The hush of dawn settled softly over Kael’s square, its forested expanse still wrapped in the pale glow of the gray walls. The night’s turmoil hung in the air—frozen in more ways than one. At the center of it all, Kael knelt beside a pitiful sight: the slime called Mush, encased in jagged ice that shimmered in the half-light. Jello, larger and greener, nudged its friend insistently, trying to warm the icy crust with its own undulating body—but to little effect.

Kael exhaled slowly, the sting of the morning air meeting the warmth of his breath. His eyes flicked about, searching for some spark of heat, some small flame. Yet the forest remained damp and silent, the dew still clinging to leaves and bark. “I need fire,” he murmured, frustration edging into his voice. “Or something.”

With a soft sigh, he slipped off his gray robes, setting aside his sickle. Gently, he wrapped the cloth around Mush’s frozen bulk. A pang of guilt gnawed at him—he’d done this, after all, even if it was to save his own life. “Hold on,” he said, low and reassuring. “I’ll figure something out.”

The slime, mute in its pain, remained unmoving… or so Kael thought. He blinked as he saw a faint quiver deep within the ice, the barest ripple of life fighting to break free.

Jello’s quivering form nudged closer, pressing itself against Mush’s icy surface. The larger slime shuddered faintly, its membrane trying to share what warmth it had. Kael offered a grim smile, one hand resting on Jello, the other cradling Mush. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his tone carrying the weight of genuine gratitude. “You saved me. Slowed that sword so I could freeze it.”

A faint movement stirred beneath the ice—the most delicate of twitches. Kael’s eyes widened, his heart lifting. “Mush?” he whispered. The slime’s frozen form started to shift, ever so slightly, as though the ice holding it in place were beginning to crack.

“He’s moving?” Kael breathed in astonishment. By all logic, Mush should have remained locked in that chilled prison a while longer. Yet here it was, quivering under his hands, a barely perceptible tremor that stirred hope in Kael’s chest.

Before Kael could speak another word, Skrindle materialized beside him in a puff of sulky smoke. The imp’s wings fluttered, and he clapped his small hands with theatrical glee. “Fireworks time, Master!” Skrindle crowed, and with a mischievous grin, he snapped his fingers. A burst of tiny, iridescent fireworks popped overhead, their colors reflecting in the frost still clinging to Mush.

“What are you on about, Skrindle?” Kael asked, half-exasperated, half-amused.

Skrindle waggled a claw in Kael’s direction. “You just unlocked a secret recipe,” he said, pointing at the orb hovering by Kael’s side. Indeed, the orb glowed faintly, new script dancing across its surface:

Ice Slimes — Unlocked after causing cold elemental damage to a slime.

The ice encasing Mush cracked, a faint splintering echo slicing through the hush. Mush wiggled, straining to move within the robe’s insulating warmth. Before Kael’s eyes, the slime fired a volley of tiny icicles, each one streaking through the air with a crystalline hiss. They shattered harmlessly against a nearby tree, showering the ground with shards.

“Impressive,” Kael muttered, his lips curving into a soft smile despite the cold.

Mush’s ice prison began to crumble in earnest, fragments falling away from its body. The slime, now tinged a faint bluish hue, quivered with renewed energy, as though the frost had become part of its essence. It wiggled out of Kael’s robe, wobbling in that slow, silent way slimes do, grateful and changed.

Jello bobbed excitedly, as though cheering for its friend. Kael stood, moving back a pace as Mush fired another burst of frozen spikes into a nearby tree. The icicles bit deep into the bark, leaving small fractures of white that glistened in the faint light. “So you can do that at will,” Kael said, nodding, approval stirring in his tone.

Above them, the first rays of true dawn sliced through the sky, banishing the last vestiges of night. The orb’s light flickered, and Kael turned, his gaze settling on the square’s gray walls as they began to shift. The subtle hum of magic resonated through the air, rising in pitch until the gray glimmer dissolved into the soft blue of morning. The walls were open again.

******

Ryan trudged along the trampled grass, his head bowed and his spirit weighed down by a suffocating shame. Around him, tents collapsed in neat folds as wizards and recruits packed up to march the twenty miles Terrance had demanded. The heavy clang of weapons and the dull thud of crates were a constant undertone, but Ryan heard it all as though through a haze—his thoughts drowning in regret and rage.

Vynessa approached first, her lean figure still wound tight with anger, though a flicker of concern shone in her eyes. Behind her trailed Shem, silent for once, his broad shoulders slumping beneath a magician’s cloak streaked with soot and the lingering scent of burnt ozone.

“Are you mad?” Vynessa asked, her voice low but firm, tension coiled in every syllable. “Striking at the Master like that could have doomed us all.”

Ryan’s cheeks burned, though whether it was shame or rage was hard to tell. “I’m… sorry,” he offered, half-sincere, half-defiant. “Sorry to you, at least. Our party… I dragged you all into this. But it’s not like death is final anyway,” he blurted, the words coming out more defensive than he intended. “We can’t truly die, right?”

Shem’s brow furrowed with a troubled look. “Physically, maybe we’re restored,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “But what about the mind, Ryan? You think it’s easy to die? Easy to feel your life slip away, even if you resurrect at the Well? Serina decided to retire, to leave it all behind. She couldn’t face it anymore.”

At the mention of Serina, Ryan’s scowl faltered, and something raw flickered across his eyes. Remorse. He remembered the cleric’s kindness, her gentleness. He hadn’t even realized how deeply her death might have scarred her spirit upon rebirth. “I… I’m sorry,” he said again, this time the words softer, trembling on the edge of regret.

Ryan pressed his lips into a thin line, his fists clenched at his sides. “He killed me once,” he muttered. “Took me prisoner. I— I thought I could turn the tables. But even with a surprise attack, he beat me, just like that.” He swallowed, anger and embarrassment warring in his throat. “He’s made a fool of me, Vynessa. I can’t live with that.”

Shem exhaled, a furrow forming between his brows. “Just let Terrance handle it. You’ve done enough damage.”

A harsh laugh escaped Ryan, so bitter it made Vynessa and Shem flinch. “Terrance wants me gone,” he said, his teeth bared in a grimace. “He told me never to set foot in Sword School again. That old knight… he thinks I’m finished. A lost cause.”

He looked up at them, his eyes shining with a desperate kind of determination. “But I’m not done. Not by a long shot. I need… one last chance. A final duel, just me and that damned Master. No traps, no monsters.”

Vynessa’s brow creased. “You’re out of your mind,” she snapped. “We just told you how dangerous he is. You think challenging him alone will solve anything?”

Ryan shook his head, his voice low. “You don’t understand. If I walk away now… if I let him live with this insult, I’ll never rest. I need to face him, or the shame will kill me anyway.”

Shem started to protest, but Ryan squared his shoulders and brushed past them, his jaw set in unyielding resolve.

The two watched him go, a storm of emotions playing across their faces—anger, pity, a flicker of admiration for his raw, if foolish, courage. As he moved away from the bustle of the camp, the rest of the soldiers took no notice, too focused on packing gear and following Terrance’s orders to relocate.

Ryan continued down a makeshift path, head bowed, boots kicking up small clouds of dust with every step. His mind swirled with anger and shame. He’d lost everything: Terrance’s favor, his pride, and whatever shred of dignity he might have clung to.

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Then the sound of jangling keys broke the silence.

He glanced up to see a cart parked at the side of the road. Atop the cart sat Myke, bright-eyed and alert despite the early hour. Keys of every shape and size dangled around him—an endless chorus of tinkles and rattles. The man’s gaudy crimson attire practically glowed in the morning light, a startling contrast against the canvas and metal of the now half-empty camp.

Ryan paused, uncertain, then drew closer. Myke turned at the sound of his approach, tipping his feathered hat in greeting. “Welcome, friend,” he said, his voice musical with feigned warmth. “In the mood for a key?”

Ryan swallowed, gaze flicking from Myke’s polished boots to the chest behind him, then to the merchant’s faint smirk. “I—I need a daily key,” he muttered, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. “The free key.”

Myke studied him, his gaze flicking over Ryan’s disheveled state, the tension in his shoulders. “Didn’t you just...” he began, but he cut himself off with a shrug. “Ah, well. It’s my job to hand out keys, not judge who takes them.”

“I...” Ryan started, squaring his shoulders. “I’m going to prove myself. I’ll handle this on my own.”

He rummaged in his chest, the metallic clinks growing louder as he lifted out a small brass key. Its surface glinted in the morning light, the runes along its edge faint but unmistakable. With a half-sigh, he offered it to Ryan.

“There you are,” Myke said, forcing a wan smile. “Your daily free key.”

Ryan snatched it, his hand closing around the cool metal. For a moment, gratitude and resentment warred in his eyes, as though he both appreciated Myke’s service and loathed needing it. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I’m going to prove myself.”

“Right,” Myke said, his tone carefully neutral. He watched as Ryan turned, the young man’s spine stiff with tension, and took off at a jog down the path. From across the camp, Shem and Vynessa appeared, their voices echoing as they called after Ryan’s retreating form. But Ryan neither slowed nor turned back.

Myke couldn’t help but smile to himself as he cast his eyes at the blue walls of the square in the distance. He tapped a fingernail idly on the chest beside him. The faint tinkling of keys sounded almost like an approving chorus.

“An excellent opportunity,” he said softly, his grin widening. He could almost taste the gold within that square. If Ryan was foolish enough to charge into the Master’s domain yet again, perhaps that chaos would give Myke the opening he needed.

The soft crunch of gravel beneath Ryan's boots was the only sound in the early morning hush. In his right hand, he clutched the dull steel of a sword too long battered for glory; in his left, the small brass key, token of entry to the Master’s square. Determination burned in his eyes, yet behind that resolve lurked a tangle of doubt and the sting of humiliation still fresh in his mind.

A flicker of movement tugged at the corner of his vision. Ryan froze, his grip tightening on the sword’s worn hilt. The sun had barely risen, and the shadows were long, draping the forest in half-light. There was a rustle, then silence—a cat-like movement, too smooth for any ordinary traveler.

From behind a twisted trunk stepped a man with knives glinting in each hand. Slender and wiry, dressed in leathers dark as midnight, his eyes gleamed with sly amusement. He bowed with a flourish so elaborate it bordered mockery.

“Elias Penthrington the Third,” he said, voice low and smooth as silk, “Rogue Extraordinaire.”

Ryan’s brow furrowed, unsettled by the sudden appearance. He’d heard the name whispered in corners, layered with rumor and caution. “I know of you,” he managed, his tone guarded. “Some say you’re a living shadow—others, a ghost with a twisted sense of humor.”

Elias chuckled, flipping a pair of throwing knives end over end between deft fingers. “My reputation precedes me,” he replied, inclining his head in mock gratitude. “But never mind that. I just spotted a man with fire in his eyes, cast out by that old fool Terrance. Thought I’d introduce myself. After all, the day is far too dull without an opportunity or two.”

Ryan’s cheeks flushed with shame at the mention of Terrance. “He kicked me out,” he spat, bitterness cracking through his tone. “Said I was reckless. And maybe he’s right. But I won’t leave it at that.”

Elias smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips. “Indeed not,” he purred. “I can see that drive in you. You’ve a knack for blades, but you lack refinement—a teacher who can guide your natural talent, shape it into something formidable.” He glanced at the battered sword in Ryan’s hand, wincing theatrically. “And someone who can equip you better, hmm?”

Ryan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting… I join you? Another school? Another master?”

“Terrance’s school is a relic,” Elias said with a dismissive wave. “My school, if you’ll call it that, is an opportunity. No dusty lessons, no stiff codes of honor—only skill, agility, and the freedom to do as you please. Imagine it: you, trained properly, your dull sword replaced with something sharp enough to slice through that monstrous Master.”

For a moment, Ryan could almost see the victory he craved. Kael’s expression twisted in defeat, the forest lying silent around him. The idea was intoxicating.

Then Elias reached into the folds of his leathers, producing a small parchment scroll sealed with a minor glyph. He held it out, his knives vanished in a flash. “A gift,” he said, smirking. “A Minor Scroll of Experience. Use it, and you’ll feel experience flood your veins, perhaps, enough to tip the scales of your next fight.”

Ryan took the scroll with trembling fingers, heart pounding at the promise of quick power. “Why give me this?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

Elias shrugged, stepping back into the dappled shade. “Consider it an investment,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I do enjoy a good show, and from what I’ve heard, your Master is oh-so-close to leveling his square.” A gleam entered his eye, dark and cunning. “The more kills he gathers, the faster he ascends. And the faster he ascends, the… funner it becomes.”

A chill traced Ryan’s spine. This man was every bit the rogue the rumors claimed, a puppet master pulling strings for his own amusement. Yet Ryan found himself clutching the scroll, half-despising his own gratitude.

Elias turned to go, then paused, pivoting back with one last grin. “Kill him or don’t. Use the scroll or burn it. Either way, I suspect we’ll meet again, Ryan. And I do so love a grand finale.”

With that, he melted into the shadows.

Ryan tore the seal from the scroll with trembling fingers, heart pounding in his chest. The parchment unfurled in his hands, revealing faint runes etched in swirling lines. A strange tingling pricked at the back of his skull the moment his eyes fell on the text.

A wave of images flooded his mind—sword arcs and parries, footwork and breath control, the brutal clang of steel on steel. It was as though he stood on countless training grounds, fought endless sparring matches, emerged victorious from battles long past. The sensation was dizzying, the memories not his own, yet they seared into his thoughts with vivid clarity. In mere seconds, a lifetime of blade experience coursed through his veins, leaving him breathless and unsteady.

When the rush subsided, Ryan staggered and pressed a hand to his forehead, his breath coming in shallow gulps. The battered sword at his hip suddenly felt lighter, more balanced. He flexed his fingers, testing the new muscle memory that prickled beneath his skin. A small smile ghosted across his lips. He felt good. Better than good.

He took a step forward, only to collide with a pair of familiar figures. Vynessa and Shem stood before him, blocking the narrow path. Vynessa’s toned arms were folded, a scowl darkening her features. Shem loomed at her side, sparks of magic still dancing across his knuckles from the day’s tension.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Vynessa demanded, her voice low but edged with concern.

Ryan stiffened, readying himself for an argument. “I’m finishing this,” he snapped. “I’m going back to the square.”

Shem’s eyebrows shot up, and he exchanged a worried glance with Vynessa. “We’re not here to stop you,” he said slowly, “but you need rest. You nearly died—again—and you’ve been through enough for one day.”

“Rest?” Ryan spat, though his newly strengthened limbs still trembled from the scroll’s onslaught of memories. “I can fight. I feel it in my bones.”

“I know you do,” Vynessa said, her voice gentler. “But you’re still flesh and blood. Exhaustion Is the quickest way to slip up. Besides, tomorrow’s soon enough to die, if that’s what you’re set on.”

A moment passed, the forest silent around them. Ryan’s jaw worked, defiance sparking in his eyes. Then reason, or perhaps fatigue, smoothed his anger. A grudging sigh escaped him. “Fine,” he muttered, lowering his gaze. “Tomorrow.”

Shem nodded, relief washing over his features. “We’ll come with you,” he said. “Maybe not to fight, but to keep an eye on you. If you get snatched up by the Master again—”

Vynessa smirked, finishing the thought. “We’ll be there to drag your sorry hide back.”

Ryan let out a short, mirthless chuckle. “You think I’ll fail again?”

She shrugged, the sparks along his knuckles flickering. “I think caution’s never a bad idea, especially where that slime-riding Master is concerned.”

Unbeknownst to the trio, another pair of eyes followed at a discreet distance. Myke Keys, perched atop his cart, listened intently as their voices carried on the still evening air. At the mention of tomorrow’s plan, a knowing gleam flickered in his gaze.

He stroked the side of the magical chest brimming with keys, every last one humming with potential. So they really are going back to that square, he thought, lips curving in a slow smile. Better than expected. If they stir up trouble, the Master will be too busy to notice me.

******