Hallvar only vaguely remembered moving to the bed at Stella’s insistence, groggy and mostly asleep, though still willing to follow the elf’s orders, it seemed. The sofa was not comfortable overnight, so they were grateful to be nudged into a bed.

They awoke to a presence looming over them. Hallvar fully expected Stella, but this was not the friendly, warm-natured woman.

They blinked up at the guildmaster with his arms crossed, face forming an expression barely readable as disapproval. He was wearing armor in mottled browns, a cloak over top.

This was strange, was Hallvar dreaming? Probably not. If this was a dream, there were much more James Bond, black knight outfits to throw Viktor into. Personality-wise, the guildmaster was suited to dark leathers and well-tailored suits.

The seemingly random assortment of leathers suggested that the guildmaster was actually an adventurer, a coin-poor one at that. The colors were all different, bought from a variety of merchants when coin was available. Not purchased all at once as a set.

Hallvar had these thoughts in a less complex manner, something about thrift stores and college students passing through their mind.

“Get up,” the guildmaster said, nudging the mattress with his knee.

Hallvar remembered being on the ground after being beaten by Kiran, with that exact blunt phrase lobbed at them. Were they all related? Some odd family tree that Hallvar threw themselves into.

Right. Family. Viktor was family now.

“You look like some guy,” Hallvar said groggily, in the process of rolling over.

“I fail to see your point.”

The hero did a sniff test, not that it mattered because the guildmaster clearly had plans which probably involved hard work. This shirt would do.

“You don’t look like yourself, I mean.”

Viktor retreated to the doorway to watch. He had no interest in the voyeurism but rather needed to ensure that the hero didn’t go back to sleep.

Besides, if Viktor wanted someone to observe in that manner, Hallvar was certainly not in the right age bracket for the guildmaster’s interests. It was like asking him to be intrigued by a child. Gross, inappropriate, and not happening.

He answered Hallvar with a practiced disinterest.

“Should I fetch the ornamental armor? Emboss the leather with daggers and skulls, to be dipped in night-black dye? Would that be appropriate for the hero’s delicate sensibility?”

Hallvar rolled their eyes, pulling on fresh socks and lacing up their boots.

“The hero’s delicate sensibility needs like 15 more fucking minutes before you start whatever this shit is. I don’t even know why you’re in my room. Or Stella’s house.”

“You made a friend,” the guildmaster said bluntly.

All productivity stopped, as Hallvar peered at Viktor, confused.

“And you trusted this friend without any knowledge of who they were.”

The hero narrowed their eyes. “Are you mad that I have a new friend I didn’t tell you about? Fates, you are a dad.”

Viktor didn’t reply. The nuance was to be kept hidden, based on Stella’s bewildered and frankly awestruck report.

He didn’t trust dragons any more than he trusted the average human. Dragons were simply more dangerous by default than a stranger one would meet in the market.

And, if there was a dragon to befriend, it was Rodu the Wisen.

Tales of Rodu marked him as reasonably territorial yet contained; his ire did not reach the shores of Kovatelli nor Amnasín, centered solely on the gulf and his claimed island.

There were stories in fairy tales to scare children whose dragon looked remarkably like the depictions of Rodu, a fierce red beast flying over the land, but if that was the dragon in his youth, Viktor hardly expected that behavior several hundred years later.

From what Stella reported, “Rubert” had more in common with the Court Mage, albeit friendlier and less apt to coy flirtations.

Even if Hallvar allegedly described the dragon as “a weird librarian,” that hardly excused the lack of discretion or even preparation.

And if the hero intended to go into unknown situations headfirst, like a charging beast, they would learn how to defend themselves.

“The akergryph stays with Stella,” Viktor ordered, watching the hero move painfully slowly. “You are to meet Grim in Claylake Post on the first of the week. You will not return here before then. Pack accordingly.”

Hallvar groaned but complied. They were graciously given enough time to say goodbye to Stella with a kiss and a hug, their grumbling about wanting to go back to bed met with a teasing pat to the head.

The sun wasn’t even up yet, though it was by the time the pair stopped hiking. Hallvar’s system map indicated they were to the west of the capital, a decent distance from any roads.

The hero was impressed by the old man’s capacity to hike, though they theorized it was a lack of complaints rather than a lack of effort. If anyone was good at masking pain or discomfort, it would be Viktor.

The guildmaster made Hallvar find a spot to set up camp, spurring the hero to explain why certain spots were unacceptable.

Too much scat and scratches in one spot meant Tawha wolves patrolled in this area. Another spot was downhill from loose rocks, which would be a terrible way to die in the middle of the night.

One promising location was rejected by Viktor for a reason new to Hallvar. A specifically shaped bore hole for an insect suggested that a beetle lived there, one which feasted on tree sap but sprayed the broken-down sap as a caustic liquid when startled.

Not necessarily dangerous, but the guildmaster seemed to be extra unenthusiastic about dealing with those insects.

They finally settled around lunch, with Hallvar assigned hunting duty. That was fine – it was day and the sun was shining overhead. They marked the camping spot on their map and took flight to find a stream.

Viktor’s curiosity was subdued but present when Hallvar returned, watching the tumultuous transition from fish hawk to human. The hero was thrown off by the guildmaster’s presence, and so they forgot to release the two fish before beastshaping – or, humanshaping? – and found themselves tripping as to not stomp on their meal.

The guildmaster said nothing; the unspoken commentary was more than enough to embarrass Hallvar.

The hero was hesitant to admit it, but it really was like being out with their dad. Or, their old world dad. Whatever.

Their dad was a bit more joking and fun, certainly, and loved little innocent dad-pranks, but when camping or hiking or just out in nature, he and then-Abby would lapse into peaceful quiet.

This was peaceful quiet. Perhaps undercut by Hallvar’s internal questions about what the guildmaster wanted, but still momentarily peaceful.

That ended after lunch.

“Tomorrow will be educational,” Viktor said decisively as he set a rectangular piece of luggage onto a nearby rock. “But today will be practical.”

The container was opened to reveal partitions filled with small vials. Potions. Well, shit, this was going to be rough.

“I can’t suggest you develop as keen of a sense of cruelty as I may possess, but I would come to terms with the violence of today and find some enjoyment in the process. Otherwise, this will be torture.”

Hallvar sighed, their eyes flicking between the potion container and the guildmaster, who was pulling out a variety of armor pieces from a sack. “Do you think you could be more cryptic?”

“Yes,” Viktor answered without looking.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

He didn’t milk that quip for too long, continuing with an explanation willingly.

“If you intend to remain friendly to strangers, you need to learn how to defend yourself without your weapons. As you have claws—”

“Talons,” Hallvar corrected.

“—talons,” the guildmaster conceded, but not without a yellow-eyed glare at the hero. “You will be able to use those. You cannot rely on your shape-changing for combat. There will be instances where you are not capable of doing so.”

Hallvar understood the why now, but the how was still up in the air.

“So, you want us to spar?”

“No, we will fight. There is no practicality in softening your attacks for the sake of a friendly sparring match. You will not win against an attacker by gently pawing them.”

The hero was slowly realizing why the potions were relevant, aside from accidental injury. “You want me to hurt you intentionally?”

An unbridled look of amusement flashed across Viktor’s face before he repressed it. “I want you to try. Whether you succeed will determine how long this exercise continues.”

Hallvar went through a series of silent questions, not needing to ask the guildmaster to get proper answers.

Were they expected to hurt each other, really? Yes. That was obvious. Would Hallvar get in trouble for succeeding? No. The fucker would probably be proud of them. What would—

Viktor turned around suddenly, holding up a dagger by the point. “This is my choice of weapon for today. It has a thin blade, used to pierce between armor joints and between bones, mainly the ribcage.”

An anticipatory groan escaped Hallvar.

The guildmaster continued. “If this pierces your heart, there is no potion fast enough to save you. I suggest you be on guard.”

He wouldn’t kill Hallvar. Would he? Wait.

The explanation didn’t slow.

“You are accustomed to aiming around shields or blocking weapons. This lesson is not one about mitigating damage; you will learn to incapacitate your opponent while under duress.”

Viktor tapped a piece of armor around his neck. “I’ve taken a few precautions, as the spots you will be aiming for are particularly deadly. In any combat with talons, if you can’t immediately shred your opponent, you will need to stall and let them bleed out.”

The explanation continued, graphic as intended. It sounded like Hallvar’s options were a mixture of what they had already experienced.

Viktor’s methodology as a fighter was to aim for an immediate kill, then flee if there were no poisons or bleed effects in place. Neck, guts, groin.

Kiran, however, aimed for fast-bleeding spots that were almost always exposed. Neck, of course, but wrists, legs, joints.

Hallvar needed to fend off close-quarters combat, but they had a choice of all those weak spots and had two hands with which to fight. Their ability to pierce was poor, as without a weapon, they had less force, less leverage, but they retained agility and speed, the dexterity of fingers and hands.

As the first round commenced, the uncertain Hallvar was reassured by their decision not to wear a nice, clean shirt for this excursion.

Viktor was handicapped and smaller than Hallvar; of course, he fought dirty.

The hero swung wildly at their attacker, earning a quick stab to the shoulder. Fuck, they didn’t know how to fight with talons, and Viktor was serious.

“If it’s healed within a time limit, the injury will entirely disappear. Thirty minutes is cautious, fifty minutes is a standard prediction. You will retain your injuries until you’re incapacitated.”

They tried to be more focused with their attacks, but it wasn’t enough. Their shoulder was burning; a new injury ached at their side.

Hallvar hesitated as the guildmaster stepped in closer.

“You’re bigger than most people,” Viktor commented after a wild strike – and a miss. He didn’t seem winded because he wasn’t. His motions were conservative and precise. “Use that to your advantage.”

The hero had no fucking idea what that meant. They were still figuring out how to align their strikes in the same way they would while using the axe and dagger. It was all about follow through and guiding the opponent to a more favorable position for a hit.

But Viktor was fucking wily! And his cape, while covering up his permanently injured arm, served to disguise most of his body from attacks.

Their brain latched onto the concept of hard mode from video games, but no coherent thought emerged, as they were rushed by the guildmaster.

A stab. Great. The injury was sharp and burning, yet they were the fucking Endurance hero for a reason.

Some stupid scene from a movie played in their head. A stab, then grabbing the assailant’s hand. Right. The advice from horror films might work here.

Hallvar was slowing, the pain from the injuries making them move differently. They didn’t know how to close the space between the much-faster Viktor and themselves, but they could bait him to attack.

And by bait, Hallvar did mean be so bad at hand-to-hand fighting that Viktor took an easy opening, not an intentional one.

As the new pain registered, Hallvar forced all their energy into reacting, hand clamping down over the dagger’s hilt and Viktor’s grip.

The motherfucker let go.

And he was faster.

Hallvar swore, now with a dagger in their shoulder again, but no closer to succeeding in hitting Viktor.

The guildmaster raised his hands to halt the fight, gesturing to the potion vials and approaching to remove the dagger.

In a split-second decision, Hallvar let go of the dagger, twisting their wrist to swipe across at Viktor. The man’s outstretched arm blocked most of the movement.

The hero didn’t have time to register the counterattack, only suddenly doubled over and entirely incapacitated, trying not to vomit and cry at the same time. They crumpled to the ground. A win for the guildmaster.

Viktor unceremoniously removed the blade – it made a nasty swish as it exited the flesh – before placing a healing potion on the ground nearby.

“You need to buy a codpiece.”

They fought the fury, but mostly the nausea, and grabbed the healing potion, downing it quickly. It immediately helped, healing the deep but small stab wounds and reversing whatever ball-busting damage was caused.

The guildmaster said nothing, kindly letting Hallvar get their bearings. It was likely the first groin-hit of the hero’s entire life.

The small scratch on Viktor’s jaw produced a drop of blood.

The question wasn’t posed aloud, but it weighed heavily on Hallvar’s mind. What did they learn?

Avoid knees to the nuts, sure. Retaliatory strikes were somewhat guaranteed, if Hallvar was quick enough. Something about leveraging their height.

There was an unspoken rule currently in place restricting the use of spells or skills. Hallvar knew this, because Viktor wasn’t using his own abilities. He’d shown once before that he was more than willing to put Hallvar in their place.

The moment Hallvar crossed that line, so would Viktor, and Viktor’s abilities were far more deadly.

The next round commenced as soon as the hero flexed their hands, realigning the bones. That was enough of a cue for the guildmaster, who darted forward.

Momentum had some guarantees. Hallvar pressed forward as well, trying to push aside Viktor’s blade with one hand while swiping downward with the other. Was this what the height comment meant?

The guildmaster rushed in, closing the gap entirely, placing himself inside Hallvar’s reach. The effort to knock his blade aside was well-intentioned, but it meant Viktor could swing that arm around and stab upward from below, as both of Hallvar’s arms were currently outstretched and not defending.

The blade sunk into the hero’s gut and was removed just as fast before Viktor dodged away.

Fuck, Hallvar needed agility training. Would jogging help? Was that a thing that they could do?

The fear of their guts spilling out again caused Hallvar to pause and grip at their stomach. No, it was fine.

“I’m too slow to fight you,” they said with audible irritation.

“You’re too slow to fight Kiran,” Viktor retorted. “Yet you do.”

“She trained me.”

The complaint was cut short. Hallvar instinctively dodged backwards, throwing themselves off balance. Viktor switched his grip, stabbing sideways at the teetering hero.

Another wound. Hallvar latched onto Viktor’s arm with their talons digging into the leather straps of the bracer. The guildmaster was forced to follow the hero to the ground.

Wait, this could be good. The hero was, indeed, bigger than the guildmaster. They ignored the sharp pain made worse as they threw themselves into a roll, trying to pin down Viktor.

Another attempted knee to the groin missed, though it hit Hallvar’s stomach injury. They lost focus; the guildmaster broke free.

“Fuck,” the hero shouted out of sheer irritation.

Viktor continued the conversation, languidly using his dagger-wielding hand to push a strand of his hair to the side.

“Kiran can train you to use weapons; I cannot train you to use your body, outside of forcing you to do so.”

They flipped off the guildmaster after scrambling to their feet. It was a self-indulgent fury, largely pointless.

Ground combat was useful. How many times would Hallvar be unarmed in the wilds? They were more likely to be unarmed in the city, between buildings or indoors entirely.

This was an unfair arena.

The pair continued to fight for what felt like hours. Hallvar made marginal progress.

Where fingers would slip off of armor, their talons could hook under the leather or even the straps of a moving opponent.

The cloak and clothing of an opponent was not off-limits; Hallvar got a satisfying hit in after tangling Viktor’s fighting arm in his cloak.

Ground combat was always successful, but Viktor was allowing less and less of it, dodging outside of Hallvar’s reach when they were off-balance.

The final round of fighting came abruptly, an unknown end to this lesson.

Hallvar was successful at pulling Viktor in close after a lunge, using their body weight and barely matched strength to reposition. They’d been clever to move closer to a nearby tree trunk.

The spin and dance of attempting to pin Viktor against it was successful, but they were still stabbed for the effort, their body weight pushing against the held blade, locked into position by Hallvar’s grip on his wrist.

The shock of pain almost deterred the hero, but the forced their attack to completion – talons digging into Viktor’s neck guard.

“Stop moving,” the guildmaster ordered sharply.

He didn’t look annoyed, Hallvar realized. Or proud. He looked scared.

“Let me free and hold the blade in place.”

Hallvar complied, confused and feeling a little lightheaded with all the effort of the fight. They looked down to follow the order.

Oh, that blade was… much more centrally located than Hallvar thought.

bad luck boon 10% chance passed: luck +1

Viktor’s [ skill: bitter end ] was displayed, indicating that his opponent’s health was either below 10% remaining or dropping at an unsustainable rate. It was the latter.

He darted to the potion box, grabbing several and returning to the dazed hero.

“You’re going to drink one then I’ll pull out the blade as you drink the second, understand?”

Hallvar was grateful that the guildmaster seemed incapable of emotional distress, as he remained calm and instructive through this new ordeal.

They followed the instructions. One potion consumed. The blade’s removal felt odd, then a rush of cold afterwards as blood began escaping.

“Drink,” Viktor ordered.

The second potion reintroduced warmth, an odd feeling of comfort.

Hallvar knew there was some kind of shock going on, as they were struggling to think straight.

The guildmaster kept them from falling, turning them to slide down against the tree trunk and sit.

“Let’s not tell Stella this part,” Hallvar said after catching their breath.

“Agreed.”