“Hold tight,” Cyril said, removing the bandage over his torso. A hole gaped in his chest from the assassin, as Cyril could see through a slit slightly right of his spine out to the other side. Breathing was difficult, though thankfully, his opponent missed his lungs. And his spine. And his heart.

It seemed Aidan was quite lucky tonight regarding his own life. With the hole in his chest, he obviously took his training too lightly and needed to improve, even in this body. He thought he could put off such extensive training for his future body.

“So, they got away?” Aidan asked.

Cyril nodded. He was at his station, serving Aidan, who sat off the side of his medical bed inside of his tower. Aidan’s mage was apt in Gemchemy, the specialization of the swoles of Brontos.

Cyril had melted a Soulgem right in front of Aidan while he was bleeding, hours, possibly minutes away from his death. He took his time, his sweet, sweet, time—with him citing that Gemchemy required great precision for significant effects.

We’ll see, Aidan thought. We’ll see if having a Gemchemist so close to me will finally pay off after all of these years.

Cyril was a good subordinate, a hard worker who was both loyal and competent at what he did. Aidan’s plans hinged on Cyril. Stupid assassin, if he wanted to stop his plans, it wasn’t Aidan they needed to kill, but Cyril, for even if they had killed Aidan, Cyril would just bring him back to life.

Nobody knew that, of course. To conceal one’s secrets requires a certain level of exposure. Aidan let them have his desires laid out in their mind, Vessel, and what he had planned. It all was evident and intentional. They simply took the bait.

The Dark Arts weren’t very well understood by many, especially on Valoria, as both Gemchemy and magic were from two separate lands. But even on those lands, they lacked the other half. The swoles were excellent at Gemchemy, the elves at magic, but neither could bring the other together quite like Cyril could.

Aidan’s mage played heavily into his plans going forward. A Part of why he took his training for granted, thinking that it wouldn’t matter when he finally achieved his new form. The perfect form. One not yet even in its prime, enchanted with a power unlike anybody had seen before.

At first, when he heard that a female was fortunate to survive the enchantment, he had his reservations about what that would mean for his plans. It wasn’t until he tested Vessel against the three other tributes that he finally realized its potential, Aidan’s future potential. It didn’t matter if it was man, woman, swole, elf, or beast. With a power like that, he couldn’t hold any biases. It didn’t matter what it was because it would soon be Aidan.

Aidan eyed Cyril’s motions, annoyed by the constant pain in his chest. Breathing wasn’t easy. The best Aidan could do to calm the pain was recollect what happened earlier tonight. His body was elsewhere about now, transporting with no way of stopping them. Ryuso wasn’t far off the borders, and he felt no desire to upset any of his neighbors. Not yet.

“How long until your preparations are complete?” Aidan asked, letting his irritation leak through.

“I’ll be done in only a minute—”

“No,” Aidan said, stopping him from his work. “The preparations for Vessel?”

“Sir, Vessel is gone. You wish for me to continue?”

“Of course,” Aidan said. “It won’t be gone for good. Think of its absence like gold in a bank. Wherever they are bringing it, they’ll raise it for me. Something with that ability won’t be left on the sidelines. If Vessel isn’t my tool, it’ll be another’s. All up until I collect the interest of what is rightfully mine.”

I paid for Vessel, Aidan thought. They honestly don’t know who they are dealing with.

“I’ll continue the research as planned,” Cyril said. “But I warn you. We could be a year, maybe two, off. It’s possible, though never has it been achieved before.”

Cyril dunked the Soulgem base into a bucket of icy water with tongs. Steam—both pink from the melted Soulgem inside the flask and water from the boiling hot glass—rose up and out of Aidan’s tower window.

“Is it ready,” Aidan grunted.

“No,” he said, pulling it out of the ice and putting it back on his workstation. He pulled the cork from the neck before bringing a capsule from a compartment stitched to the wall. He flipped open the cap before pouring the contents inside. He stuffed the cork back on the neck, calmly twirling it around in his hands.

“Is there any way we can speed this up?” Aidan grunted. He felt at his chest, feeling the hole, cringing at his touch. “Your meds are wearing off, Cyril.”

“Calm down,” Cyril said.

“Why can’t you just shake violently? A hand on top, hand on the bottom, then go to work. This waiting is killing me! Literally.”

Cyril sighed, ignoring his ruler. The hot pink of the Soulgem base bled into a vibrant color that reminded Aidan of a green apple. When he checked the bottom, he found what he was hoping to find, then handed it over to Aidan.

“Drink up,” Cyril said. “You should feel better in no time.”

Aidan listened, pulling off the cork. He downed the entire flask with one large gulp. As he swallowed, his body surged with power, though he felt a strong dose of Soulsickeness, the nauseating feeling a warrior got while holding a Soulsmithed sword’s enchantment for an extended period of time.

Before too long, his body started leaking the same coveted pink mist that came when activating his sword, as the wound on his chest steamed a cloud. The pain surged all at once as Aidan gripped his chest. It hurt more than the tricky Soulsmithed sword did when it entered his body, continuously growing more and more gruesome every second.

Cyril nodded at him.

Aidan did his best to fight through the pain, keeping his back straight, though it jerked to the final spike before the pain started to fade like the aftertaste of expensive wine. He looked down at his hand, covering the wound. Aidan peeled it off, sticky to the blood. He stared pleased at the hole through his outfit before he scraped the blood away with his fingers to confirm.

The hole was closed, repaired to the wonders of Gemchemy. The bleeding stopped without a single stitch. And his skin bloodied.

“You are quite the Gemchemist,” Aidan praised his mage. “It’s like the wound never happened.”

Cyril nodded. “These potions aren’t hard to make, only difficult to find the ingredients necessary to make them. A medium Soulgem is needed for the Gem base, while the petals from dragon flowers are only found deep within the Arid Plains in Brontos. Few scavengers can find these, and if they do, they struggle bringing them back home.”

“The Arid Plains,” Aidan repeated. “In Uro, in Brontos, right? I thought most burn alive when entering that domain.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Indeed,” Cyril said reluctantly. “The Uroians need special equipment to enter, such as a full, heat-resistant suit and mask. The air alone inflicts disease as well. Wretched place.”

“And one of these flowers you’ve just put into my body, it won’t kill me?”

“I’d be more worried about consuming the Soulgem than the flower,” Cyril said. “You felt a strange kick before the pain, didn’t you? A nauseating feeling, right? A familiar one, likely because you wear many Soulsmithed items on your body.”

“Soulsickeness?”

Cyril nodded. “It’s always why I assumed our test subjects died. Soulgems are poisonous to your system. They are like a more dangerous form of alcohol that can shut a man’s body down the more of it he consumes. Touching it is one thing, like your blades. But digesting it is where it can bring serious problems to your health. But one potion in a while won’t kill you, and in fact, it just saved your life.”

“If you told me that string of information sooner, I probably would have stopped with the tests,” Aidan said. “Oh well, at least we know enchanting a live human is possible.”

Aidan hopped off the bed, leaning over to pick up the same Soulsmithed sword that created the hole in his chest in the first place. “I have a feeling, finding our enemy won’t be tough. This sword, in particular, is likely registered. It even has a name printed on the side. ‘Melody.’”

“I’ll search what I can,” Cyril said.

“They also chose the illogical path of rescuing her too,” Aidan noted, feeling his chest as his body struggled to believe the wound healed. “I can only think of a few nations who would fail to find the right course of action.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Cyril said. They started to walk together out of Cyril’s lab, starting down the spiral staircase. “But what was the right course of action on their part?”

“Killing Vessel,” Aidan said firmly. “Perhaps that’s what they are doing. I haven’t considered that they could have wanted the Soulgem inside of it for themselves. Though, trying to kill me doesn’t make that sound all too likely. They wanted me dead for my plans with it.”

“How do they know what we plan to do?” Cyril asked.

“I haven’t tried to obscure my plans,” Aidan said. “They make me sound mad, unreasonable. No one believes in me.”

Aidan took a long sigh, thinking of his old home in Soucrest. He had made his case there and was denied, despite his involvement in fixing their kingdom. But, they stopped him from making it an even better place, punishing him for trying to bring that monster, Symond Whyte, out of this world for good. “And their lack of faith in my abilities, my intentions, will soon be their downfall. They’ll finally realize just how hard they stabbed themselves in the foot by ignoring me.”

Important enough to send an assassin, though, Aidan thought. He spoke with a passion he hadn’t worn in a while. Things were finally starting to heat up for him in his role as Lord of Dormoor.

They approached the door, walking outside to Cyril’s estate lawn.

“So, when we find our nation in question, what is the plan then?” Cyril asked.

Assuming they weren’t planning to kill her, the answer was simple. “We continue as if it were here. If they don’t kill it for the Soulgem, they will be fools not to use it for the power inside. Continue with your work. Its ‘new’ country will train Vessel for me, discover her blood for me, and raise her to be the perfect vessel.”

Cyril smiled, nodding his head. “Sir, if I may ask, why do you keep calling Vessel ‘it.’”

“Hmm,” Aidan paused. He flipped back and forth, calling Vessel either it or her. “I suppose because it’s my body. It won’t matter what Vessel’s current gender is.”

They turned down the road to head to the training facility. Aidan looked at Cyril, walking by his side. He was among the few who could lawfully do so, along with the dormurais. “You’ve told Kiba to assemble the other tributes, right?”

Cyril nodded.

“Good.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Cyril said. “But Kiba has been acting quite suspicious lately. I suspect that he might be in league with our enemy.”

Aidan twitched a slight smirk. “I doubt that. Before I gave my speech, he told me to wear my gloves, hinting that it would be a ‘cold night.’ That hint saved my life, for without them, I would have died to that assassin in the alleyway. Whatever Kiba is, he’s useful to our plans, even if he’s not a hundred percent on our side.”

Aidan walked in to see his three tributes from Dork stand at attention. They were quick to assert their subordination, standing straight up, feet together, and eyes and chins up and forward to their master. They were different, to say the least, compared to Vessel. Its skills in hand-to-hand were impressive for her age, but the others had more genuine strength to their bodies, something that Aidan could use to mold into dominant warriors.

He entered with his usual, commanding stride. He brought his assassin’s sword with him, holding it naked for the tributes to see. He felt too sick to activate it, especially after Cyril’s potion. Aidan had many things he chose not to show to this world, particularly his men. And ailments were one of them.

He frowned, looking disgusted rather than ill. Sickness translated to weakness, regardless of if they were two entirely different things. It’s why he made sure his steps were the loudest, and his stares and facial expressions were as forbidding as he could naturally alter them. Intimidation read as confidence, and that demanded obedience. He knew with his glare; he evoked the necessary emotion out of the others.

They were like properly trained soldiers. Only they hadn’t had any lives outside of their work. Nobody moved an inch, showing no emotion, as expected of most soldiers when their commanding officer entered the room. They were like slaves to Aidan’s command. And so far, they seemed to be more than willing to be Aidan’s weapons.

Vessel had talent these three hadn’t had. No, they all had talent, only unharnessed. Their tamers were awful at bringing them out, often shaming competitors such as Vessel for not fighting a certain stock way.

If only Aidan hadn’t wasted so many bodies on the experiments, he would have had an army of green-eyed, elite soldiers. The only two things the tributes needed now were practicing the sword and proper names.

Like for Vessel, “Belch” didn’t work for him. It didn’t fall in line with Aidan’s desires. These men weren’t people to Aidan. Instead, they were his possessions.

“Tributes,” Aidan said, addressing the three against the back wall. “From today on, you will be given swords. The days of fists-to-fists are over, for this is a sword-to-sword land. You’ve graduated from beasts and have now become tools. My weapons to mold this land to my will. Step forward, all of you, and I’ll give you a blade and a proper name.”

Aidan turned to Cyril, who had to run back and forth to the armory on the wall. Cyril brought over a large, two-handed sword as the largest tribute came up first. Aidan took the blade from him, handing it to the tribute.

“Can you hold that blade?”

The man lifted the sword to point to the ceiling, and he held it with surprising ease despite his youth. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. For iron in your veins and iron in your hands, you will henceforth be, Ironhardt.”

“Yes sir!” Ironhardt said with joy.

Yes, be excited, child. Be what Vessel could not, a loyal servant.

“Next up,” Aidan said, looking at the fighter with the least physique to him. Still, when it came to fighting Vessel, he outdid Ironhardt more often than not.

He stepped up, just as professionally as Ironhardt had. Cyril rushed over to the wall, pulling a smaller, one-handed sword, also bringing a shield.

Aidan handed them over, and the tribute acquainted himself with the equipment, looking comfortable enough. Aidan knew how to judge a warrior, always picking out when their weapons were wrong. Shields were frowned upon in typical Valorian culture. “For he who thinks before he strikes, you will henceforth be named, Buckler, for the type of shield you wield.”

Buckler smiled, said his thanks, then retreated to stand between Ironhardt and the final tribute.

“Step up,” Aidan said to the last remaining tribute. Cyril turned for the wall, but Aidan halted him, grabbing his shoulder. “No, I have a better idea.”

Aidan tapped Melody on the ground.

“You can’t be serious,” Cyril said. “Giving a Soulsmithed sword to a child with no experience is absurd.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Aidan said, staring at him with eyes that shut him down, bringing him back to subservience. He eyed the tribute in front of him. While he wasn’t as beefy as Ironhardt, he had more bang for his buck in terms of size. He had a refined body, good speed, and the best talent out of any tribute other than Vessel. “I know what I’m doing.”

Cyril nodded, bowing his head.

“So,” Aidan said to the tribute. “Your ‘beast’ name was Dancer, is that correct?”

He nodded, smiling, a little looser than the other two.

Aidan handed him Melody. “This is a Soulsmithed sword I’m entrusting you with, a weapon so powerful it almost killed me. A tricky piece of metal. It plays with the eyes of its opponent, perhaps even its wielder. This weapon isn’t a right. It’s a privilege. If you fail me in training, I won’t hesitate to strip you of this honor.”

“I understand, sir,” the tribute said.

“As for your name, I normally hate your kind of names. The group-think style of naming often leads to moronic names such as ‘Crack’ or ‘Belch.’ But I think your beast name is more than fitting, actually. It has the potential to be iconic. ‘Dancer, wielder of Melody.’”

Dancer smiled, looking into the blade with fond eyes. “I’m honored to have this privilege, my lord. I won’t fail you.”

Aidan handed him the blade. Having him keep his beast name felt like a blow, but that opened a new perspective on who these tributes really were to Aidan. From Vessel, where he only saw himself, to the others, they all shared one thing in common.

He named the four of them as a father would his sons.