Niklas studied the approaching man. Erik’s attire was expensive and tight. He slipped off a well-fitted suit jacket, leaving only a blue vest and black shirt. He was lean but well-muscled and smaller than Niklas by a few inches.

“He wants to fight?” Niklas asked Stanfleda, making sure he understood what Erik was saying.

“Yes!” Stanfleda said, her face growing pale. “He’s a dueler.”

Niklas nodded once. A contest of swords. Niklas had been trained in knife play and usually ranked well when graded. “Is he any good?”

Stanfleda nodded once. Her lips pressed tightly together. “Niklas, don’t fight him.”

“Is that a directive?” Niklas asked. “It looks like you don’t like him. I will fight him if you want me to.” As he said it, the notion of a fight caused the valorous flame of excitement to stir within him. Here stood a trained Relrin fighter, not one of the working bums he beat in a gambling pit. Still, his victory at the yard left him feeling confident.

“Don’t fight him,” she said again. “I didn’t save your life so that you could add yourself to his score.”

“Score?”

“Yes. Erik has twelve wins to his name.”

“How many losses?” Niklas asked.

“Losses? Niklas, a dueler with a loss, is a dead dueler!” The worry was evident in her voice.

“Well?” Erik demanded, stepping closer.

Niklas shook his head. “I can’t fight you. Stanfleda won’t let me.”

“That’s your excuse? You’re letting a woman decide what you do?” Erik demanded.

“Do I know you?” Niklas asked in frustration. “Why are you so angry?”

“You trespass under pretenses, insult me by taking advantage of Paramountess Stanfleda, and refuse my duel!”

Niklas clenched his fist. “I’m going to guess that not many people like you.”

“Niklas is here as my guest!” Stanfleda cried as she stepped between the men, but Erik waved her off.

“I don’t know what he told you, but he was lying!” The dueler insisted.

Niklas turned to Stanfleda, hoping she might rescind her directive, but she shook her head.

“I won’t fight you,” Niklas said.

“Have you no pride?” he barked. “No honor?”

“I have no valor,” Niklas agreed. “It was taken from me.”

“You see Stanfleda!” Erik turned to her. “You won’t keep the company of real men.”

Niklas winced at the insult and bit his tongue.

“I see now that you have no honorable taste. You have silly ideas that will leave you old and lonely.”

Everything froze. Erik directed his final words not at Niklas but at Stanfleda, the slender girl with no defender, noble or not. The fire blazed. Valor, Niklas’ dangerous friend, was always faithful in showing up in time to get Niklas in trouble.

“I suggest you use a tone of respect when addressing a woman,” Niklas growled as it spread across his chest and into his arms, causing them to quiver slightly.

“You can’t talk to me, coward.” Erik snapped. “You’ve refused me and forfeited your right to speak of respect.”

“I’ll fight you,” Niklas said, “unless you stop antagonizing this woman.”

“I’m courting her,” Erik said.

“Both of you, stop it now!” Standfleda shouted, growing red in the face.

Niklas looked at her, yearning for her to step aside and let him humble the man.

She turned to Erik, and her face softened. “Erik,” she said with a much lower voice, “please. This man’s life isn’t worth it; he’s not a noble or a dueler. His death won’t help your score or impress anyone. He’s not even worth your time. I only stepped in to save his life. Please let him go.” She gently put her hand on Erik’s wrist. “For me.”

Niklas felt the sting of her words but watched in astonishment as Erik’s face softened.

It’s the mother's spell, Niklas realized. She’s intentionally charming him.

Erik nodded and grabbed her by the hand. Niklas noticed Stanfleda tense momentarily, but she seemed to force herself to relax.

“I promise I won’t kill him,” Erik said.

“Thank you.” Stanfleda looked up at him.

Erik turned to his two man-servants. “Take the Sharderin to the reformatory.”

“Erik, you promised!” Stanfleda cried.

“I promised I wouldn’t kill him,” Erik said. “And if you think you can ignore me whenever you want and then bat your eyelashes at me whenever you need something, then you need to get your head out of the clouds because that’s not how it works.”

“Erik! Please!” Stanfleda cried.

“I’ll send this Sharderin very far away. Maybe then you’ll remember that I exist. Get him.”

Niklas took a step back as the two man-servants rushed forward. One tried to grab him, and he shoved the man away. The other pushed Niklas, and Niklas managed to get a hand on the man’s blade as he fell back.

The sword let out a satisfying hiss as it left the metal and wood scabbard, and Niklas held the longest and thinnest blade he had ever wielded. It wasn’t exceptionally light, but with its length, the balance was strange to him. Drone blades were never longer than two feet and curved, ideal for slashing. This blade was almost three feet long and was straight, with a wicked needlepoint.

Niklas experimentally slashed the weapon, the blade making a big swish as it cut the air. Both servants hesitated, and he leveled the weapon at them.

“Stay away from me,” he growled.

The guards who had stayed back by Stanfleda’s orders had doubled, and they all rushed in as they saw the commotion.

“Stay back!” Erik ordered them as he drew his sword.

“Erik!” Stanfleda shrieked.

“Don’t worry; I won’t kill him.” He smirked and fell into his stance, his weight on his back foot. He pointed the tip of his blade right at Niklas, and he held his left arm gracefully up behind him.

Niklas snorted in amusement. Did Erik seriously consider his dancing poise a stance? This was going to be easier than he thought.

Niklas took a more balanced stance, crossing his arms and holding the blade to his shoulder.

“Just let me go,” Niklas said. “No one needs to get hurt.”

Erik’s smile widened. In a flash, the dueler lunged and, with three flicks of his wrist, sent Niklas staggering back, clutching his chest, at the three new shallow holes in his right pectoral.

Niklas looked at his hand, and it had blood on it. Erik’s jabs hadn’t been lethal stabs, though they easily could have been.

Niklas looked at Erik. He was smiling like a cat playing with a baby bird. He was intentionally holding back, poking Niklas rather than running him through. With the pointed sword, it was enough to draw blood. Niklas hadn’t even had a chance to try and parry.

Finally, the pain of the jabs began to sting, and Niklas gasped in shock.

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Erik smiled at Niklas, amused. “You seemed so confident a second ago.”

Niklas shook his head. He hadn’t been ready, that was all.

Renewed in his attack, Niklas feigned a slash at Erik’s face, then quickly redirected the blade at his knee.

Erik easily deflected the first strike by simply angling his sword, and then, with a flick of his wrist, he opened Niklas’ forearm before he had even gotten halfway to the second strike.

With a yelp, Niklas dropped the sword and looked at Erik in surprise. The dueler was so fast, and it seemed he used no energy to make quick work of Niklas.

Erik smiled and stepped back, allowing Niklas to retrieve his sword. Whether it was some code of conduct or mockery, Niklas couldn’t tell.

“Gray skin, you go from determination to desperation so quickly. If you lick my boot, I’ll send you to the reformatory without any more improvements.”

Niklas looked behind Erik. Eight guards and his two man-servants stood ready to step in when Erik was done with him. Niklas couldn’t fight them. He looked over at the wall, too alarmed to feel the bite of the offer. He had to get away, probably over the wall, but the guards would be on him in a moment if he just started running.

“Well?” Erik asked, sticking his boot forward.

Niklas’ training surged at the sight of the opportunity. Erik’s stance was compromised. If Niklas could just get his hands on him, maybe he could leverage his release.

Without answering, Niklas charged, sweeping the tip of Erik’s blade away, and rushed in, hoping to get past the deadly point of Erik’s sword.

Out of nowhere, with a flick of his wrist, the point of Erik’s sword reappeared in front of Niklas, and he ran right into it. It wasn’t a poke. This one was a stab. Niklas fell back, clutching his abdomen. He felt dizzy, and his various wounds felt hot and wet. Then, nausea struck him. The annoying slender blades were ridiculously effective. Niklas never would have guessed.

“Tsk, tsk.” Erik clicked his tongue. “Where is the tough guy talk?”

Niklas couldn’t fight the way he had been trained. His weapon was alien to him, and he didn’t know the technique to wield the Relrin sword effectively.

He lunged, frantically stabbing at Erik, trying to mimic the dueler’s technique.

Erik parried each strike, laughing like it was the most natural thing he had ever done.

With a yell of growing desperation, Niklas pressed his attack, and Erik spun around, whipping Niklas in the butt with the flat of his blade.

Niklas glanced over at paramountess Stanfleda, embarrassed. She regarded them with a wildfire in her eyes.

Why should I care so much about what she thinks? Niklas dismissed the thought as he tried to focus on his opponent.

Erik smiled, making small circles with his sword.

Niklas lowered the tip of his blade. It killed him to admit it, but he was outmatched here. Perhaps Erik would show mercy? Maybe Erik would let him go without making him lick his boot? If worse came to worst, would he just do it?

“Hey, look,” Niklas started. “I didn’t realize–”

Something hissed, and Erik cursed, swatting at his neck. It must have been a bee. Niklas saw his chance. Forgetting surrender, he charged.

Erik’s eyes rolled into his head as he doubled over and threw up.

Niklas slammed into the dueler, confused and getting vomit on his clothes, but he didn't have time to be disgusted. Niklas threw him down. “You’re mine,” he cried.

“Dishonorable conduct,” one of the man servants cried, and the guards started forward.

Erik’s eyelids fluttered, and his skin was cold and clammy. Then Niklas noticed something familiar.

His blood ran chill. A short Sharderic dart protruded from Erik’s neck. No, how could it be? Niklas looked around in search of the person who shot the poisoned needle. He couldn’t see anyone; it could have come from anywhere in the heavily obscuring garden.

Quickly, Niklas pulled the dart out and got off of Erik.

His pulse raced. This could only mean one thing. There was a Clan Sharderin nearby. The notion of a New Sharderin nearby was more disturbing than the guards that rushed him.

The guards slammed into Niklas from all sides. A couple of men without uniforms but with badges expertly forced him down and applied shackles to his wrists and ankles.

“Let him go!” Stanfleda cried. “I think he’s had enough.”

“Sorry, my lady,” one of them grunted. “Captain Awiergan’s orders.”

One of the guards pulled the dart from Niklas’ hands, and one of them cried out.

“Ah ha! You see, my lady, he was an assassin!”

Stanfleda looked at Niklas, suddenly pale.

“No!” Niklas croaked from under the dog pile of heavy men, but a blow to the head turned everything black.

Niklas shook his pulsing head and willed his fluttering eyes open.

“What?” he sputtered as he came to. He was sitting in a dimly lit cell. His hands were still shackled, and there was a series of small cells running along the wall, with only bars separating each one. Niklas was within reach of a snoring bum who reeked of alcohol on his right.

Niklas sat up with a groan, and a young officer sitting across the cell block on a wooden stool perked up when he saw him. Niklas didn’t recognize him; he was hardly more than a youth and looked bored but jumped with the enthusiasm of a new recruit when he saw that Niklas was awake.

The young peacekeeper got up and ran to the cellblock door, fumbling for keys to put into the thick lock. Niklas looked along the wall of cells. Besides him and his drunk companion, only one on the far end was also occupied by a sleeping man.

The door opened, and the young man entered with Officer Yelsing and Inspector Graham. The former was wearing Niklas’ Drone jacket!

“Niklas Loga.” Inspector Graham sighed. “Also known as ‘Pit boy.’ Aren’t you in a world of trouble?”

“What?” Niklas asked, still disoriented. “What’s going on?”

“You were caught trespassing on Paramount Alred’s property, attempting assassination on his granddaughter, hosting a gambling pit, threatening a merchant, and now another account of attacking the artificer Doctor Geoffrey.”

Niklas cursed; it had been well over two weeks. The doctor must have made good on his threat and reported him.

“The charges just stack up. Honestly, I’m disappointed. I had you as my chief suspect on my lumber yard case, but that killer was precise, an expert. You’re clumsy and immature. You’ll probably hang after this Rowan drama blows over.”

“Hang?” Niklas cried as he grabbed the bars. “No, there must be some mistake! I wasn’t trying to harm Paramountess Stanfleda!”

“You were caught in possession of a toxic dart, which you used on the dueler Erik,” Inspector Graham continued. “You’re right, that’s hardly damning evidence.”

“I found the dart!” Niklas cried desperately. “If you’re really so smart, how did I use it? Did I throw it?”

Inspector Graham shrugged. “You can rest easy tonight. A mob of Estvorian thugs have crossed town, and they’ll probably attack Paramount Alred’s manor. So he’ll see to you after this is all done.”

“Please!” Niklas begged. “You’re wrong! I have to get home! Back to my brother!”

“I wouldn’t be so confident.” Inspector Graham shook his head. “Honestly, this was a disappointment to me. I thought I had my sawmill killer.”

They turned to leave.

“Wait!”

“We need to go,” Inspector Graham huffed. “All officers that can be spared are taking to the streets tonight. This is going to be quite the riot.”

“Wait!” Niklas cried again, but they shut the door behind them.

With a moan of desperation, Niklas hit a bar with his fist, causing it to rattle in its mounts.

He slunk back to the ground alone. He had gotten nowhere since coming to Relgar! He still had his blasted faceless mark, and now he was on death row. Who shot that dart? Which other Sharderin was here?

Niklas looked from his drunk companion to the huddled figure across the hall. This place wasn’t meant for him. He was a good person. Or at least, he tried to be.

The charges leveled against Niklas caused him to reconsider. Fighting, threatening, lying...maybe he wasn’t as good a person as he thought. Perhaps he was a criminal deserving the judgment that was before him.

Niklas sank back as the reality of his condemnation settled. The Drone in him told him to hold his head high. He had infiltrated the enemy. He had given them hell. He had done his duty and tried to get home. He hadn’t done as well as Edgar would have in his place. But if Edgar saw him, he knew Edgar would only have cause to be proud.

But the man in Niklas silenced the Drone and bombarded him with an empty sense of disappointment. What would Lill and Ivar say? What would Esther think? Niklas had his own people, and he let them down.

Niklas cried out in frustration as he kicked a wooden bucket, splashing murky water across the hallway.

How had he been so careless? Is this what valor would get him. Locked up with Relrin drunks and criminals? What was the point of it all? Lill was right. Niklas shouldn’t have gone after Esther. These new feelings and friends were spurring him into so much misfortune.

“You’re not a bad man,” a voice assured him from across the cell block.

Niklas looked up in surprise to find the man across the hall had stirred as the water from the bucket crept into his own cell.

“I’m sorry,” Niklas muttered, motioning to the water.

“I meant it,” he said. “You’re not a bad man.”

“Do I know you?” Niklas asked as he looked him over. He wasn’t familiar. The man was shorter than Niklas, which wasn’t saying much as most people were. He looked like a Relrin, with signature pink skin and dark hair, but in place of the normal Relrin brown eyes, his were greener than any Niklas had ever seen. The fact that Niklas could even see them in the low light testified to that.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I spend too much time here and see every kind of man, like Ritchlin there.” He motioned to the snoring man in the cell next to Niklas. “Most people dismiss him. He drinks too much, they say. He’s irresponsible, doesn’t take care of himself.”

Niklas looked at the man, surprised to realize the same thoughts were passing his mind.

“But Ritchlin is a tender and caring man. He wouldn’t hurt a fly and goes out of his way to protect animals from cruelty. But no one really sees that. They see a broke drunk.”

Niklas sniffed and settled back. He had to find a way out somehow. It might as well be while he listened to this stranger’s rambling.

“But when they look at you, they may see an arrogant and proud fighter, one who is bent on control and power, who holds little regard for others and only cares for the valor he was trained to worship.”

Niklas winced and sat up. As far as he knew, valor, in the context of his understanding, was exclusively a Sharderin principle. “What am I really then?” Niklas asked suspiciously.

The man smiled sadly. “Someone who has been forced to experience life in a short time. A man who was told he was a Drone has now learned that that isn’t who he is.”

“All right!” Niklas snapped. “Who are you?”

“My name is Alden. Some of the locals consider me to be something of a seer.”

“A seer of Kel?” Niklas snorted.

He smiled sadly again with a nod.

“Well, seer,” Niklas started, subtle spite creeping into his words. “I don’t suppose your man-god has a way for you to get us out of here?”

Alden laughed and shot Niklas a grin. “Not us and not today. But maybe you.”

“Huh?”

He settled back down and looked up at the barred window over Niklas’ head. “A lot of people are going to die today.”

“Is that what you see?” Niklas asked.

He nodded.

“That sounds like a prophecy from Stigki,” Niklas said.

“The Sharderin man-god of destruction.” He nodded again. “You would think that.”

“You know my theology?” Niklas asked in surprise.

“I know many things. Or rather, I see many things.”

Niklas smiled, hoping to tease the pagan. “Will I be executed soon?”

“No.”

Niklas started in surprise. “Will I see Edgar again?”

He looked at Niklas directly, his green eyes almost seeming to glimmer in the dark. “The door behind you isn’t closed yet. But do you really want to forfeit the door ahead?”

Outside, shouts of a mob started, and dogs barked, rousing Niklas to his feet. “What’s that?”

“The Rowans,” Alden said. “They have started.”