Those in an army were, by and large, an aggressive sort. Rarely to the extent of fighting amongst themselves, at least outside of an arena or other permitted occasions. Violence was improper, after all, and to behave properly at all times was the first unspoken tenet of the Empire.

Watching another fight, however, carried no such burden of impropriety.

Dozens of keenly interested men and women had gathered around the sparring circle, behind which stood dozens more shifting for a better view. There was to be a fight, a way to vent their pent up aggression safely away from the reach of Imperial Law, and few would willingly miss such an occasion.

Despite the excitement, the men and women were quiet, tense, uncertain.

Swinging his sword with tentative strokes, he felt the blade bite through the air, felt the cool breeze it produced. There was no power behind his movements. Intentional; he wanted to save his energy for the fight.

Knights were, under normal conditions, knighted by a noble after having passed the Knight’s Test, rewarded in a lavish manor courtyard with family and servants and all the food and refreshments required to serve them. A just reward for surpassing the Knight’s Test, a long, grueling endeavor that required one to have incredible strength, speed, endurance, and discipline. Though, of course, the specifics were a closely guarded secret, often changing from year to year to maintain the mystery, and thus preventing one from gaining an undue edge.

Such formalities were dropped during wartime.

Nobles were not, as a rule, expected to take the field themselves, though many did, regardless. A way to earn glory and respect, to see and experience the world, to forge new bonds with their fellow noblemen. Or, it was rumored, to ensure the safety of their investments.

In such cases when nobility was not readily available, the appointment of knighthood was deferred to the judgment of existing knights who, like any soldier, had a hot, deep seated aggression. And with such an aggressive group the preferred method of judgment could be only one thing: sparring.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t afraid. His fingers tingled, almost numb, and keeping himself aloft was a struggle as blood rushed to his head. He was, however, less afraid than he had been before his mission. And, from the deepest pits of his being, he found that he was excited.

Between the two he had been allowed to choose from, he had opted for Peren. Speed, as had been proven to him time and again, made for the best counter against skill; knowing an attack was coming meant nothing if you were too slow to block it.

Peren started first, aggressive, bringing down a quick vertical slash, narrowly missing as Alden backstepped. Countering with an upward slash, Alden saw a look of surprise—though still slower, Alden could now keep pace, at least.

They traded blows for a time, circled one another. In terms of skill Alden was the superior swordsman, a fact that Observe confirmed. Peren, for all his years of experience, had only Rank C Swordsmanship.

Physically, however, he was the stronger and faster of the two. Blow after blow, he hammered against Alden’s defenses, each strike like a battering ram, whittling away at his strength. He held on, giving back where he could.

Shifting to the right, Peren stabbed at him again, fast, precise. Parrying, the blade veered off course, hitting air and leaving Peren exposed. Alden circled his blade around, aiming for the waist in a horizontal cut, and watched as it inched closer, closer, closer…

And was parried.

There was a shift in tension as Alden backed away. The sword had gone wide, he’d seen as much. And then it moved, lightning fast, striking against his own sword in an instant, the blow sending painful vibrations through his arm. He didn’t want to admit it. He could barely believe it.

Peren had been holding back.

A hollow sense of defeat carved itself a spot in his chest. So much time, so much effort, for nothing.

Effort? No, he realized. He’d never really put in any effort, never gave his all, except when it mattered most. Every other day he spent his time idly, focusing on nothing in particular, doing nothing to improve.

He would lose today, as well, because of that negligence. Unbridled fury rose in him, ready to burst. Why was he so useless?

Shuffling forward step by step, Peren unleashed a storm of attacks, slashing left, then right, then left again. Alden blocked and parried where he could, the effort straining his tired and bruised limbs, every few strikes seeming to slip by, brush against his arm or leg or side.

He was the better swordsman. Better able to read his opponent, better able to predict where the next attack would be. But he lacked the speed to deflect the blows, lacked the strength to parry. Above all he lacked the endurance to maintain his composure.

Rapier shining in the light, Peren thrust. Alden sidestepped, his own sword rising to deflect his opponent’s blade. A moment too late. He watched as Peren pulled the rapier back, tucking it in his side, the man’s muscles coiling up for another thrust. It shot out, blindingly fast, and the blunted tip met its target.

The force of the blow sent Alden sprawling backwards. He spun around, slid on the dirt, and was stopped only by the panicked wall of legs that had tried to jump out of the way.

Sitting up, he felt no pain, at first. It came on slowly, like a dam breaking, as he calmed. The blow had struck the shoulder opposite his sword arm, near his collarbone. Broken, he imagined. He couldn’t move his arm, couldn’t feel his fingers. Fingers he’d forgotten he no longer had. He sighed.

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Peren offered a hand, which he took with earnest; the blow had made him weak, unsteady—he did not think he could stand without help.

Healing himself, he noticed the stern expression Peren wore, as well, he believed, a hint of smug satisfaction beneath it.

“How did you get so strong?” Alden asked. He still couldn’t believe it. As much as he’d thought he’d closed the distance, the gulf only seemed to widen between the two.

“I should be asking you the same,” Peren replied. The knight still suspected something. His expression said as much.

They were interrupted by Dhatri.

“Pass?” he asked simply.

There was a pause.

“Pass,” Peren replied, begrudgingly.

“Then all that remains are the formalities. Alden, kneel.”

Alden knelt, looked up. Behind Dhatri sat the sun in all its searing luminescence and, as Dhatri placed a sword to his shoulder, it felt as though the sun was the Empire itself shining its graces upon him.

“In the name of Emperor Leobold the Second, anointed by heaven, and with the good grace of the eight Gods of the Council, I, Dhatri, son of Farid, hereby enlighten the soldier Alden to the rank of knight. Long may he serve, and through his service justice be done. Stand.”

Rank Up!

You have obtained the Rank of Knight!

Stat points earned on level up have been increased by 1.

Additional Stat points for previous levels have been granted.

+8 Stat points.

“How does it feel to be a knight?” Dhatri asked.

Alden smiled halfheartedly. “Good, sir,” he said. That was not the truth.

He should have felt happy, he supposed. There was some joy, certainly, a small fragment of mirth that warmed him inside. It was an ‘achievement’ to become a knight. He should have felt happy.

Instead he felt dissatisfied, incomplete. He was not what he could be, and worse, had been congratulated for it. To have become a knight at his level did not feel right. How could it? He didn’t even meet his own standards for himself.

It tainted how he felt about knighthood.

When he had first seen Peren all those weeks ago, saw how deftly he handled his sword and how precisely he incapacitated his opponents, Alden had been impressed. Awed. He had never seen anything like it, not until he saw Frenna and the other knights, each of them with inhuman speed and strength,

They were the best of Titemore’s knights, Frenna and Peren, excepting possibly Dhatri, though he had never seen the Commander fight. Yet, amongst all the knights of Drygallis, they were only barely above average, by their own admission. A disheartening realization.

And then when he faced Amice, compared them to her… they simply fell short.

And he fell shorter still.

Dhatri saluted him, shook his hand. “I’ll give you the day to rest and celebrate. I would celebrate with you, but at the moment I have business to attend to.”

Dhatri disappeared through the crowd, soon replaced by the smiling Frenna, appearing as friendly as she could. She carried a bottle of wine in each hand—one red, as he knew Peren preferred, the other white and sweet. Alden’s preference. Wrapping an arm around each of them, she squeezed them tight, lifting them from the ground.

“I think it’s time for a celebration,” she said, laughing.

Try as he might, Alden did not believe he could break free from her grasp as she carried them away from the sparring circle, and so resigned himself to his fate. Peren could, he knew, but the man seemed to be humoring her, even going so far as to crack a smile of his own. His eyes never left the bottle of wine.

Dumped onto a wooden chair before a small table, Frenna poured a cup of wine for each of them. Fine wine, refreshingly sweet, with hints of blueberry. A remnant of Baron Kent’s supply, he assumed—none of the knights would have been able to afford something like this. Was it proper, he wondered, to requisition a dead baron’s supply of wine? He didn’t want to know. Ignorance was bliss in these situations.

Cup in hand and sipping gratefully, Peren was overwhelmed by the flavors of his own drink, staring longingly at the cup, like a long lost lover. Satisfied, he barely listened as Frenna droned on.

“How the hell’d you do it?” she asked, handing Alden another cup. He accepted it. He was not one for wine, but it would be a long time before another opportunity presented itself.

“Do what?”

“Quit teasing, the girl! Supposed to go and kill her and you come back with her following you around like a trained hound. How’d you do it?”

Swirling the wine in his cup, Alden downed it, hoping it would give him courage.

“Talked to her,” he replied.

“Talked to her? That’s all?”

He nodded. It was the simple truth. There was the particular issue of cultivation, of which most Imperials would be ignorant of, but he kept that part to himself. He needed every edge he could get.

“I don’t suppose,” Peren interjected, eyes still locked to his wine, “that she is a spy? Sent as a false prisoner to learn from us?”

Alden shook his head. “I don’t believe so, no. She is… an interesting knight, is all.”

“Interesting how?” Peren asked.

“In a way that’s hard to place. She has a unique view of the world, and an unusual history.”

“You are certain she wasn’t seducing you?”

Alden smiled at that. “I would hope not. I don’t feel particularly seduced.” There would be a possibility for it, he felt. Eventually. After his current mission, he hoped.

“Hmm.” Peren swirled the wine in his cup, drank from it, poured himself another. He drank slowly, savoring the flavor. Frenna, meanwhile, had drank several cups already, and her face had become flushed from the alcohol.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said with a drunk grin, eyes darting between the two of them. “So what if he wets his stick a little? As long as she doesn’t learn anything it’s all good.”

“Crude, as always,” was all that Peren said.

There was a pause as the three drank. They did not care for each other’s presence. That made for poor conversation. Conversation that began to shift as Frenna giggled to herself. A frightening sound to Alden by now—Frenna’s excitement could easily transform into his displeasure.

“I hear Alfred’s coming back,” she said between giggles, head lolling against the table. How much had she drunk by now, Alden wondered? Six cups? Seven? He hadn’t been keeping count.

Peren broke eye contact with his cup for the first time, stared at her, suddenly sober and white faced.

“When?” he asked.

“Soon,” Frenna said. She went to drink again. Peren grabbed her hand, pulled the cup away.

“You’ve had too much,” he said. “Now, when is soon? When did you hear this? From whom?”

With bleary, drunken eyes, she stared at Peren, barely able to focus. “Commander Dhatri,” she finally said, her words slurred.

Peren stood. “Keep an eye on her and make certain she drinks no more.”

Moving hastily toward the Commander’s tent, Alden was left alone with Frenna, confused, drunk, and apprehensive. She moved to grab another cup.

He would have a difficult night, it seemed.