Mags inclined her head pridefully. “Pigs are clever creatures,” she said in defiance. “Clever and cute—both qualities you sorely lack, Isaac. Now, get out of our way. We’re busy.”

Marek was impressed by how curtly she’d dismissed the man. Isaac had been a thorn in their sides since childhood, only abating when he’d left to train in the Ardean army. That reprieve had been sweet, if only for a time. Sadly, he’d returned a year ago to serve alongside his father Callum Fray, the captain of Misthearth’s guard. More irksome to Mags was the fact Isaac had unlocked the Fighter Class during his short and uneventful service. Unlike the fool standing before her, Mags had faced real dangers, had crossed blades with one of Ardea’s enemies.

Normally, she’d trade words with Isaac until her face was blue. To Marek’s displeasure, the two had done so several times in recent months. Pouch full of red worms, however, she was apparently as eager to fish as Marek.

Isaac, on the other hand, seemingly had no such plans. He nodded to Frim, the dimmest torch among the three. “Did you hear, Frim? Little Marigold here begged a Trapper to take her on as an apprentice.”

Frim chuckled on cue. Corrigan, however, only frowned and glanced at Mags. “Is that true? You’re leaving to become a Trapper?”

Isaac let out a belly laugh. “She would have, if she hadn’t been turned down. No, little Marigold not only lowered herself to beg but she was outright refused.”

Mags bristled. She hated her full name, considered it far too feminine for her liking. The addition of “little” only dug deeper in her ribs.

“Easy, Mags,” Marek tried. “Ignore the bastard.”

“What was that?” Isaac snapped. “Slander from the Casteran? You know, I should report you, Marigold. Fraternizing with the enemy is high treason.”

“Marek is Ardean, through and through. Your dad knows that and so do you. Now, if you don’t mind,” Mags said dismissively. She caught Marek by the elbow and made to push her way through the trio.

Corrigan stepped aside, giving her passage. Marek caught the briefest flash of anger pass through Isaac’s eyes. Before he could warn Mags, however, Isaac had snaked out his boot and tripped her.

She stumbled but didn’t fall, correcting her stride quickly and spinning around to face the man. “Back off, Rift spawn! I’m warning you!”

Corrigan, nearly as angry as Mags, nudged his friend. “Leave off, Isaac. We’re supposed to be on a patrol, not harassing a citizen.”

“Can you really call the Northshore folk citizens, Cor? We all know they shirk taxes. Most are too lazy to work.” As he spoke, he tallied the imagined offenses on a finger. Lifting a third, a sneer glued to his face, he added, “And none seem noble enough to stick it out in the army.”

The insult was low, and even Frim’s brow creased in disapproval.

Marek let out a breath. He’d been privy to much of what Mags had endured in her enlistment. He knew of her sacrifices, the close calls, and the great disappointment of being discharged after failing to unlock a Class.

Mags stood her ground. Her fists knotted, she spat out, “Big talk coming from a brat that came back to serve as a guardsman after unlocking a Class. I’d rather be lowly than live the coward’s life any day.”

Isaac’s grin faded. He stared back at Mags, equally offended and perhaps regretting his choice to pick a fight with her. Marek knew the man’s pride wouldn’t allow him to back down, though. Isaac was too young and stupid for that. He wanted to haul his friend away, but the cogs of fate were already in motion.

Isaac waited a few seconds before responding. The din of Southshore hung in the air around them, the afternoon light fading into evening. “Did I hear that right, boys?” he asked cooly. “Is she calling me a coward?”

Mags let out a bark of a laugh. Loud and proud, she answered, “I call you ugly, a half-wit, and aye, a damned coward. And I’m not the only one. Go ahead and ask your friends, Isaac. Ask them what the men say about you at the taverns.”

Isaac’s jaw twitched. He nudged Corrigan with his elbow. “You second me?”

The young man’s hand remained atop the hilt of his polished sword. Mags stepped back in response to the simple question that contained so many implications.

Anger flared in Marek’s chest. The situation was absurd, not to mention dangerous. They weren’t children anymore. Yet ever since Isaac had come home, he’d picked up where he’d left off as an adolescent. Only this time, the ass had a sword and a Class to call his own.

Corrigan frowned. Giving his companion a terse shake of the head, he hissed, “Stop it, Isaac. You can’t challenge her to a duel. She’s unclassed, not to mention a citizen supposedly under your protection. Don’t be foolish.”

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“I’ll do it,” Frim said a heartbeat later. “I heard what she said. I’ll second ya.”

Isaac chuckled cruelly before leveling a gaze at Mags. “You don’t have a sword or a Class. No point in challenging anyone, Frim. No point in wasting breath on the Tiny Tower. Besides, her parents would be heartbroken if they lost another whelp. I hear they still mourn their precious Nyan.”

Marek winced, not having to look at his friend to know her reaction. Isaac was indeed an ugly coward, but he wasn’t dimwitted. He’d played Mags like a fiddle, knowing this was the only way he could draw her into a fight and not be punished. As Mags stepped toward him, fists balled at her sides, he muttered, “And there she goes. Principalities, protect her.”

Mags let a string of curses only a soldier could dredge up before belting out a proper response. “Keep his name out your Rift-cursed mouth! I don’t need a sword, Isaac. Fists’ll do just fine!”

Isaac cracked his neck and smiled like a jackal. “Alright, Marigold. I wouldn’t say no to a lady.”

Mags spat on the ground between them. “I’m no lady! Now shut up and fight me… if Restraint hasn’t removed your spine completely?”

In the moments that followed, Marek surveyed the scene with cold detachment, as though it were just another puzzle to solve in his uncle’s workshop. Isaac removed his sword belt and tossed the weapon to Corrigan. Mags loosened her shoulders and began bouncing on her toes. Can Mags beat Isaac with her fists? he asked, and Intuit went to work.

In a sequence of images, he saw the two brawl. She was quicker, more practiced and skilled at Ardean boxing than Isaac, yet his reach and the eighty pounds he had on her were too much. After landing a few punches, Isaac would inevitably counter. Catching her on the chin with a solid punch, he knocked her down. She’d be up again in a flash, of course, but the result was inevitable.

Marek’s nape bristled as an urge to rush the bully nearly seized him. Holding himself back, he considered using his Skill again. Strangely, he didn’t feel as weary as he should. He’d triggered Intuit three times that morning, and had just done so a fourth time—yet for some reason, he felt capable of one more use. Marek’s eyes flicked to the sheathed sword, and he modified his query. What if I intervene?

He watched himself dash past Mags, ducking beneath a lazy punch from Isaac. Drawing the ornate sword, Marek twisted away from a shocked Corrigan. Then he thrust, the point of the stolen blade driving up through Isaac’s gut with terrifying ease, the tip emerging crimson. When Frim attacked next, Marek kicked off the stunned Isaac’s thigh, sending the young man to the alley floor. A quick slash opened Frim’s throat.

The brutal scene ended soon after. Corrigan’s eyes and limbs flashed blue as he activated Charge. Quick as the Skill made him, Marek had no time to react. The bigger man crashed into him with a lowered shoulder, flinging him into unforgiving stone. Marek felt the ghostly impression of his body shattering in several places: a handful of ribs, the humerus of his outstretched arm, the delicate bones of the wrist, and finally the arch of his brow, which caved in as his head met the corner of the wall.

Vision subsiding, Marek reeled internally. This was a side of him he’d suppressed all his life, one that didn’t match up with the meticulous crafter he thought himself to be. Hands trembling, the loss of mana taking its toll at last, he forced the horror of what he’d witnessed down into the quiet of his mind.

And knowing his interference would only make the situation worse, he did what he had to. He clenched his jaw and watched the predicted fight unfold. Watched Mags crack her knuckles into the side of Isaac’s jaw when his first half-hearted jab missed. Isaac’s face crinkling in resolve as the real fight began. The larger man throwing wide, arcing hooks, all but one of which Mags dodged. She took the hit in her ribs and blunted it by dropping an elbow to shield herself.

The grunt that escaped her lips broke Marek’s heart.

Mags made Isaac pay for his blow, landing two more punches. One sank into Isaac’s belly while the other tapped the fool square in the nose. It wasn’t a hard hit, but Isaac’s eyes flooded nonetheless.

“Ugly little bitch!” Isaac shouted, blocking a third attack. Enraged, he slammed one fist into Mags’ stomach and the other across her chin.

Mags’ legs gave out. She collapsed in the alley, clutching her belly.

Isaac backed away, wiping the trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. “That’s what you get, Marigold! Watch your tongue around me, and tell your bastard brother to quit stealing from my father’s orchard!”

Mags growled and rose to her feet.

A chill ran up Marek’s spine when he saw a pale blue gleam enter Isaac’s dark eyes. Marek knew the outcome should she fall upon Isaac again. The asshole would use a Skill, Marek had no doubt. He didn’t need to rely on an Ability to predict that.

Fear overtaking him, he rushed his friend and bound her in his arms, holding her back. “Leave it,” he hissed in her ear. “Leave off, Mags. It’s over, okay? The fight is over!”

Isaac laughed and threw his arms around his friends’ shoulders. Corrigan shrugged out of the embrace and glanced down the alley. The tall youth’s face was a mask of concern. Marek knew Corrigan’s feelings for Mags, and knew also how bound he was to the Frays. Callum’s father had given Corrigan a post in the town guard when he’d returned with Isaac from the army, saving his family from financial ruin.

Despite this reason, Marek was in no mood for misplaced pity. “We’re fine!” he shouted at Corrigan. “Just leave us!”

A few moments later, they did.

Mags panted like a caged animal. She tore free of Marek’s grasp, turning away from him. As always, she mastered her emotions quickly. Smoothing her tunic and adjusting her belt, she said, “You coming? Only have an hour of daylight, so we best hurry.”

Marek caught up, matching her stride. He didn’t mention the hitch in her step, her short ribs bruised and cramping. And he didn’t point out the welt surfacing through her fair skin on the side of her jaw. She’d scrapped before, and this wouldn’t be the last time. The best he could do for Mags now was walk beside her and keep quiet.

Soon, they reached their meeting spot. The southern side of the old bridge where a thicket of bright berry grew, blocking the long-forgotten trail that led to the riverbank. Marek spotted the two rods Mags had stowed away and plucked them out of the thorny bush before brandishing a smile.

Mags’ face was lopsided from the fresh bruise, one eye nearly squinted shut. But her smile was no less genuine. “After you, Bones,” she quipped, pulling back the bright berry canes.

And just like that, they were children again, jogging up the trail toward their secret fishing spot.