That evening Harald felt wrecked. After finishing the workout in the basement, he’d slept for a couple of hours, then gone for a two Bell walk around the park wearing the weight vest Sam had used for her workout.

She’d left to go run errands, and for a long time he’d simply pushed himself to walk as quickly as he could on his burning legs. He carried a large waterskin over his shoulder from which he’d continuously sip; he was sweating so much that Sam was worried he dehydrate, otherwise.

With nothing to distract him on his walk, he pondered everything that had happened. Examined his window again and again, rereading the descriptions. Thought on his two rapid gains in as many days, how his Constitution and Strength had both bounced up a rank after a bout of extreme intensity.

Was it the exercise itself that had raised his stats, or his mindset? Was there a difference, even, between the two? He’d discovered that his body had reserves beyond what he’d imagined; they’d been there before, but he’d been unwilling to tap them. Perhaps the mere act of flexing his will and learning to harness his true strength and resilience had caused his stats to reflect his new capacity? Perhaps, in a sense, he’d always had those higher stats, but his window had merely reflected what he was willing to use?

But he couldn’t pretend his new Nature and Soul Ability played no part in this. Or the Demon Seed. If it was simply a question of harnessing latent, untapped potential, then why did the Seed ‘stir’ every time he did so?

Was it parasitic, drawing strength from his motivation?

Idly he considered returning to the dungeon to seek out Vorakhar, to ask him these questions. But that was a foolish notion. The finger amulet was gone, and with it his ability to reliably draw the demon’s attention. Vorakhar was down in the 60th or so level of the dungeon; not only would Harald instantly die if he emerged onto one of those floors, but he didn’t have the wealth to open the portal to that deep a level.

Worse, to compound the stupidity of the idea, it was suicide to seek out a demon like Vorakhar. One encounter had already changed him completely. A second might lead to true damnation.

Harald sighed, sipped from the waterskin, and trudged on. Each bench sang a siren song. Each shaded bank of grass beneath a tree invited him to rest. He lowered his head and ignored them all. His legs were so blasted that he walked unsteadily like a drunk, but walk he did. The contours of the Seasons Park path were already becoming familiar; that grouping of rose bushes, with the verdigrised statue of the Queenkiller reaching up to the star that would kill her; the swing bench under the sprawling moss oak; the small playground where nannies watched over the progeny of the wealthy as they played and ran and screamed.

Finally the Seventh Bell rang, and Harald headed home. He was soaked again, his body aching and burning from the chafing of the weight vest and leather armor from before, and he’d not eaten nearly enough to keep himself sharp.

But over everything loomed Yeoric’s grim smile. His satisfied sadism.

Two months.

What had felt expansive before now felt like so little time.

Sam was already cooking in the kitchen when he got home. Too tired to head upstairs and shower, Harald simply ditched the weighted vest in the hallway and slumped in the chair to watch her chop vegetables and season the hearty beef stew she had simmering on the stove top.

Sam glanced at him. “You all right there, Harald?”

“Doing great.” He felt like he’d been beaten for over an hour by wicked children with hammers. “You know, you’re free, right? You don’t have to cook any more.”

“While technically true, I shudder at the thought of your preparing dinner.” She pushed a mass of chopped carrots into the pot. “Also, I still need to eat. Also, I enjoy cooking. Also, I’ve been doing this my whole life. It feels good to make food.”

“Also, also, also,” muttered Harald, propping his chin on the base of his palm. “Any luck with your outing?”

“A representative from the Platinum Rose Auction House will be coming by soon to look at our inventory.” Sam stirred the pot, tasted the broth, and gave an approving nod. “So that’s good. Also, I stopped by Furthak’s smithy to see if he could recommend a good but affordable weapon’s instructor. Furthak was out, but his apprentice, Beorn, recommended a Blade Mentor called Eadwolf the Grey.”

“Eadwolf?” Harald roused himself. “A Nihtscuan?”

“You’re sharp, you are.” Sam grinned at him. “Yes. His being a foreigner means he can’t charge too much, but Beorn said Furthak respects him mightily. But he doesn’t take apprentices lightly. We’ll have to impress him.”

“That’s a start,” allowed Harald, though he didn’t feel hopeful.

“Hello?” Vic’s voice rang out from the entrance hall. “A poor beleaguered traveler comes in search of solace and fine wine. Are the masters of this manor home?”

Harald met Sam’s gaze and then stood. “I’ll handle this.”

Vic smiled brightly as Harald emerged into the entrance hall. He was freshly bathed, his burnished golden hair drawn back into a ponytail, his green eyes scintillating with good humor. Clad in a new doublet of green velvet patterned with gold diamonds, he looked positively rakish with his half-cloak of black wool and long-toed boots.

“Ah! The master himself!” Vic’s eyes widened in alarm. “Harald! Your hair!”

Harald paused, suddenly self-conscious, and passed his palm over his stubble. “Ah. Yes.”

“Is it a disease?” Vic drew closer, his expression one of horrified concern. “Mange? Did a Seraphite of the Fallen Angel command you to shear yourself like a sheep as penance for some sin?”

Harald smiled. “No, nothing like that. I -”

“And you look terrible!” Vic circled Harald, his manner alarmed. “The sweating sickness? Harald, have I entered a plague house? If so, I’ll only ask for a single glass of wine before fleeing for my life.”

“No!” Harald couldn’t help but laugh. “Vic! Let me talk.”

“I am all ears.” Vic stopped before him, his expression dubious, his brow furrowed. “Though even my ears are horrified and alarmed by your appearance.”

“I had Sam cut my hair. Because I wanted her to. I was tired of my locks. They were…” Harald hesitated, trying to figure out how to express himself. “They were childish.”

“Childish.” Vic considered. “Evernessa will be heartbroken.”

“That I doubt.”

“Don’t underestimate your roguish charm. But the sweating? A fever? Or have you just emerged from a boiling bath and decided not to bother with a towel?”

“I went out for a long walk.”

“A long walk.” Vic crossed his arms. “You walked to the point of exhaustion?”

“Yes.” Harald suddenly felt tired. “I did. Look, come have a glass in the kitchen and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Lead on, good sir. You’re finally saying something intelligible.”

They entered the kitchen, where Sam glanced over her shoulder with a hard gaze at Vic. She wasn’t wearing her armor, which was a relief, but was clad in regular clothing.

“Um, Harald?” Vic glided over to a chair while whispering conspiratorially. “Your hired help is most artlessly dressed.”

“The hired help,” said Sam, turning to glare at him, “is fully capable of tossing you out on your ear, Victor.”

“The hired help,” continued Vic in his stage whisper, “has grown alarmingly bold and insulting.”

“Peace!” Harald laughed again and sat down. “Sam is no longer oathbound. I freed her yesterday. She’s her own woman, and it’s long overdue.”

Vic froze, his expression stunned, and then turned to consider Sam again. “You’re serious?”

Sam placed her fists on her hips and stared defiantly at him.

“Well.” Vic leaned back in his chair. “Does this mean you won’t fetch us the wine, Sam? What if I ask nicely?”

“Go ahead and ask, Vic.” Sam smiled sweetly. “See what happens.”

“Wonders never cease. But this leaves us at a loss. Who, then, will fetch the wine? Shall I send for the city watch so that they can aid us?”

“I’ll get it,” said Harald, rising heavily. “Hold on.”

Descending the stairs to the wine cellar was painful. Harald leaned heavily on the railing, his legs almost giving out, and grabbed the first dusty bottle he found on the mostly denuded wine racks. He returned, grimacing and scowling, to enter a frosty silence. Sam was stirring the pot, while Vic’s head was canted to one side as he studied her posterior with unabashed appreciation.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Vic.” Harald grabbed a wine bottle opener and sat heavily. “Eyes.”

“Hmm?” Vic straightened. “What’s wrong?”

Harald set to opening the bottle. “Mind your manners.”

“But it’s my understanding that Sam’s been liberated. And I’m accustomed to ogling gorgeous young women in possession of their own free will. Even better if they’re impressionable and flattered by my attention.”

Sam drew a butcher’s knife from the cutting block. “Harald, permission to cut off his ear?”

Vic grinned. “Come at me, Sam. I’ve no fear of tussling.”

Harald drew the cork out with a pop and set to pouring a glass. “Vic, your stay is going to be a short one if you don’t behave.”

“Very well, very well.” Vic took up the glass and inhaled deeply. “You’ve successfully bribed me with this… is it a Grand Vellus? Don’t tell me.” He sipped, swished, closed his eyes. “Yes, a Grand Vellus, say, twenty years old? 778?”

“He saw the label,” said Sam dryly.

“I’m illiterate,” protested Vic. “But regardless. Harald. What the hell has come over you?”

Harald poured his own glass, expression grim. How to even begin explaining?

Vic watched him, eyes narrowed, sipping from his wine as he somehow managed to lounge in the kitchen chair with the suppleness of a cat.

“Remember my dungeon raid?”

“How could I forget? Wait. Is that behind all this? You’ve cut your hair and sworn a martial oath?”

“Hardly.” Harald sighed. “They stabbed me in the back, Vic.” And he told him in broad strokes what had happened.

Vic sat up, his languorous posturing forgotten as his eyes widened.

“So I entered the dungeon myself,” finished Harald. “Used the Humble Petitioner’s line. It was a fiasco down there. I nearly died, and emerged an hour or so later with a single Copper Moon for my troubles.”

“You’re serious?” Vic’s tone was, at any rate. “Why didn’t you tell me, Harald?”

“I needed to collect myself. And you and the gang have never been… I don’t know how to say it.”

“We’re your friends, Harry-boy.” Vic leaned forward. “This Yeoric. Is he registered at the Free Company?”

Sam glanced over her shoulder. “You know about them?”

“Darling, I was a member till I came to my senses.”

“You?” Sam turned all the way now and regarded him. “You were a dungeon raider?”

“Oh Sam.” Vic’s tone was pitying. “You know nothing but pots and brooms. What makes you think you know anything about me?”

“I didn’t know, either,” said Harald. “When was this?”

Vic sighed and sank back into his chair. “Oh, two years ago. Evernessa convinced me to join a Free Company mission to the 15th level.” He waved a hand airily. “Honestly, it was a mistake. The pay was criminal. But answer my question: is this Yeoric registered there?”

“He was, yes.” Harald considered his friend in a new light. “But wait. I’m sorry. You’re a raider?”

“No, Harald. I am first and foremost myself, Victor Carmine, a dissolute and charming wastrel.” He paused, considering. “Then, next, I’m probably a lecherous philanderer. After that, possibly, I’d admit to being a purveyor of dungeon levels.”

“If you’re not with the Free Company, who do you work for?” asked Harald. “One of the Houses?”

Vic pursed his lips. “You’re not going to let this go, are you? Harry-boy, it’s been of no account what I do with my time since I met you. Must you now insist?”

“You don’t have to share if you don’t want,” said Harry, raising his glass of wine. “I’m just… surprised.”

“Let’s just say I’m part of a select group of dilletantes who wield blades as Countess Sonora desires.” Vic waved his glass of wine dismissively. “Which means most of the time I’m left to my own devices.”

“Countess Sonora?” Harald could hardly believe it. “As in, Countess Sonora of House Sonora?”

“The same.”

Harald exchanged a stunned look with Sam.

“So this Yeoric was registered with the Free Company till he agreed to join your crew,” said Vic. “And now he operates, ostensibly, under your writ, as registered with a doctored charter at the Flutic Mining Consortium?”

“Yes,” said Harald. “Why?”

“Because I still have friends at the Free Company.” Vic smiled slyly. “And can probably convince them to get me a copy of his last registered window statistics. Because we are going to find him and get your scales back, are we not?”

Harald felt a rush of warmth as he studied his wastrel friend. “You’d help me with that?”

“Harald!” Vic sat up, indignant. “We’ve known each other for years. What manner of friend do you think I am? Of course we will.”

“We?”

“I’ll talk to Evernessa and the others.” Vic considered. “They’re part of this little thing I’ve got going.”

“Wonders never cease,” said Sam. “I thought you all were just a bunch of leeches.”

“Speak your mind, why don’t you,” said Vic, though he didn’t seem offended.

“Well, Yeoric came by this morning,” said Harald. “He, ah, came to give me my 5% of the earnings. I demanded he return all my scales.”

“Bold move,” said Vic, sipping his wine. “Did he laugh in your face?”

“He did. Which is why I challenged him to a duel.”

Vic spat wine into his glass as he jerked forward. “You what?!”

“Don’t look at me,” said Sam. “I think it’s suicide.”

“If I win, he returns my money and another Horizon’s Whisper as compensation. If he wins, he keeps my money and I pay him another.”

“Which you have?” asked Vic.

Harald glanced at Sam. “Probably.”

“But it will wipe us out,” said Sam grimly. “We’re selling everything by auction as quickly as possible before we lose the house.”

“Lose the house?” Vic’s brows went up even higher. “Are matters as dire as all that?”

“Worse, probably.” Harald took another sip of the wine.

“The Fallen Angel sat on an inverted stool and span,” said Vic softly. “Harald. I almost feel guilty for enjoying your hospitality as we’ve done.” He considered. “Almost. But never mind all that, you can’t duel Yeoric. He sounds like a competent fighter.”

“He is,” said Sam, tone flat. “I’d guess his physical stats are in the low teens, and he’s probably got several combat levels on him as well.”

“Harald.” Vic’s stare was bewildered. “What were you thinking?”

“I’m going to train hard,” said Harald stubbornly. “I’ve got two months.”

“Two months he says.” Vic looked mockingly over to Sam for support. “Two months to, what, exactly? Darling, you’ve got a heart of gold and little else. Last I recall you don’t even have a class, do you?”

Harald stared into his wine glass.

“Not only that,” said Sam, “but Yeoric made it clear that accidents could happen during this duel. I don’t think he’ll be holding back.”

“The cheeky bastard,” said Vic, tone approving. “It’s probably what I would do. Seeing as they’ve already doctored the charter, it would be easy to ensure that all rights are solidly his moving forward. Well. Let me think.”

Harald glanced at his friend who sat back and tapped his lips.

Sam fetched another slender log and slid it into the oven beneath the pot.

“I suppose we’ll have to assassinate him,” said Vic at last. “We’ll bring the full crew to make sure there’s no uncertainty about it. An unfortunate encounter at night in an alley, we’ll steal his scales to make it look like a mugging, and then you’re in the clear.”

Sam glared at Vic. “Murder?”

“Oh, don’t look shocked. We murder him before he murders Harald. Pre-emptive murder. It’s the most palatable kind.”

“No,” said Harald. “I may sound crazy, but I challenged him for a reason. I want to be the one that beats him.”

“Hmm.” Vic eyed Harald dubiously. “Well, it’s been nice knowing you, I suppose.”

“Don’t count me out,” said Harald. “I may be crazy, but I’m not an idiot. I’m going to win this fight.”

“Uh huh,” said Vic, unconvinced. “I think I understand. You’re about to lose your ancestral home, you’ve lost all your wealth, and your last attempt at salvaging your situation resulted in your being betrayed and robbed. You’ve shorn your glorious locks, you even went so far as to eject me from your home, and you’ve freed your oathbound servant so that her obligation can’t be bestowed to a debtor. This sounds like suicide by duel.”

“It’s not.” Almost Harald told him about Vorakhar, his new Endowment, his rapid raising of his stats. But for all he enjoyed Vic’s company, he just didn’t trust him. Mostly because he’d just realized how little he’d actually known about Vic after all this time. Like Sam, the majority of their relationship had revolved around Harald’s own woes and grievances.

Telling anybody that he’d received an endowment from a demon was a death sentence if word got out.

So instead he took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Vic. Tell me true. What’s your class and level?”

Vic eyed him over the rim of his wineglass. It was a hard, speculative look, the kind Harald had only seen him give opponents at cards or other gambling ventures. Vic sipped his wine, then set his glass down.

“I’m a Rapier Regent, Level 3.”

Sam let out a low whistle, impressed.

“Rapier Regent?” Harald could hardly believe it. “And 3rd level?!”

Vic shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve been told I’ve wasted my potential in brothels and taverns. I did have a rather embarrassingly earnest period in my teens, however, where I took it quite seriously.”

“You can train us,” said Harald excitedly. “You know more about blades then I could hope to learn in a year.”

Vic leveled a flat stare at him. “Only a single year?”

“Will you?” Harald pushed his glass aside. “Two months. We’ll pay you.”

“Pay me?” Vic set his glass down and raised both palms. “Slow down there. This sounds like work.”

Sam crossed her arms. “I thought you were protesting just how good a friend you were.”

“True, but I live in two worlds, darling. In one I am Vic, the golden boy of charm and ease, quick to laugh and love and forgive. In the other, I am Countess Sonora’s Rapier Regent, and that person is a far less amusing fellow.”

“I need your help, Vic.” Harald kept his voice level. “I’m going to fight Yeoric.”

Vic pursed his lips. “So you say. I’m all for suicidal ventures, but only as long as they’re fun. This promises to be incredibly depressing and with a guaranteed bad ending.”

“You don’t know that. How about… how about a trial period? You don’t have to agree to the whole two months. One week. If at the end of that week you don’t think I have any talent, or a chance in hell, I’ll pay you…” He glanced at Sam for help.

“A Zenith Tide,” she blurted out. “As long as you train me, too.”

“Oh, come on!” Vic sprang to his feet. “You’re asking Victor Carmine to teach swordplay to a maid?”

“I’m no longer a maid,” said Sam with a voice like iron.

“C’mon, Vic.” Harald rose as well. “You can…” He cast around for an inducement. “You can have free reign of the wine cellar. You can live here, if you want. Treat the house like it’s yours. And we’ll pay you. One week. You decide if we continue, and I won’t argue with your decision.”

Vic grimaced. “And in such manner is my kindness repaid.”

“You’ve always claimed to be a good friend of his,” said Sam. “Prove it.”

Vic glanced from Harald to Sam, and then threw his arms up in defeat. “Damn my sweet heart and docile nature! Very well. A week. Seven days. I’ve nothing lined up, anyway, but I’ll take you up on your offer. A Zenith Tide, free run of your cellar, and full run of your hospitality.” He paused. “But what does that mean, exactly, if Sam is no longer your servant?”

Sam spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll ensure your stay is a pleasant one for that week alone.”

Vic’s smile turned devilish. “Will you now?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Just try your luck and see what happens.”

To which Vic laughed. “No sensible woman can resist my charms! In one week I’ll be barricading my door to keep you out at night. But very well. We start tomorrow morning. I was about to say at dawn, but that’s inhumane. I’ll move in, and you will promise to do whatever I say for as long as I am in charge of your lessons.”

“Agreed,” said Harald instantly.

“I… within reason,” said Sam. “And only so long as it pertains to training and combat.”

“Cautious lass,” said Vic approvingly. “Harald, you’ve much to learn from her.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Harald, smiling ruefully.

“Then get your sleep!” Vic snatched up the freshly opened bottle. “I’ve a few affairs to get in order, but I’ll be here tomorrow to make your lives living hell. Come the end of the week, you’ll be begging me to leave you to Yeoric’s tender mercies.”

“Somehow I doubt it,” said Harald, but stepped forward and extended his hand. “Thanks, Vic.”

Vic considered his hand then sighed and shook it. “Just don’t ask me to hug. This is already so saccharine that I feel sick.”

“No hugs,” agreed Harald.

“Then I’ll be off. Sleep well, children. For come tomorrow you’ll be treated like adults for the first time in your lives.”

And with that, he strode off, drinking from the bottle, one hand raised in parting.

“Sword instructor acquired,” said Harald.

Sam looked much less settled. “I can’t believe he’s a Rapier Regent.”

“I can.” Harald’s legs gave out and he collapsed into his chair. “Now we just need to find out if he’s a good trainer as well. Something tells me he will be.”

“One way to find out,” said Sam, turning back to the pot as she shook her head. “May the Fallen Angel have mercy on our souls.”