Chapter 1

It was jarringly unfamiliar. No amount of training could have prepared me for this. My vision through the visor was bombarded with texts and graphics. The torrent of information about the world around me obscured my view of the field and swamped my thinking. How could anyone fight with this overwhelming deluge of data? I felt the power of the suit coursing through my veins, sensed the monstrous strength that gripped my very being.

For this brief moment, I wielded it. My whole life had been building up to this moment—this was my chance. Everything I did next would influence if this power would be mine forever, or just a fading memory, a lost chance.

My eyes drifted to the corner of the HUD where the most important lines of text, maybe not for this situation, but for my life at least, were displayed. The text was simple, the letters bright and glowing:

Subject: Tiberius

Status: Unchosen

Level: 8

Ranking A: 12/12

Ranking B: 178/178

I hovered over the display, fixated on this column of seemingly pointless numbers. The data shouldn’t have distracted me, I shouldn’t have let it. But the information was screaming for my attention.

The status was the whole point of this exercise, to become chosen. The level—a very, very unflattering one—was a deflating reminder that I was the lowest among my twelve classmates in the choosing. The rankings confirmed it.

The first ranking was my position out of the twelve candidates vying to become the next Sword of Boston, and I was dead last. The second was my ranking as a Griidlord, and I guess for these few minutes, I was one—though clearly the most lowly in the land. Which made sense, I was, after all, just barely learning to walk in the thing. But some of the others hadn’t all even had a chance in the suit yet, how did it know to put me at the bottom?

I had hoped to find myself in the same boat as my peers. For all twelve of us this was our first time in the suit. I had hoped their struggles would be at least as great as mine. I had worked hard to exceed at this. They had had a head start in life. My childhood had been a bed-ridden existence. It was only in my teens that I had been brought to the training field. The others seemed to have learned to swing a sword before they could talk. I wasn’t far off many of them. But the best of them seemed to have an automatic understanding that the rest of us lacked.

I tried to return my focus to the task at hand. Across the dusty floor of the arena was a fiend. The creature's twisted form triggered an instinctive repulsion in me. The ragged little beast wasn’t natural. It moved with a twitchiness, it’s beady little eyes darting around with a predatory hunger. Every muscle on the twisted little thing was coiled and ready to strike, it’s head darting rapidly around with a hint a madness. The grotesqueness of the vile thing was like a picture from a nightmare.

The fiend was a little one, not much bigger than a dog, looking vaguely like a hairless rat. Its claws had the dullness of stone about them, but there was a metallic quality to them as well. This was a creature that a true warrior could maybe, just maybe, slay on his own, but most likely only with at least a touch from lady luck. But, it was a creature that a Griidlord should pay almost no attention to. I wasn't a Griidlord yet, not really. I was wearing the suit of one, and theoretically wielded the power, but I was a baby taking its first steps. This was just the first of many tests where I hoped to compete with the other eleven to actually win this suit for my own.

The fiend lunged at me with surprising speed, its beady eyes gleaming with vicious intent. I swung my sword, the motion clumsy as a toddler's. The blade sliced through the air, missing the creature entirely. I staggered, the weight and power of the suit throwing me off balance.

My torso was turned the wrong way as the little demon flew at me. I turned myself as best I could, but I couldn’t even bring my arms up to protect myself, let alone my sword. The strangely metallic stone claws of the fiend raked across my chest. But they could do little harm to the armor of a Griidlord. They hopped along its surface, leaving no discernible mark on the surface. The impact pushed me backward, my feet spun as I raced to find my balance. The fiend landed on its feet in the dirt, turning quickly to face me again.

My heart raced as I tried to regain my footing. I could hear the blood pulsing in my ears.

Why was this so hard? This wasn’t even a real round of The Choosing. This was just a chance for us to experience the suits before the real contest began. And a chance to weed out those who were simply to inept to be allowed to take part in the more dangerous rounds to come.

I tightened my grip on the sword. I could see no way to hit the thing, but the only choice I had was to try.

Straightening myself was awkward, every motion a struggle to control the strength of the suit. I felt as if I could snap my own spine if I moved too sharply. My emotions were roiling. My whole life had been building to this moment.

My heart raced—could I fail on the first attempt and be thrown out before the Choosing truly began? My father's face hovered in my mind, his voice echoing in my ears, urging me on for my family's honor.

The fiend raced towards me again. I swung my sword, almost as clumsy as before, another miss, but not quite so awkward. I was attempting to be gentle, allowing the suit to accentuate my movements.

Then, there was a voice in my ear. My heart almost stopped as the words started to pour into me from nowhere. The voice was strange and warped. It sounded like a child but distorted and strange. It whispered, "Oh, you're an interesting one at least."

"Who is that?" I whispered, trying to focus on the fiend. The surprise of the noise, the honest to Oracle creepiness of it, made me stumble. The voice giggled as I struggled to maintain my concentration. The creature coiled, ready to pounce again. I tried to shift my sword and stance, but my arms swung violently as the suit enhanced every movement.

"I know you feel pathetic, and really… you are…," the voice continued, "but you've already got the tiniest idea of how to do it. Don’t move so much as let the suit move. You’re a slow starter, but I smell potential. And besides that, your brain... it's not like the others."

I shivered, chilled by this strange entity. If not for the heat of the moment I would have been more deeply frightened. Because this was a truly frightening moment. I was hearing a voice. Be it my own mind cracking under the pressure to perform, or a supernatural apparition, there was no version of events where this wasn’t a terrifying experience.

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But I couldn’t afford to even contemplate it.

The fiend launched at me. I attempted to step back, but my legs slipped from under me. I landed on my back, the fiend hurtling towards my face. The glowing red blade of the suit's sword pointed out and up, held awkwardly as my arm was pinned to my side where I'd fallen.

The face of the fiend grew huge as it descended towards me. For a moment, I thought maybe there was a flicker of fear or realization in its eyes as it fell the last few feet, as though it had already understood it was doomed. Or perhaps it was frustration, offended that it would meet its end to such a poor opponent. Or maybe it was simply outraged by the cruelty of chance.

Whatever imagined feeling I projected onto the beast didn't matter. I barely felt the impact of its body as it struck my sword, its body impaled, sliding down the blade, hissing and smoldering from the energy in the weapon. The fiend's death throes were quick, its struggles quickly grew weaker until it finally lay still.

I lay there, still unable to move or rise, the creature's corpse cooking on the sword. It sizzled and popped, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. The fiend's body began to fall apart, pieces of it sloughing down the blade and landing in grotesque lumps beside me. My heart pounded. I had passed this little test, but the manner of my victory was humiliating. Then panic surged through me as I realized I still couldn't get up. I was trapped on my back in the awkward suit like an upturned tortoise.

Suddenly, the face of the priest filled my vision. The man regarded me with an entirely unconcealed contempt. His eyes bore into mine. I felt momentary anger at this. I might not be a noble, but by many measures I was the son of a man much more important to the city. My rage melted quickly as I realized what an embarrassment I had just made of myself.

Mario, the High Priest, stood beside the first man. He leaned over me. His hands fluttered at something under my chin, and the helm and chest split open with a hiss.

The cool air rushed in. Being in the suit was not hot or stifling. There was even a strange awareness of the feelings of its surface when you wore it. But feeling the actual air on my skin was a relief. I felt a rush of freshness against my sweaty skin, like a balm soothing my frazzled nerves. Slowly, I rose from the suit, leaving its shell on the ground beneath me. My muscles ached, and my movements were stiff, but I was free from the constricting shell.

Mario’s gaze never left me. Look looked at me with unreserved distain. I sullied him by just being here.

"Pathetic," he said. "You have much to learn, Tiberius. If you’ll last long enough to learn anything, that is."

Mario sighed. He looked disgusted, as though he were soiled by simply being near me.

"Get up," he ordered. "There’s no time for you to wallow. Others would have their chance to make a less humiliating display."

I could hear low giggles. I turned, seeing the others bunched together in the stands above. They were clustered together, whispering in each other's ears. They mockery was low, but quite intentionally loud enough for me to be aware of it.

These were my classmates, my competitors for the suit. But of course, I was different from them, and that difference only served to heighten what they all shared together. I rose and stumbled away from the suit.

Lord Baltizaar stood not far from them, looking down at me sternly, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Bishop Ra watched me with completely unveiled distaste.

Baltizaar said, "A pass is a pass for now, no matter how ungainly. You will see the next test."

The bishop snapped his head toward the giggling youths and barked, "Lauren, now girl, your turn. You can hardly do worse unless you find a way to get yourself killed."

My cheeks burned. This was not how I had imagined this going. I climbed the steps of the arena to the stands. As I passed Baltizaar and Ra, I held my head low in shame and deference. But a strong hand took my shoulder, holding me for a moment. It turned my body and I lifted my head. I met Baltizaar's cold, steely gaze. Unlike the priests, he gave me the immediate impression that he was really seeing me.

"Everyone has to start somewhere," he said. "You have a lot to learn, and you better do it fast."

I nodded my head. "Yes, my lord."

He turned back to the arena floor. I trudged on, trying to interpret the meaning of his gesture. Did he not resent me like the others?

As I moved towards the contestants, my head turned to watch Lauren as she peeled herself away from them. She had the features of a highborn: a long, slender nose, the bearing of good breeding and good rearing. But the most important thing to my young, hormone-glazed eyes, was that she was a knockout. All the girls were, but Lauren was a blonde dream doll come to life.

She moved with easy grace, gliding past me, not bothering to meet my eyes as she went to the steps for her turn with a monster.

I felt a pang of jealousy and inadequacy. Lauren had everything I lacked: grace, confidence, and the natural poise of someone born to this life. As she prepared for her test, the others watched in sudden silence. They were eager to see what she could do. Unlike me, they saw her as real competition. I was ignored as I joined the cluster of youths, their attention was wholly focused on her.

I stood near the other ten. We were all on the cusp of true adulthood. The youngest was Emilia, a dark-haired petite creature. She wore her ambition like a badge. She was far from a favorite, but she seemed to let that fact set a fire under her.

Lance was the oldest. He was a tall, strapping specimen, haughty and self-assured. His confidence was not unearned; he was probably the favorite to win the Sword. And he was an asshole.

They were all of noble families, their parents were Lords, Barons, Earls. They were of families that had ruled Boston since the Tower first boiled its way out of the ground when the city was founded.

I was not. This irked them. That a merchant's son, a commoner, worse, a traders son, could possibly become the next Sword was an insult to their blood. The simple fact that I had a place in The Choosing seemed to be an offense. I don’t believe they really thought it was possible for me to win. I had done nothing in the arena to dissuade them of this idea.

Lance looked at me, his voice superior, as he opened his mouth to speak.

"What level did it give you, shopkeep?" he said.

Lance had been clumsy enough in his own attempts in the suit, but he had at least hit his fiend with the blade on the fourth try, cleaving it in half. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"Nine," I lied. "It said I was level nine."

Lance's face folded into an expression of cruel amusement. He turned to the others. Loudly, he said, "The shopkeeper says he was a nine!"

The others laughed and looked on me with cruel, disdainful eyes. Katya, the foreigner, stood a little back from the others. She didn’t laugh or point, but her dark eyes still regarded me with distaste.

I gritted my teeth and held my tongue. "Shopkeeper" was just one of the nicknames they used for me. It took a lot not to snap back at them. My father was a trader, a man who had built a fabulous empire, with caravans moving across the continent. He funded expeditions to the frozen north beyond the shield-veil and to the scorching south through the Wierding Wall. He could have bought the castles of every one of these idiots' fathers. That was, in no small part, why I was here.

I turned from them, my cheeks burning. I watched Lauren. She stood with her noble poise as the priest and Mario lifted the suit behind her. It melted and shifted to accommodate her smaller, curvier form.

The suit enveloped her, flowed around her, adapting to her form. She, too, was awkward as she moved, but she showed far more control than I felt I had displayed. In fact, she might have been more attuned than even Lance had been. The chittering and mocking of the others faded into the background as I focused on her. She was everything I wasn't. She was confident, noble, and seemingly destined for greatness.

Boston had struggled in its campaigns in recent decades. The city shivered with the possibility of harsher times to come. The nobles had less and less to support themselves with each year. My father had money, though. He had so much of it. I wasn’t privy to the means he had employed, but his money had talked my way in here. This was my chance to make my family famous, to win honor, to win a title.

I cast a glance at the others. They were such assholes. Yes, they were noble. Yes, they had skills and the best training a lord of the land could buy. But their cruelty and bigotry spoke louder.

I wondered if I would really want to join them in anything, even social rank.