burst of happiness that made her grin despite herself. She whipped her bedroom door open, hinges squealing in protest, and took the stairs two at a time. Her feet thumped against the worn wood, each step creaking beneath her weight, and she rounded the corner into the kitchen already smiling.

  Her mother’s silhouette stood by the counter. Back turned. Fiery red hair cascading down between her shoulder blades, catching the morning light and glowing like embers. The steady thock-thock-thock of a knife against the chopping board filled the small kitchen—rhythmic, unhurried.

  “Morning, Mother,” Jodie said, sliding a chair out from under the table and plopping herself down. The aged wood bit into her thighs, and she groaned slightly, shifting to find a comfortable position. It was annoying. They were smiths, yet refused to buy any new furniture that wasn’t for the forge, even with the extra coin they made.

  “Good morning, my dear.” Her mother’s voice was warm, steady. She didn’t turn. The knife kept its rhythm. Thock. Thock. Thock. “And how are you this morning?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. Not too bad.” Jodie drummed her fingers on the table, watching her mother’s back. “I had the strangest of dreams, though.”

  “Strange?” Her mother’s hair shifted slightly—a small tilt of the head—but still she didn’t turn. Her back stayed to Jodie as she continued to chop at something on the board. Thock. Thock. Thock. “How so, my dear?”

  “I’m not really sure,” Jodie said.

  Her mother began humming—a melody Jodie hadn’t heard since she was a child. The notes rose and fell, soft and lilting, and Jodie paused, savouring the tune. It brought back a rush of memories. Playing in the slums. Poking at dead rats with sticks and laughing with her friends. A lot of the older ones were gone now. Dead.

  There was sadness there, pooling somewhere beneath her ribs. But she pushed past it, following the thread of her thoughts.

  “I tried to remember the dream, but it feels like the more I pull on it, the more I forget.”

  Her mother laughed, hair shifting as she continued to cut. “That tends to be the way of the world. The more we reach out for something, the more we lose it.”

  Those words. Her mother had said them before—often, when Jodie was trying her hardest at the dojo. Pushing herself further than she should just to keep up with Hector, who at the time had seemed so impossibly focused. It was only because of her own natural talent that she could even match pace with someone so driven.

  “And how is the dojo going? I don’t believe I’ve asked you about it recently.”

  From somewhere beyond the kitchen wall came a sound—distant, rhythmic. The clink of hammer against metal, muffled but unmistakable. The forge. Father must be working early. The vibration travelled through the floorboards, faint beneath her feet.

  “Oh, you know, Mother. Same old, really. Instructor Kamble pushes us as best he can. Forces us to drill the Orion Fist technique every single day to perfection.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “But I think I’m going to make a breakthrough to the journeyman rank soon. I’m excited about the future.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Her mother’s voice carried a smile, though Jodie still couldn’t see her face. “Your father said that sending you to the dojo instead of leaving you to smith would be a waste. But I’m glad to see that we’re proving him wrong.”

  Another laugh. She still had her back turned. Still cutting.

  Thock. Thock. Thock.

  “And how is your battle intent coming along?”

  Jodie’s fingers stopped drumming.

  How had her mother known about that?

  She’d never brought it up with her. Never even spoken about it to the woman. There was no diary for her to peek into, no stray conversations she might have overheard. And it was unlikely—deeply unlikely—that her mother would bring it up so casually, as if discussing the weather.

  The clink of the forge grew louder. Its rhythm quickened, hammer strikes blending into a dull, persistent drone. The table trembled beneath Jodie’s palms.

  “How do you know about that, Mother?” she asked, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

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