A cold wind slammed him, thrashing his hair about as a shiver bolted down his spine. A thin sheet of sweat clung to his arms and chest. His shirt and cloak lay in the grass where he’d balled them up and thrown them.

    Essence filled his body, surging like a swollen river until his limit burst, flooding his veins with power.

    Finally, he’d reached the peak of an Essence Practitioner. The ninth realm of the first World. And it was all thanks to the ring.

    He looked down at the cold, black band wrapped around his left index finger. A wave of satisfaction washed over him. He had no idea how it worked but it made cultivating a breeze.

    At first it shamed him to rely on something other than himself, but the more he thought about it the more it seemed right that he used it.

    The twins had everything handed to them since birth and never once knew what it was like to struggle for what they had. They didn’t know how to appreciate and properly use what was given to them and yet they cultivated shamelessly as if they had done it all on their own.

    The lesson he took away from that was power didn’t care how you got it. The world didn’t exist as a meritocracy. The nobles didn’t play by the rules they imposed on peasants so why should he? The only thing that truly mattered in the end was the result.

    With that in mind he found it easy to use the ring. It was obviously something of tremendous value and he understood quite clearly the future it opened up for him.

    He didn’t care that every other mixed blood cultivator failed to manifest the form or their soul. It simply meant that he’d be the first one do to so.

    And the ring was going to help him do it.

    He took a deep breath. Eyes closed, feet wide apart.

    The sword he held out before him was all steel. None of that worthless practice wood nonsense. Unless you were wielding a staff a weapon should have some real weight behind it.

    The Dragon in his mind roared and swung a wicked blade for his head. He ducked and rolled to the side. A tail swept the brown grass underneath his feet right before he jumped.

    He slashed out with his blade and the tail parted without a spray of blood.

    The Dragon form had a physical presence. That much was obvious. But the form appeared and disappeared around the one who used it, like a cloak of essence.

    No, that wasn’t quite right. It replaced the body of the user.

    He didn’t have enough time to think about it when the Dragon lunged, blue eyes burning like a roaring fire. He didn’t bother with a parry. The Dragon’s strength would either break his sword or knock him off his feet.

    He ducked, sweeping his blade up and cutting through the Dragon’s wrist. Its eyes widened in shock as the hand gripping its blade fell to the ground.

    But it didn’t stop.

    Another sword appeared in its other hand and came down on his head in a blur.

    He was dead before he knew it.

    Again he tried. And again. And again.

    Each time he died because he wasn’t fast enough. If he ever fought the twins where they held nothing back he would die for sure.

    He opened his eyes and sighed. The sun was less than an hour away from disappearing behind the wall of mountains brushing the sky.

    The fading light bathed his skin in a vibrant heat but the occasional gust chilled him to the bone. He wiped away the sweat that trickled down his brow.

    The sword felt good in his hands. The rough leather wrapped around the hilt caressed his calluses, reminding him of all the hours he’d spent with the blade. His blood and sweat soaked up by the old leather.

    The weight of the steel drew out his worries like a lode stone. It grounded him. Without it he just didn’t feel whole.

    Reluctantly he sheathed the blade into a plain scabbard buckled onto his belt and slipped back into his shirt. After shaking out his cloak he refastened it around his shoulders and left the empty field.

    Lazy wisps of smoke curling into the air told him where to go. He wasn’t far but neither was he in a hurry to go back.

    Why did Taren have to invite that man over for dinner? After thinking about it all afternoon he decided to stay as far away from the captain as he could.

    Perhaps it wasn’t weird for royalty to serve in the legions, but why would someone so important visit a backwater village like Falden?

    Was he really recruiting? Maybe he was over thinking it but he was sure of two things. The captain held way too much interest in him. And he was dangerous.

    The image of the knife disappearing in the flame wouldn’t fade away no matter how hard he tried not to think about it.

    By the time he arrived darkness settled upon the village. A streetlamp outside his home lit the narrow road, bathing his front door in a yellow light.

    He paused, hearing voices coming from within. Alazar’s laughter was unmistakable. Not that he knew it by heart. He just couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard laughter at home.

    He thought about going somewhere else until he knew for sure the captain wouldn’t be there when he felt a sudden change in the air.

    Without thinking he spun, gripping the hilt of his sword.

    Nothing. The street was empty.

    He bit his lip and cursed. He was not afraid. And fuck Alazar. It wasn’t much but it was still his home. And he was hungry.

    As he reached for the door a hand grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm, while another clamped over his mouth, stuffing a foul rag between his jaws.

    A spike of panic pierced his skull. His heart suddenly pounded in his ears. He’d expected something after provoking Cera and the twins, but not this. Not right here.

    He thrashed against the hands dragging him away, activating his essence body and throwing the full weight of his cultivation against them.

    No use.

    He thought of landing a kick on the door.

    If Alazar wanted him so badly he could at least put down the ale and do something. But it was too late. The door just barely out of reach.

    He groped around with his free hand, grasping for his assailant’s hair, hoping to spin his way out when something hard slammed into his gut. His legs buckled.

    He coughed and bit down hard.

    A man blocking his view of the street wielded a small club. He slammed it again. Then again. And again.

    Tears pooled in his eyes clouding his vision and all the strength in his legs disappeared. A warmth spread down his legs.

    “Look at that,” he heard. “Little pup’s gone and wet itself.”

    “Tie him up and let’s get outta here. We’re not to be seen, remember?”

    He slumped to the ground as the hands holding him up dropped him onto the hard coble stone street. A thick rope bound his wrists and ankles and a moment later he was slung over a shoulder like a sack of grain.

    As they carried him down the street, panic dug further into his skull the farther away they got from home. In the small part of his mind still capable of thinking, he knew exactly what was about to happen.

    The two men found a dark alley and dropped him onto the cold ground.

    He couldn’t see their faces but as they happened to walk under a lamp, the dim glow revealed the uniform worn by lord Albryte’s household guard and he imagined those ugly, dimwitted faces he knew so well.

    One of them bent down and unbuckled his sword while another pulled out a knife.

    His thrashed as hard as he could, sobbing bitterly, cursing his fate.

    How dare they do this to him! How dare they shame him with his own tears. What was the point of all those years training? The sudden leaps and bounds made in his cultivation.

    He screamed through the rag stuffed deep in his mouth.

    He failed.

    He failed his brother. He failed his father. Even his mother who always scolded him, criticizing everything he did faster than she expressed her love for him. He failed her too.

    The man who took his sword wrapped himself tight in a heavy cloak. “Just stick him already and get it over with. I’m freezing.”

    “Hold him steady then,” the other man said, kicking him relentlessly.

    Behind them a pair of red eyes blinked in the darkness.

    “Did you hear me? Hold him stead-” A sword erupted from the guard’s chest, lifting the man with the knife off his feet.

    He stared up at the man dangling above him, not fully comprehending what he saw. Had he been kicked in the head too hard?

    The man coughed, legs kicking. A wet gurgling noise escaped from his throat right before he was flung into his companion.

    It all happened so fast that the other man wrapped in his cloak reacted too late. A muffled cry was silenced a moment later.

    He lifted his head for a better view, blinking back tears and ignoring the pain in his ribs.

    A shadow loomed over the bodies of his captors. It towered well above seven feet tall. The blade in its hand long and thin and curved slightly near the tip.

    The shadow looked back at him, a pair of glowing red eyes floating in the darkness.

    Blood of my fathers. Was that a Lycan?

    A smaller shadow appeared at the mouth of the alley and the taller one bowed. The sword it held disappeared in a swirl of darkness that was somehow darker than the shadows of the alley.

    Boots thudding against the cobble stones echoed softly through the narrow alley as the smaller shadow drew close enough for him to make out the shape of a man.

    The stranger knelt, roughly cutting his bonds, and removed his gag.

    “Who are you,” he rasped.

    “Grendyl.”

    Wiping free the tears, he pushed himself up but fell back onto his face, his ribs throbbing with a sharp needle like pain.

    “Grendyl, I could use a hand.”

    “And be the crutch you lean on?” Grendyl mused. “Find the strength to stand on your own. You’ll thank me later.”

    He couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped his dried lips. The pain spiked and he hugged his sides until he could breathe again.

    Harsh words given that he’d just been saved, but meaningful none the less.

    Never again would he be humiliated like this.

    His lip curled in a silent snarl as he forced himself up to his knees, sucking in air through his teeth. It hurt like hell but he managed to rise on his own, barely holding onto his balance as he waited for the dizziness to pass.

    “I’ll thank you right now.” he said. “Those men are dead while I live.” He paused, squinting through the darkness. “They are dead, right?”

    “As cold as death and growing colder.”

    He straightened himself and flinched as a fresh wave of pain flared through his back.

    “You saved my life, Grendyl,” he breathed. “You didn’t have to, but you did.”

    “Is that a thank you?” Grendyl asked. A touch of amusement in his tone.

    He frowned, feeling awkward.

    “It is,” he admitted. “But never mind that. Your friend has red eyes.”

    He glanced at the hulking shadow standing behind the man.

    “All Lycans do.”

    His breath caught, suddenly forgetting all about the pain coursing through his body.

    “I’ve only ever seen them in paintings.”

    Grendyl said nothing for a moment. He thought the man was staring out at the street but then he spoke, voice lowered to a whisper.

    “You can see them again. There’s somewhere I can take you where there are others like us. Where I can show you how to cultivate it properly.”

    “You can teach me?”

    “Perhaps,” Grendyl said. “I’d certainly make a better master than that man you met today.”

    His mind drew a blank as he stared at Grendyl’s shadowed face hoping for a better look.

    “Who, Alazar?”

    “Don’t trust him.”

    “How do you know about that?” he asked.

    “Let’s just say I know a lot about this place. You’ve done well in getting stronger and looking out for yourself. But as you’ve just learned it only takes one mistake to lose it all.”

    Grendyl turned and snapped over his shoulder, his voice like iron.

    “Gordyn.”

    The Lycan moved, dragging one of the dead guards between them. Grendyl bent down and picked up the knife that was meant for him.

    “Before you can even consider my offer, however,” Grendyl said. “You have debts to settle. Starting with this one.”

    He eyed the knife Grendyl offered him and glanced at the guard, remembering the voice he’d heard.

    Kalys Murk struggled feebly. The front of his shirt stained in blood where the Lycan’s sword ripped through him. Now that he was close again he heard once more the soft gurgling of the man choking back blood.

    “You said they were dead.”

    “They are,” Grendyl asserted. “Gordyn missed his vitals. With enough time he’ll die from the blood loss. But won’t that mean he escaped what he’s due?”

    He looked back at the knife and understood. He feared what his father would say, but the image of his face failed to surface in his mind. His voice silenced by the rush of blood pounding between his ears.

    Before he knew it he snatched the knife from Grendyl’s hand and fell upon the master of arms, stabbing him in his belly.

    Right where the fucking cunt had kicked him dozens of times before.

    Kalys took it all, the most he moved barely more than a spasm.

    When the choking grew quiet he drove the knife under Kalys’ chin, all the way to the hilt, and twisted.

    His bloodied hand slipped from the handle and he staggered over the man’s corpse, falling to his knees.

    He clutched his head and bared his teeth in something that almost resembled a smile. His mind reeling with something he’d never felt before.

    “Good,” Grendyl said over him. “Take this.”

    A little red bead dropped onto the stones between his feet. He picked it up without thinking. Grendyl’s voice sounded from far away even though he stood close enough to touch.

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    “Your bones will heal quicker with the aid of a blood essence pill. I wouldn’t hand this out to just anyone but you’ve shown potential.”

    The Lycan dragged Kalys and the other guard further into the alley, swallowed moments later by the darkness. Grendyl stopped at the mouth of the alley and looked back at him.

    “You’re almost there, Saul. Just a little further and when you arrive we’ll meet again.”

    He rose to his feet and staggered into a wall, still gripping the pill in his hand. His mind slowly emerging from that sudden fervor that had driven him mad.

    He slid his back against the wall, ignoring the cold seeping into his bones and the pain crawling back into his skull. His hand trembled when he held the pill up to his face.

    It almost slipped out from his fingers but he took a deep breath, ignoring a new wave of pain that flared when he did, and steadied his hand.

    His father could potentially benefit from taking it. A blood essence pill healed more than just broken bones. He should have felt amazed to even have one but the thought of his father made him gag.

    He lurched over and heaved. There was nothing in his stomach but a little bile that spattered from his lips.

    What would his father say if he’d watched his son butcher another man? Was this not the justice he spoke of? Was this not what he wanted?

    He swallowed the pill.

    No, this was revenge. And now that he’d had a taste it was already too late.

    Until now he’d put on airs of killing the twins. He’d fight them without holding back, thinking it would be enough if he proved his strength and walked away the victor, leaving them battered, their pride trampled on.

    That would have been justice. But it didn’t go far enough. Only their deaths would satisfy his hunger for that strange feeling again.

    His body tingled from the effects of the pill and he found that he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

    When they opened again his sword sat in its scabbard, laid out in front of him. The knife settled on top, nestled in its own sheath, wiped clean of any blood.

    The thought occurred to him that he’d almost died. Somehow it felt worse than the time when Cera had almost killed him.

    He was alone. And pathetically weak.

    Really, he should have died. But he hadn’t. Someone had saved him again. The shame ran deep. Almost as deep as the pain tugging at his chest as he thought of how his family would have reacted to the news of his death.

    It pained him more than anything those guards had done as his eyes fell upon the knife. Followed by a deep, seething rage.

    “Saul?”

    A dark face hovered over him.

    “Fucking hell. There’s so much blood! Help me get him up.”

    Another face bent down. Together they sat him up and leaned him against a wall. One of them lifted his shirt while the other started ripping pieces from their own cloak.

    “I don’t need a bandage,” he said, blinking up them. “What are you doing here?”

    “You telling me none of this blood is yours?” one of them scoffed. “Whose is it then?”

    “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. “It’s taken care of.”

    “And what in bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

    With a little effort he pushed himself back to his feet, carefully bent down and picked up the sword and knife, and buckled them on his belt, letting the question go unanswered.

    “There’s blood marks on the cobble stones, like something was dragged.”

    He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, reactivating his essence body. The blood essence pill miraculously mended his broken ribs and reduced swelling around his eyes.

    A faint tingling in his skin told him the pill still had yet to finish and would take a little while longer yet before he was fully healed.

    “Never mind that,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

    “Well,” one of them hesitated. “We were on our way to the next inn when nature called.”

    He stared, unamused and left the alley, feeling like he’d fallen down a mountain.

    The two of them hurried after. The concern on their faces made clear by the glow of the streetlamps as they fell in beside him.

    Dylan, a burly youth with a small scar on his chin studied him carefully while Nash, a lanky young man wrapped himself in his cloak, eyeing the shadows passing by.

    “You guys don’t need to follow me. I can walk on my own,” he said flatly.

    Nash readjusted his glasses with a subtle frown. “Saul, we’re you’re friends. It’s okay to let us help.”

    He rounded suddenly on the thin little man who stumbled back with a short gasp, falling hard on the ground. His anger fled at the fright in Nash’s eyes.

    He could only imagine how he looked to the other man. Beaten, face coated with dried blood. He took a deep breath, letting his anger cool.

    “Why couldn’t you show this much concern before now?” He muttered.

    Dylan got between them, helping Nash back to his feet.

    “What’s gotten into you?” Dylan said. “I don’t understand.”

    “Of course you don’t,” he scolded under his breath. “How could you possibly understand what it’s like to live in a village that doesn’t look at you as one of its own simply because of the color of your hair and eyes?

    “Since you’re caring so much all of a sudden I wonder what you think of Albryte’s guards trying to stick me with this?”

    He drew the knife and shoved it under Nash’s nose. The blonde man froze, eyes drawn to the sharp steel inches away from his face.

    Dylan hugged himself with an arm and held his forehead with the other as Nash slowly took his hand and lowered it. He pulled back, disgusted by the pity in their eyes, and slammed the knife back into its sheath.

    Silence fell between them, accompanied by the wind scraping over the nearby rooftops.

    “If that’s true,” Nash said slowly. “Then I’m telling you now, as your friend, to go home to your parents and say your goodbyes. You have to get as far away from here as possible or something even worse might happen.”

    “Wait,” Dylan jumped in. “This isn’t the way back to your house. Where are we going?”

    He kept his silence, instead focusing on the next step and the one after that. All until the street abruptly ended, followed by the wide open village commons.

    Dylan cursed when he saw their destination.

    “You have got to be kidding. What do you think you’re going to do? Walk in there and demand justice from the man who just tried to have you killed? You won’t even get past the guards.”

    He looked Dylan in the eyes, his voice cutting low.

    “The guards won’t even see me.”

    “What are you-”

    “He’s going to sneak in,” Nash said. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

    He grimaced. “Don’t even try to stop me. But if you insist on being a nuisance at least make yourselves useful and keep a look out.”

    Dylan cursed again but Nash nodded solemnly. “What are you planning to do?”

    “Teach him a lesson.”

    They crossed the commons, followed by a heavy silence.

    Luckily for them a blanket of clouds covered the night sky, hiding them in shadow. They found a spot hidden from view and climbed over the black iron fence surrounding the manor.

    Dylan went over first, followed by Nash after he helped him scramble up the iron rods.

    Skirting the side of the mansion they reached the open courtyard in the back and found a place to hide in the shadows of the archways ringing the inside of the yard.

    “What now?” Dylan asked.

    “Now, one of you will stay here,” he said. “To make sure we can still come back this way. If any of the guards show up you’ll have to let us know somehow.”

    “That’s pretty vague,” Nash said.

    “I didn’t ask for either of you to come,” he snapped through clenched teeth. He rubbed his forehead and took as deep as breath as he could. The pain made it hard but he needed to keep a level head.

    “Alright,” Dylan said. “What then?”

    “Then I find the young lord and offer him my regards. One of you will need to keep watch by his door to let me know of anyone coming down the hallway.”

    “I’ll go with you,” Dylan said.

    He nodded and together they slipped quietly into the mansion.

    It wasn’t long before they heard boots thumping on the carpeted floor ahead. They found a closet door and hurried inside.

    He held his breath.

    A light passed underneath the doorway and disappeared a moment later.

    When they were sure the hallway was empty again they burst from the narrow confines of the closet. Dylan leaned against his knees, breathing hard.

    “I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” Dylan whispered. “This is insane.”

    “Quiet. They might hear you and turn back.”

    He pushed himself to go on and Dylan followed closely. They found Barin’s rooms shortly after. He pressed his ear to the door and listened.

    Nothing.

    He peered through the tiny crack beneath the door, along the side, and through the key hole in the door handle.

Convinced that the young lord was not awake, he gave Dylan a nod.

    Dylan stood with his back against the wall by the door, sweeping his eyes up and down the hallway, and nodded back. Carefully, they slipped inside and closed the door behind them.

    As he thought, the room was dark.

    Barin’s rooms were separated by a small sitting room where they stood currently. The candles snuffed and the door to Jack’s bed chamber left ajar.

    He shuffled quietly, gritting his teeth against the pain, anticipation swelling in his chest. He gave Dylan a quick glance.

    Dylan stood by the door to the sitting room, eyes nervously glued on him. He gave Dylan a reassuring nod and closed the door to Barin’s chamber behind him.

    He heard the snoring before he saw the bed where Barin slept, sheets half tossed aside, long limbs stretched out.

    He rounded the large four corner bed and stood over the young man. How easy it would be to end all his misery.

    He drew the knife and gingerly traced the point of the blade up Barin’s naked torso. That’s where Kalys would have started.

    He remembered those harsh words, spoken so casually as if talking about the weather. The heat of his anger rose to his face and he grimaced.

    He really should drive the knife point first deep into Barin’s chest. Feel it sink into his soft, pink flesh and twist it with all the hate he felt for the young man.

    Instead he leaned forward and gently pressed the edge of the blade against Barin’s throat and laid his free hand over the man’s mouth, leveraging all his weight behind it.

    Barin awoke with a start. The man struggled. His eyes bulged but as soon as he felt the knife at his throat, the young man slumped back into the bed, whimpering against his palm.

    He leaned forward and whispered into Barin’s ear.

    “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s me, Saul. I’m not here to kill you.”

    The young man tensed underneath his grip. No doubt he’d been the last person Barin had ever expected to be holding a knife to his throat.

    “I just want you to promise me something, okay?” he continued. “If I let you go, you’re not going to yell are you?”

    When Barin didn’t respond he pressed the knife deeper and drew a thin red line. Barin’s eyes grew wide with fright and he shook his head ever so slightly back and forth.

    “Good,” he said.

    He stood and grabbed a chair and set it by the night stand against the bed. He lit a candle and eased himself slowly into its cushioned seat, regarding the young lord with a cold flat stare.

    Barin pushed himself up against the head board, gathering the sheets up to his chest.

    “What are you doing here?” Barin said. His usual bravado nowhere to be heard.

    “Surprised? I know I sure am. You almost got me with those guards. Almost.”

    He watched for any signs of recognition and was rewarded by the way Barin’s eyes widened even more.

    He knew Cera would have been there to watch if she had done it. She took pleasure in watching others suffer. Which only left one other person.

    “I figured it had to be you. Your father wouldn’t have sent them because he’s expecting an answer from me and your brother isn’t nearly so impulsive. That leaves just you.”

    The young man gaped. He took a moment to burn that look into his mind so he could savor it later.

    “I could have killed you in your sleep, but I’m not like you. I’m not a despicable coward who has to rely on someone else to do his work for him. No, I’m here to offer you a deal.”

    “A deal?”Barin jeered. “You think I would care about some worthless deal from you? You’re going to hang for this. Even if you kill me there’s no way you’ll get away with it.”

    “I’m not here to kill you. I just said that. Or are you not paying attention to me?”

    Barin winced at his tone.

    “And even if I am hung, where’s the joy in that for you? You wouldn’t be around to see it. And people will talk.

    “They’ll say he died a dog’s death in his bed, pissing himself like an invalid old man. No one will respect you. No one will praise you. Or mourn your death, or even miss you. But if you beat me in the tournament, that may be a different story.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I mean, I’ll throw the fight. I’ll lose to you, in front of the entire village. That’s what you want isn’t it? To beat me? To put me in my place? I won’t make it obvious either so no one will question it. It’ll be our little secret.”

    “And in return?”

    “You’ll leave me alone. Whether I live out the rest of my life here or not, you’ll not bother me again. Do you understand?”

    Barin nodded slowly.

    He stood, raising the knife above his head, and drove the end of it into the hard wood of the nightstand. Barin flinched but otherwise remained silent.

    “We have a deal, then,” he said.

    And with that he left the room and closed the door behind him.