“You!” the bald trainer barked, wrenching his arm free as though burned. “Declare yourself!”

  He stepped back a few paces, then dropped into a fighting stance, boots grinding against the stone.

  The courtyard held its breath at the obvious challenge.

  Barrett’s reply was a grin that was slow and dangerous.

  “We’ll get to that.”

  He eased the massive black blade from his shoulder. The sheer weight of it shifting made the trainer flinch despite himself. Barrett turned casually and slammed the blade into the ground like a flagpole.

  Then Barrett shrugged out of his long spiderweave coat and tossed it backward without looking. It sailed through the air and landed against Fred’s chest. Fred caught it awkwardly, mouth hanging open as though someone had just upended his understanding of reality.

  “Hold on to that for me, cupcake.”

  Barrett stood bare-armed in the sunlight.

  The black beater clung to him, outlining sculpted shoulders and biceps corded from combat and an immeasurable amount of bicep curls. Dog tags rested against his chest, chiming faintly in the breeze like a quiet bell.

  Barrett tipped his face toward the sun, letting the warmth soak into his skin and chase the lingering edge of adrenaline from his veins. He drew in a slow, steady breath, held it for a heartbeat, then let it spill out through parted lips.

  A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “Hell yeah,” he murmured, satisfied. “This is definitely my time.”

  Whispers rippled through the gathered trainees.

  “He’s huge…”

  “How do you even get arms like that?”

  “Amazing…”

  “Can he see through that bandana?”

  Barrett ignored them.

  Above, Grimm swept once through the sky and settled onto the edge of a nearby rooftop, red eyes watching. When the raven stilled, Barrett rolled his shoulders, stretched once, and cracked his neck.

  He lowered into his own stance.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said lightly, “I’d like to know who I’m declaring myself to.”

  The trainer didn’t answer.

  His eyes flashed with wounded pride, and he lunged.

  The first punch came heavy and direct, meant to overwhelm. The second followed faster. Then the third.

  Barrett’s grin widened.

  “Guess it’s on then!”

  He slid aside with minimal effort, each strike tearing through the air where he had been a heartbeat before. The trainer’s fists blurred, speed climbing, shoulders pumping as he poured power into the assault.

  Barrett reached out and caught one.

  The impact jarred through his palm like grabbing a launched projectile. Pain lanced up his arm.

  Ah.

  A body-enhancement skill.

  “Not bad, that one stung a bit.”

  The trainer didn’t appreciate humor and increased the pace.

  Barrett adjusted instantly. His movements shifted from simple evasions to redirections, guiding attacks away rather than absorbing them. He brushed punches past his ribs, let blows skim his shoulders, pivoted on the balls of his feet with instinctive precision.

  Something old stirred within him.

  Training echoes and memories. Instincts forged through repetitions that he had never himself executed. Faint. But he could definitely feel them.

  Interesting.

  Within seconds, the gap between them became painfully obvious. The trainer was powerful but predictable.

  “Who the hell are you?!” the trainer yelled between desperate attacks.

  Barrett almost sighed. He had been hoping to test out this new power more, but this opponent wouldn’t do.

  This was like sparring a child.

  He decided not to drag it out.

  “My turn!”

  With a subtle sidestep, Barrett slipped outside the trainer’s left hook, brushed the man’s arm aside with casual efficiency, and drove a devastating right body kick into his ribs.

  The impact thundered.

  The trainer’s body left the ground and slammed into the stone wall behind him. Masonry cracked. Rubble cascaded down in a shower of dust and broken fragments.

  Everyone was silent.

  When the haze settled, the trainer lay half-seated in the fractured stone, eyes wide, the arrogance drained clean from his face.

  Everything except for the unmistakable look of fear.

  Barrett might have felt like a bully.

  If he hadn’t watched this same man kick Lance into the ground moments before.

  Across the courtyard, the other boy stood rigid, black hair falling across pale skin gone slightly gray. His green eyes were no longer burning with contempt, but something closer to awe and fear.

  “So strong…” someone whispered.

  “He wasn’t even trying…”

  “Who is he?”

  Lance staggered forward a step, still clutching his stomach. “Coach, where—what—”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Donovan, what the hell—” Fred began.

  Barrett raised a finger to his lips without looking at them.

  “Shh,” he said calmly. “Just keep your mouths shut.”

  His bandana-covered gaze lifted toward the stunned ring of trainees.

  “And let ol’ Daddy Donovan do the talkin’.”

  —

  The circle parted.

  A compact, broad-shouldered man with a thick red beard and the unmistakable gravity of command pushed through the trainees, boots striking the stone with authority. His gaze locked onto Barrett’s as if to measure him.

  And then—

  Behind him.

  Jackpot.

  Barrett felt it before he fully processed it. That subtle hitch in his pulse. Grimm shifted along the rooftop at his silent cue, angling closer so Barrett could see through the raven’s vantage.

  She stepped into view with composed grace.

  Silver hair braided cleanly down her back, woven through with faint glints of white steel. Skin unmarked. A simple leather tunic that somehow made her stand out more than if she wore something with more ornamentation.

  He ran [Inspect] almost lazily — and blinked.

  [Level 19]

  Now, that was different.

  A far cry from the under-leveled trainees scattered around the courtyard.

  “Ah—hail, warrior,” she said, the words carried on a smile that almost tipped into a quiet laugh, yet her voice still rang clear enough to slice through the murmuring crowd. “I am Amelia Rax Cleef. With me is the Lord Commander of EverGreen, Darryl Hatchensword.”

  The bearded commander inclined his head once, stiff and deliberate.

  “And who,” she continued, lightly twisting a strand of silver braid between her fingers as though the moment amused her more than it should, “do we have the pleasure of meeting?”

  Barrett took his time.

  He had been in this situation before, and he’d be damned if he lost his cool again.

  Act like you don’t even care.

  He repeated it silently, the familiar mantra looping through his mind like a practiced incantation. He was like a mage casting a defensive spell before battle. A spell that would protect him when faced with women far too beautiful for comfort.

  He brushed a smear of dust from his bicep, rolled one shoulder as though the entire courtyard weren’t hanging on his answer.

  “Name’s Barrett,” he said at last. “Barrett Donovan.”

  He let the pause stretch just long enough.

  “First Sword of the Bagravian Elite Guard. I’m here as a representative of Eidel Levenon—the direct heir of the Handomean line. Rulers of Sinea.”

  The silence that followed was palpable.

  Like someone had pulled the air out of the courtyard.

  “Did he just say—”

  “It can’t be.”

  “H-Handomeans?”

  The whisper passed like a shockwave.

  Amelia and the Lord Commander exchanged shocked looks.

  Disbelief.

  And perhaps even…fear.

  Barrett felt it ripple through them and couldn’t help the faint curl of satisfaction.

  Damn, guess this name carries some weight!

  “Apologies…Sir Donovan,” the Lord Commander said carefully, voice suddenly measured. “But do you have proof of such…claims?”

  Barrett’s grin widened.

  Slowly, he raised his hands.

  Several nearby trainees flinched instinctively.

  He reached up and peeled back the bandana.

  The courtyard saw them then.

  Milky, sightless eyes.

  And beneath them—

  A long, gleaming scar that ran across his face, faint threads of residual magic pulsing along its length like embers beneath glass.

  He could feel the scans sweep over him.

  Mana brushing against his aura. Testing. Confirming.

  He let them look.

  Then he lowered the bandana again.

  Amelia cleared her throat softly, composure returning with practiced ease.

  “Sir Donovan,” she said, voice smoother now, “perhaps we should continue this discussion somewhere more private.”

  “Lead the way,” Barrett replied easily.

  He took a step—then paused.

  “And make sure the boy is taken care of,” he added, nodding toward Lance. “I didn’t like what I saw earlier.”

  Barrett turned his head slightly toward the trainer, who was still slumped against the fractured wall where he had been driven moments earlier. Dust clung to the man’s shoulders, and fine cracks webbed through the stone behind him.

  The trainer lowered his eyes at once, unable—or unwilling—to meet Barrett’s covered stare, as though he could feel that unseen gaze bearing down on him.

  Amelia turned her head slightly.

  “Mia.”

  A tanned girl with cropped hair stepped forward quickly. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Her eyes flicked to Barrett, nervous curiosity flashing across her face.

  “See that he receives healing,” Amelia said.

  “Right away, ma’am.” She moved toward Lance, crouching carefully beside him.

  Amelia turned back to Barrett.

  “Shall we?”

  Barrett inclined his head.

  And followed her out of the courtyard.

  —Lance—

  “Ow—!” Lance yelped as he was unceremoniously dropped onto the narrow cot.

  “Sorry,” Fred muttered, though he didn’t look particularly sorry. He straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Lance lay there staring at the ceiling beams, ribs throbbing in protest. “That asshole really kicked the crap out of me, you know.”

  Fred shook his head. “You were stupid to provoke him like that.” He hesitated. “If it weren’t for—” He stopped himself.

  “For Barrett?” Lance finished.

  Fred didn’t answer.

  “Dude,” Lance groaned, shifting and immediately regretting it, “I doubt he’s still holding a grudge.”

  “You never know with that guy,” Fred said quietly. “He’s got a few screws loose.”

  Silence settled between them for a moment, broken only by Lance’s uneven breathing and the distant sounds of the city preparing for siege.

  Lance rolled his head slightly toward Fred. “You’re wondering about Rei.”

  Fred’s expression hardened, but he nodded.

  “I can’t expect he’d have helped her,” Fred said. “Not after what she…what we did.”

  Lance exhaled slowly. “You never know. Barrett’s got a big heart.”

  Fred huffed faintly. “It’d have to be a damn big one.”

  They fell quiet again. Then Lance pushed through the tension.

  “No use stressing about it. We’ll ask him directly later.”

  Fred gave a distracted nod before his mind snagged on something else. “And what do you make of this Handomean thing? What is he, some kind of knight?”

  Lance frowned. “No idea. But did you see his eyes?”

  Fred nodded slowly, clearly having noticed the same unsettling detail.

  Before he could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor.

  Fred stiffened. “Someone’s coming. Let’s not advertise that we know him.”

  “Ugh, why?” Lance protested under his breath. “We could get serious clout for being associated with him. You saw how scared they were.”

  “Exactly,” Fred murmured. “Which means we keep quiet until we know what he’s planning.”

  Lance grinned faintly despite the pain. “So you are giving him a chance?”

  “He’s more likely to be on our side than they are,” Fred muttered. “Now shut up.”

  The footsteps stopped outside their door. A knock never came, the latch simply lifted, and the door swung open.

  Two women entered.

  One was middle-aged, blonde, and stern-faced, carrying herself with the quiet authority of a medical professional. The other was Mia—the short-haired, tan girl from the courtyard—arms folded, sharp eyes taking everything in.

  Mia pointed at Lance.

  The older woman approached his bed. “Shirt off.”

  Lance reached to pull it over his head, but halfway through the motion he froze, pain flaring white-hot across his ribs.

  “Ow—!”

  Fred leaned in immediately. “Here, let me.”

  Mia remained near the door, watching with her arms crossed.

  As Fred carefully peeled the fabric away, he spoke lightly, as though the topic had just occurred to him.

  “So…what’s the story with that new guy?”

  Neither woman answered.

  Fred tried again. “I saw some pretty dark looks when he mentioned the Handomeans. Who are they?”

  The older woman pursed her lips and activated a diagnostic skill, faint light flickering over Lance’s bruised torso.

  Mia sighed softly and leaned back against the doorframe.

  “Bad news,” she said at last.

  Fred waited.

  “The Handomeans are…extremely ambitious.”

  “That’s vague,” Lance muttered.

  “Have you come across them before?” Fred asked.

  “It’s my first time in Gateway,” Mia added, glancing at him. “But everyone outside of Gateway knows the name.”

  The older healer snorted quietly. “If you’ve any sense, you’ll stay clear of them. ‘Ambitious’ is putting it kindly.”

  Fred and Lance exchanged a look.

  “He mentioned someone—Eidel,” Fred pressed. “Any idea?”

  Mia shook her head once.

  “Come on,” Lance burst out, making both women flinch. “Have some pity on us fifth worlders. Fill us in!”

  Mia studied him for a moment, then exhaled.

  “Fine. The Handomeans tried to seize power cycles ago. Used forbidden skills. On other humans. They were crushed, stripped of their premier status among First Worlders, and forced to pay enormous reparations.”

  She paused.

  “The fact that a direct heir warped in this cycle?” Her eyes darkened. “Means they’re not done.”

  With that, she straightened and stepped out of the room, leaving the door half open.

  Fred stared at the doorway long after she’d gone.

  Lance lay back slowly against the cot, ribs aching, mind racing.

  What the hell, Barrett…what did you get yourself into this time?