The Silversword school was on the opposite side of the Senflow River from the Riversedge Tavern. For Pirin, it was a ten minute walk.

He crossed over the river on a broad stone bridge, keeping his head down and his hand on the pommel of his sword. A few small snowflakes fell, landing on his hood and swirling in his breath.

He had heard about the Aerdian schools...some time ago. He didn’t remember how or when he’d heard about them. They were the husks of arcane academies, repurposed to teach swordsmanship to elves without spirit potential. This one seemed to have fallen even further.

Pirin’s fingers slipped down to the binding on his sword’s hilt, rubbing the worn leather.

A single swordsman—the Red Hand—had nearly killed him. He might have prevailed against hunters and gobbarts and soldiers, but a school of swordsmen? They might not be as good as the Red Hand, but they could cause issues.

Then he needed to do better.

His hands and arms knew what to do with a sword. His fingers were callused where they rubbed against the hilt, and a set of scars ran along the backs of his hands. He had been trained. He just had to let the echoes of his memory do their job.

This was a test, then.

He reached the end of the bridge. On the other side of the bridge, a dirt path wound up the slope. Trees’ skeletal branches loomed overhead, driving wedges through the last light of the day. A few disciples of the Silversword school (dressed the same as the elves Pirin encountered at the tavern) walked the opposite direction. They scowled at Pirin, but said nothing.

The trail carved straight up the slope on the opposite side of the river, then ended right in front of a gate. The gate was twice as tall as Pirin, with thick wooden doors and a stone frame worthy of a castle. No one guarded it.

He set his hands on the doors, and with a grunt, he heaved them open just far enough that he could slip through.

The school’s walls encased a courtyard. A spattering of woven-branch huts huddled near the edge, puffing steam out their chimneys. Under the shelter of a tarp, a set of maroon-robed Silversword disciples swung Aerdian blades—swords with a hilt just as long as their two-foot blade. Rather than ambersteel, these blades were iron, so polished that they shone as white as snow.

Pirin chuckled, now understanding how the school had earned its name.

On the other side of the courtyard, a cluster of elves in black robes huddled around a fire. They weren’t dressed like the Silverswords, but they carried the same elven blades at their hips. Behind them, a few broad stone steps paved the way to a two-story tall longhouse on a cobblestone pedestal. Its windows glowed orange, and a few silhouettes moved inside it.

He kept his head down and marched towards the longhouse. If he was going to find Lafessir anywhere, it would be in there.

“Hey, you!” one of the dark-robed elves called. He stood up, brushing his robe off and adjusting his cloak. “Stop right there! The school isn’t taking new disciples right now. Scram.”

Pirin kept walking until he was a few feet away from the fire. There were seven of the dark-robed elves, and all of them dropped their hands to their swords.

“I’m here to see Lafessir,” Pirin said, making sure his hood was tight over his hair. “If you bring me to him now, I’ll be gone within the hour.”

The elves scoffed. The elf in the lead, with long brown hair and a crooked nose, drew his sword. It grated out of the sheath’s metal mouth with a shiiinng, and immediately, the courtyard fell silent. The disciples on the opposite end of the courtyard stopped swinging and stared, and even the breeze seemed to fall silent.

Pirin sighed, but he didn’t back away. “I take it you guys, the ones in the black robes, are the thugs Lafessir’s been training. A little obvious, wouldn’t you say?”

“Who are you?” the crooked-nosed elf demanded.

“I’m, uh, an…associate of Alyus.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell. Tell this Alyus that Crooked Nose bade you to go away. I will duel him if there’s a problem.”

Pirin raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure your boss knows Alyus.” Unless Alyus was making everything up. But even if he had been, Pirin needed to get across the Tallas-Brannul lake and to the library, and a few thugs wouldn’t get in his way.

He took a deep breath and started cycling his Essence. He locked eyes with the elf in the lead—Crooked Nose. Reading the man’s mind would do no good now, if Pirin could even get a hold on it. But a Shattered Palm could come in handy.

“Leave us,” the elf ordered. “Turn around, and we’ll have no quarrel.”

“...No.”

The rest of the thugs drew their swords. Crooked Nose advanced, leading with a broad sweep of his sword.

Pirin inhaled. He needed to control his own memories. He could find them again. If not with his Bloodline Talent, then with sheer determination. He forced Essence up into his mind. It swirled around at the base of his neck filtering through…a keyhole in his Essence system?

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There was something unusual there. Something wizardly, but he couldn’t yet identify it.

His memories swirled around it like a faint wind, and he willed them to infuse his body.

When the air flooded his lungs, he concentrated on the elf’s feet. He anticipated where the elf would step, where his body would end up, and where his sword would slash. The elf advanced, taking a long stride. An array of scenarios poured into Pirin’s mind. He had a thousand different options, but his instincts told him to lean back, so he did.

The elf’s sword swished passed Pirin’s nose, barely missing.

Pirin took two more steps back, each time evading a swipe. As he retreated, his hand shot down to his hip. His fingers worked at the knot that kept his sheath fastened to his belt. In a second, he freed it—scabbard and blade together.

These were just thugs. Pirin could deal with them.

The next time Crooked Nose swung, Pirin batted the blade aside with his sheathed sword. Pirin gripped his sword at the neck of the scabbard, with one finger over the exposed crossguard to keep it locked in the sheath.

Crooked Nose stumbled. Pirin struck him in the back of the head with the pommel of his sword, and he collapsed at Pirin’s feet.

The rest of the thugs had encircled Pirin. He locked eyes with the elf right in front of him and continued to cycle his Essence—in case he needed a Shattered Palm. But at this rate, none of them seemed worthy of the technique, nor the discomfort it brought Pirin.

The thugs converged. He let his body take over. He whipped his sheathed sword around his back, striking a pair of thugs, then jabbed the pommel into another elf’s forehead. He ducked down just in time to avoid a heavy, two-handed swipe.

“Not being very elven, are we?” Pirin muttered. Trapping the elven blade with his foot, he smashed a thug’s bicep with his scabbard. A bone cracked. He kicked the thug in the chest, sending him sprawling back across the snow.

Three more attacked from behind him. Moving fast, he batted the tips away with his scabbard. He smashed one thug in the mouth with the pommel of his sword, then spun between them and swatted another elf behind the knee, driving him to the ground. He grabbed the last elf’s long blonde hair and threw him to the ground, then pressed the tip of his scabbard against the man’s chest. As long as Pirin put a little weight into it, the thug couldn’t move.

Pirin let the breath out of his lungs. It went better than expected.

But he had to control the instincts. He might be able to take thugs, but anything more? He needed to know what he was doing.

“Who are you?” the thug gasped, squirming under the tip of Pirin’s sword. “If you’re from a rival school, duel us properly! Declare yourself!”

Pirin blew out a puff of air, but said nothing. He flicked the scabbard upward into the thug’s chin, knocking him unconscious, then marched up the steps of the longhouse’s pedestal. A pair of elves ran out the door, dressed in plain maroon robes. These were proper Silversword disciples, not just thugs. Their swords were already drawn.

Pirin stopped halfway up the stairs. “I need to get in there,” he told them, rubbing his arm. “I’m here to speak with Lafessir…and while I don’t mean anyone here much harm, I won’t shed a tear over a thug’s broken arm.”

“You’ll not tarnish the reputation of the school!” one of the Silverswords called, leaping down the stairs two at a time. Pirin slipped to the side and struck the elf across the hips with his sheathed blade. The man keeled over and tumbled down the rest of the stairs. He landed in a snowdrift at the bottom, surrounded by a crowd of young Silversword trainees with wooden swords.

Stepping back into the center of the stairs, Pirin shrugged. “If there’s any tarnishing, it wasn’t done by me. A disciple brought low with a single swipe?”

The second Silversword remained at the top of the stairs, taking a cautious step back. He demanded, “Who is your instructor? If this is a challenge of our reputation, announce your sword form!”

“Uh…well, if I had to guess, I was trained by estate guards and the…nation’s best soldiers.” Again, Pirin shrugged. “Lahess-Âya. Does that mean anything to you?”

The Silversword took another step back, his eyes wide. “A…noble sword-form.”

Pirin swallowed nervously. He shouldn’t have said that.

“Arrogant young master!” the Silversword snapped. “Noble or not, there are laws. You will respect the Silverswords.” He jumped down the stairs, jabbing his sword at Pirin. Pirin pushed the sword up over his shoulder, but the Silversword lifted his blade and slashed back down.

Pirin blocked it, but the elf’s sword bit into his scabbard—through the wood, and down to steel. It let off a soft clang.

Taking a deep breath, Pirin let his own Essence cycle. Without thinking, he spun his sheathed sword over the back of his hand. The Silversword’s blade, still notched into Pirin’s scabbard, flew out of the elf’s grasp.

Pirin caught his own sword on the end of its hilt, then struck the Silversword atop the head with the still-sheathed blade. The elf crumpled.

Stomping up the steps, Pirin dislodged the Silversword’s blade from his scabbard and cast it aside. Then, he brushed the snow off his shoulders and hood. He ducked under a pair of banners—one maroon, with the Silversword sigil stamped on it, and another dyed Aerdian orange.

With a growl, Pirin ripped the orange banner off its pole and let it flutter away into the distance. He glanced back at the Silversword disciples, then shook his head. None of them said anything, and one of them even smiled.

Pirin pushed open the longhouse’s doors and, kicking the snow off his boots at the entrance, he stepped inside.

The interior of the longhouse hurt Pirin’s eyes with how plain it was. The walls were daubed in white, and the tables were simple slabs of wood. Silversword thugs in dark robes sat around the tables. When Pirin stepped inside, they all turned to face him.

A broad-shouldered elf sat at the far end of the hall, his elbows resting on a wide table. His hair draped down to his shoulders, and his baggy black robes hung loose around his frame.

Pirin let the longhouse’s doors slam shut behind him, cutting the wind off from outside. He looked directly at the broad-shouldered elf. “Lafessir?”

The elf looked up, his lips bent into a sneer. “None of them could stop him? Is no one in this school capable of keeping out the scum of the streets?”

“Your best disciples were drafted into the Autumn Infantry two season cycles ago, Honoured Master,” another elf told him.

Yep. This was Lafessir.

“Such wasted potential.” Lafessir rubbed his forehead. “Mowed down by a hail of arrows, no doubt…”

Stroking the pommel of his sword, Pirin stepped into the center of the room. He stared straight at Lafessir. “I just need to know this year’s riverway rune-codes.”

Lafessir motioned with his finger. “Tereau. Deal with him. Don’t let him dishonour us further.”

The shadows behind Lafessir shifted, and a bulky form stepped out of the gloom.