Vaela jolted awake and sat upright. A canvas ceiling loomed above her and all around were unfamiliar faces. Some walked between cots; others, who were on the cots, grimaced in pain from their injuries. She was… she was in a tent. Her hand flew to her chest, the fingers jabbing into her ribs, but no pain twanged in response. Healed.

She was in the Healer’s tent. Hoops. The Meteor.

Timura!

Vaela tore the sheets away and stumbled off the cot. She reeled as the world spun around her, but forced herself forward. The chill of the ground leached into her feet, hostile and unyielding. She raced between the cots, peering down at the faces of the injured, shoving past Healers.

A hand grabbed her arm, spinning her around. Surah clasped both her shoulders. “Vaela, it’s okay!”

She wriggled free and continued forging through the tent. Where was she? “Timura!” Why wasn’t she here? Vaela pushed a Healer aside and froze.

The raw wounds of partially Healed burns still marred the Meteor’s chest. A calm expression smoothed her face. She was in a deep sleep. The rest of her body showed none of the wear of her battle injuries. But her chest… The charred tissue had been scraped away. Her flesh was Healed over, but still pink and raw, the surface of her skin uneven.

Surah snatched Vaela’s wrist and she made no effort to pull away this time. He followed her gaze and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. This woman–grievously injured, already beaten and bloody–had nearly killed her. If the Meteor had fought her first instead of the Phoenix, she’d be dead. Now the woman laid here, defeated, by Vaela. By Vaela, Power she didn’t understand, and dumb luck.

A Healer shooed them from the Meteor and Surah pulled her away. Vaela glanced at Surah. “Is Timura…?” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. After all they’d been through. After tasting her blood, her essence.

He nodded and hugged her. Vaela’s throat tightened and tears burned her eyes. Surah pulled back and tilted his head. “What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t save her.”

He frowned. “Well, of course not, you’re not a Healer.” She clenched her fists, an angry tear streaking down her cheek. Surah held his hands up, palms out towards her. “Hold on. You know she’s alive, right?” Vaela gasped and he pointed across the tent. “She’s over there.”

Vaela punched him in the chest. “You ass!”

“What did I do?”

“I thought she was dead.”

Surah danced out of reach and led her back to her station. “I never said that. I thought you were concerned she’s still unconscious.” Vaela’s walking stick leaned against a chair next to her cot. Surah grabbed it and extended it out to Vaela, but pulled it back. “You’re not going to hit me again, are you?”

She snatched her stick and ran her hands over its contours. “You’re not going to make me, are you?” Her fingers hit the new notch. A sword. It had blocked an actual sword, one aimed at her. Her eyes caught her right forearm. Bruising still danced up her arm, like a dark river that spiraled from the back of her wrist up to her inner elbow. Strange, it didn’t hurt. She flexed her fingers and squeezed them into fist. No pain.

Surah leaned in. “Does it hurt?”

She shook her head and rested her stick on the cot. Her fingers traced the mark and she jabbed them into her flesh. Nothing. It felt no different than the rest of her arm.

Surah tapped the mark. “Puzzled the Healer, too. She said everything was Healed, but this bruise wouldn’t go away.” He shrugged and nudged her. “Hey, if it’s the only thing you take out of this whole thing, that’s not bad, right?”

Vaela picked her stick back up, her thumb rubbing the notch. It had blocked a sword–bladed death. But she had blocked that mace. No, she’d blocked death itself. With nothing more than her flesh and blood. Well, not just her blood.

How had she done it?

She crossed the tent towards Timura. “Where’s Hermit?”

Surah chuckled and spread his hands. “No clue. But word around the arena is a Shadow Spinner bet quite a hefty sum that the Meteor would win. Payment is due, but no one has found this ‘mysterious’ person.”

Vaela groaned. “Of course.” She shook the head of her stick at Surah. “I need to find him. He has something I want.”

“Scammed money out of you too, huh?”

“No. Answers.” They arrived at Timura’s bedside. She slept peacefully, the only evidence that she had been at death’s door was the grime that coated her face and arms. Her hair fanned out around her, Surah’s robe–too large–hanging loosely. Vaela rested her stick against the cot. “Can you get water and a cloth?”

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He nodded and left them. Vaela took one of Timura’s hands. So smooth. Not used to holding weapons. Surah returned with a basin and washcloth. Vaela dipped it and wrung the water from it. She wiped the grime and dried blood from around Timura’s mouth. The skin of her cheek, previously obscured by the dirt, was pale from blood loss. The Healing mended her broken ribs and cuts, but couldn’t replace all the blood. Only time would do that.

Surah joined her at Timura’s side and scanned the tent before crouching down. He untied the sash around Timura’s waist. “Quick! Help me.”

Vaela swatted his hands away. “What in the Pits are you doing?”

He tugged at the robe. “She still has my robe. Come on.”

Vaela leveled the cloth at him. “Are you serious? Leave it.” She cocked the cloth back threateningly.

He eyed the rag and sighed. “Fine. There’s no need to get violent.” Vaela lowered the cloth and he re-tied the sash, smiling down at Timura. “She looks good.” He arched an eyebrow at Vaela. “Had no idea she was so madly in love with you, though.”

To rush into that fight, to wage war on that monster. Something had driven Timura. Vaela brushed Timura’s other cheek with the cloth, wiping away more blood. “She’s not.” Vaela resumed cleaning her face, the rush of Timura’s blood in her veins coming back to her. That ache for worth, to prove she was something, could be something. Love hadn’t driven her. Vaela rang out the cloth and bloody water dripped into the basin. Maybe one day, they could be something. But right now, they still weren’t who they needed to be.

A tearing sound cut through the air, coming from the wall of the tent nearest them. Vaela spun, raising the cloth into striking position. A knife slid through the canvas, carving a slit down to the floor. A moment later, Hermit’s head peeked through the tent’s fresh wound. He spotted Vaela and his eyes slid to the cloth she wielded. He shook his head with a laugh. His head disappeared and then he pushed a rucksack through the flap and dropped it in the tent. A second one followed it and finally, Hermit stepped through. He snuck over to her and Surah. “Okay, Vae-la-loo, let’s skay-doodle-doo.”

She shook the bloody rag at him. “Oh, no. I’m not going anywhere with you until you’ve answered some of my questions.”

He cringed at her loud voice and leaned in. “I told you I’d graciously endow you with my knowledge–on the road. We have to get outta here. There’s been a, uh, misunderstanding regarding a bet people think I placed.”

“You want me to up-and-leave with you? Leave my home, everyone I know, my job? All for some ‘save the world’ scam, you’ve cooked up?”

Hermit slid into the chair beside Timura, his staff across his lap, and pulled his hood on. “Scam? Please, you misjudge me.” Vaela’s eyes flashed and he held up a hand. “Uh, though, that’s a mere matter of semantics. Let’s get to what’s important. You want answers. I have them. You want to learn how to fight? I happen to be an expert. You want to Wield your Power–Charming–as you call it. I’ve been around Forging for longer than you can imagine. Powerful Forging, of the likes you can’t even fathom.” He stood, the ground Darkening around him, his eyes pools of Shadow. “You want to be strong. I am.”

Power. For all of Hermit’s faults, there was no denying it. She had felt it–unbridled and untamed in her hands–she had barely been able to harness a fraction of it. A moment ago, the Meteor was the most dangerous in this tent–before Hermit had arrived.

And he was offering her what she’d always wanted. Leave this city and set out on her own adventure. Travel the world and conquer it with nothing but her two feet and walking stick. In all her life, she’d never get this opportunity again.

Hermit’s face softened and he settled back in the chair, his imposing presence fading. “Of course, you’d owe me big time.” He waved to the rucksacks. “Our supplies won’t be carrying themselves. And all the walking, my feet get sore. Daily foot rubs are a must.”

She tossed the rag down next to the basin with a squelch and wiped her hands on her pants. “I am not touching your feet.” She poked a rucksack with one foot. “And I’m not your mule.”

He shrugged and laced his hands behind his head. “How else do you intend to pay for my tutelage?”

“You invited me!” She snatched her stick and pointed it in his face.

He brushed it away with a yawn. “Mm, well, let me know when you’re serious. But I’ve really got to run, so this exclusive offer expires in, I don’t know, two minutes?” He kicked off his boots and wriggled his toes, visible through the holes in his socks.

Vaela raised a foot to kick one of his rucksacks, and then probably, his ass. She pulled her leg back and stared at the bag. “You brought two bags…”

“Yes, because, you see, I can count.” He pointed to himself then her. “One, two. There, I just did it.”

He was on the run. Wanted, no doubt, for the barrage of debts he’d racked up. Anytime she’d seen him back in the city, he always disappeared soon after, chased away by an angry mob. Why hadn’t he disappeared this time? She bit her lip and leaned back against Timura’s cot. “You know what? I’m good, actually. Still got things to settle here.”

Hermit sat forward and drummed his fingers over his staff. “Now, listen here, kid. This is an opportunity of a lifetime. People would kill to study with me.”

She suppressed a grin. Just as she thought. It wasn’t that he would let her join. It was like he actually needed her to join. She turned away and shooed him with a hand. “Then let them. I’m kinda making a name for myself here.” She walked around to the other side of the cot and picked the washcloth again. Water pattered to the ground as she wrung it. She busied herself by wiping down one of Timura’s arms.

Hermit pulled his boots on and hurried around to join her. “You’re not half-bad at fighting, I’ll give you that. But you’ll die within a month here, even against weaklings like the Meteor.”

Her eyes darted to him, but she brought them back down to focus on Timura. There it was again–Hermit’s strength, evident in such a throwaway comment. That he thought the Meteor was weak, and really meant it. Was he delusional?

But no. What if he could do it? Could block every single strike the woman Threw at him, every Smash of the mace–with his bare hands. If he could always harness Shadow like she had done for that single instant…

And he could. Somehow, she knew that he could. How could you defeat someone who did that? How could you even hurt them?

Vaela spun and pointed at him, whipping a few drops of grimy water on his cloak. “I’ll join you.”

A relieved smile dawned on his face. “Good. Now about those bags–”

“On two conditions.”