It took two days for Nessa to get her shit together.

That first night culminated in her screaming in rage around Third Bell at Vic, demanding he release her. Their argument was fierce and ongoing right till Sam suggested they leave a few bells early for their morning run.

The darkness was a balm. Harald ran, pre-occupied, interrogating himself. Sam was distant, frustrated, clearly believing him a fool.

But was he?

Memories of the past few years slid through his mind. Nessa at the masquerade ball, laughing as she walked atop the metal railing three stories above the courtyard below. That one tender night they’d shared at his house after everyone else had fallen asleep, the two of them watching each other by the firelight, and she’d offered him blunt advice on how to turn his life around, had hinted that he could be great, only to fall asleep as he’d mustered the courage to move closer. Her wild laughter, her studied moments of inscrutable detachment, her beauty, her bouts of self-loathing, the way her face changed when she lost herself to the music of her fiddle.

Evernessa.

Harald grimaced and tried to run faster. To use the pain and ache of his body as some form of penance.

He should just cut her loose. Let her figure out her own problems. Not only was this not the time to be infatuated, but she’d never consider him a partner. He was Harald, and all that entailed. He no longer had any illusions about his looks, the figure he cut, his presence, his anything.

But still.

This was his second chance.

Was it so wrong to give her one, too?

Harald pounded around the park, ungainly and heavy, but finally realized a new truth: if she squandered this chance, it was on her. The old Harald might have made excuses for her, given her third and fourth and fifth chances, but he knew that now, today, he wouldn’t.

It might break his heart, but if she insisted on throwing her life away on glory, he wouldn’t make that his responsibility.

This resolve felt at once tragic and absolute. It buoyed his spirits and affirmed his new path, such that he felt invigorated despite the lack of sleep, and put new focus on his pace. Did he feel faster? More resilient? He made it around the park three times before slowing down, and Sam only lapped him twice.

Breathing heavily, he refused to slow to a walk, and simply eased up to a light jog, but kept going.

Second chances.

Did it hurt that Evernessa was gorgeous and mysterious and mocking and vulnerable all at the same time? No.

But that wouldn’t help her if she refused his offer or broke it.

His number one commitment was to get strong, to maximize his potential, limited as it might be, and nothing, not even his fanciful dreams and midnight yearnings might stop him.

Sam finally lapped him, light as a deer, and this time Harald decided to try and keep up.

She glanced at him in surprise as he powered up alongside her, an avalanche to her light-footed step, her surprise turning into amusement as he puffed and worked his arms.

“Look at you,” she said, barely out of breath. “Shouldn’t you be having a heart attack by now?”

He couldn’t respond. Couldn’t keep this up for long. But he opened his stride, forced his breathing to deepen, wiped away the streams of sweat, and thought of all the wasted evenings, the lost mornings, the hours wiled away in self-pity, the lies he’d told himself half-heartedly.

Thought of Evernessa, eyelids fluttering.

Thought on how he was going to have to cast her out soon.

There was no way she would resist the allure of glory.

And that pain girded his resolve, so that he ignored his stitch, his tight chest, his aching legs, and he put on speed.

Damn this world. Damn its injustices and cruelties. Damn Ustim and Yeoric. Damn the purveyors of glory and the noble houses.

Damn his own weakness.

Damn his soft body.

He left Sam behind.

Harder and harder he ran, gasping, opening his pace to a sprint. The trees blurred by in the gloom. He leaned around the curves. He was barely breathing now. Just running on anger. He had seconds left before reality brought him crashing down.

But anger melded with his resolve, and he just kept going.

On and on around the park, as fast as he could.

He thought of that night by the fireplace, the light causing Nessa’s long hair to gleam almost blue, her chin on her chest, long lashes on her cheek.

How he’d yearned to reach out for her hand.

How he’d been too afraid, knowing she’d laugh him off.

But how he should have tried anyway.

Weakness.

Everywhere, weakness.

His legs were on fire, his muscles seizing up. He couldn’t breathe. Despite his savage will, his body began to give in. He slowed, and then abruptly stopped, staggered to the side of the path, and bent over to heave and gasp, spitting and laboring to catch his breath.

Sam came up a moment later, stopped by his side, hand on his back. “Harald?”

He screwed his eyes shut.

He’d wanted to run forever.

To keep accelerating.

But he was too weak.

With a ferocity that shocked him, he swore a vow to himself: I will get stronger.

The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind:

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Constitution has risen from 6 to 7

This time the advancement brought no solace. Grimacing, he straightened. 7 was still pathetic.

“I’m fine,” he rasped, limping back onto the trail. “Let’s run.”

* * *

Nessa didn’t emerge from her room that day. Vic was constantly checking on her, so Harald and Sam went about their workout routine as before. In the late afternoon, while taking a moment to lie down and rest with his arm flung over his eyes, Harald heard Nessa shouting at Vic again, her furious demands met by a low murmur. This last for half a bell and then subsided.

Sam stared at him over dinner. “A whole day she’s wasted.”

“Not wasted,” said Harald. “I gained a point of Constitution.”

“Another?” Sam sat up. “That’s two in as many weeks?”

Harald shrugged.

“That’s crazy.” Sam peered at him, brows furrowed, blue eyes fierce. “Did you get the same message as before? About… the Seed?”

Harald nodded and continued shoveling food into his mouth.

“We need to look into this,” said Sam. “Soon.”

Harald shrugged. Kept eating.

Eventually Sam did the same.

* * *

The representative from the Platinum Rose auction house came the following morning. Not Master Ling, but an assistant who refused to sit, but simply offered a scroll in which all the items the house was willing to put on auction were listed, along with suggested starting prices, estimates as to how much they might go for, and finally the Platinum Rose’s commission rate based on expected total income.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Vic joined them to examine the scroll once the representative left, and laughed, delighted. “The old goat! Master Ling must have scented desperation. This is just one step above a back alley mugging.”

Harald felt a surge of relief. “So it is under priced?”

“By at least half,” agreed Vic. “See how they’re suggesting they put it on special auction here to pre-approved buyers? That’s a bald-faced deception. They’ll have their own agents bid on the ridiculous amounts, put all of this into their inventory, then turn around and sell it in the general auction for double. Oh, that Master Ling. I could kiss him.”

Sam and Harald stared at Vic in surprise.

“What?” Vic grinned. “I find such crude greed very arousing. And rarely do I get the opportunity to cross wits with someone who’s so grossly underestimated me.”

“You?” Sam placed her hands on her hips. “This is Harald’s property.”

“Harald couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag,” said Vic dismissively. “No, I’ll handle this. We’ll send Master Ling a gracious apology, and say that we’ve received a lump sum bid from Countess Sonora to the tune of… two Zeniths. An estate purchase. That we’re reluctant to accept it given that it will take her one month to finalize the offer, that we’d hoped for a more immediate resolution, but alas… he’ll spit his green tea, panic, and double his terms, along with expediting the process. You’ll see.”

“What if he questions Countess Sonora?” asked Harald.

“Oh, he’ll put out feelers, but I’ll let her know that we’re using our current Horizon’s Whisper Patronage to negotiate a couple of minor items. She’ll be fine with it as long as I take responsibility for the situation and she’s not actually compelled to pay anything.” Vic shrugged one shoulder. “Like I said, leave this to me.”

“Countess Sonora seems… surprisingly biddable,” said Sam cautiously.

Vic waggled his eyebrows. “Take one guess why.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “She’s…? You’re…?”

Vic laughed. “You dirty maid! Of course not! Is that the first thing you think of? How depraved!”

Sam immediately blushed. “No! I mean, I only thought -”

Vic’s laughter redoubled. “I tease! But suffice it to say, she is but newly made a countess, and finds herself at times in need of a friendly ear. Her father died under exceptionally suspicious circumstances, and I don’t fault her for seeing daggers hidden behind every back. I, being a rustic and simple man, am a source of sound advice and reliable loyalty.”

“A rustic man,” repeated Sam dubiously. “Reliable loyalty.”

“It’s all about leverage, dear. When your birth places you at a disadvantage in life, you must find an angle, a way to even the playing field. Be it with wit, the edge of your blade, your looks, or what you’re sporting between your legs, an enterprising individual always finds a way to take advantage of the world.”

“Like you did me,” said Harald.

“Harry-boy!” Vic put a hand to his chest. “I never plowed your field.” He pretended confusion. “Did I?”

Harald smiled despite himself. “Not to my knowledge. But you definitely took advantage of our friendship.”

“But of course I did! I’d be a fool not to. But that doesn’t mean that’s all this was. Would I otherwise be helping you now if I was but a leech?”

Sam regained her composure. “You’re making some pretty scales off all this help.”

“A silver lining, to be sure.” Vic clapped his hands. “But enough idle chatter. Seeing as Nessa is still indisposed, I’ll take charge of your sword training for today. Fetch the bags, Sam. We’ll meet in the backyard.”

“About Nessa,” said Harald, cutting off his friend. “How’s it looking?”

Vic paused. “Not ideal? But she’s coming around. I’ve told her she teaches a lesson tomorrow, or she loses this opportunity. And, well. Other things, but we’ve no need to get into all that. Suffice to say she’s taking this decision seriously.”

“All right.” Harald avoided Sam’s stare. “Good.”

*

There was more shouting that evening, and this time Vic raised his voice as well. The exchange was muffled by being upstairs, but still Harald descended to the gym to put in some more exercise. When he finally came back upstairs, soaked and trembling from exhaustion, the house was quiet again.

He slept deeply. He’d never slept so well before. Nine straight bells till Sam awoke him, and then he was up, refreshed and ready to run.

And no soreness this morning.

It had been just about two weeks since he’d begun this routine, and perhaps it was the Constitution of 7, or just his body’s adapting to the punishment, but for the first time ever, he didn’t limp into the warm-up.

Sam still lapped him, though, and he still kept a wary eye out for the Essentialist. But it was otherwise a good outing, and when they returned to the manor he was both pleasantly worn out and nervous about what was to come.

Water, fruit, and then Vic entered the kitchen with his golden smile. “Good morning, my delicious ducklings. Are you ready for your lesson?”

Harald tried to read the man’s face. “Is Nessa teaching?”

“But of course! How could you doubt her? She’s already below in the gym. I wish you good luck, and now I return to bed.” He gave a flourish of a bow. “I shall dream sympathetic dreams.”

Harald led the way down. Doubt roiled his mind. Was he wrong in setting these terms? In trying to help? Should he have listened to Sam?

Too late now.

Nessa was below, blade in hand, working her way through a drill. She wore tan breeches, the same white peasant’s blouse in which she’d arrived, and a pair of black leather training gloves. Her wild mane of dark curls was braided and pinned to the crown of her head, and she was steadily advancing down the center of the gym, her longsword flashing.

It was a remarkable display of skill.

After several days of trying to wield the weapon himself, Harald had a newfound appreciation for what it took to make such work effortless.

Nessa advanced, her attacks never ceasing. Her longsword flickered with confident strength in her grip, wheeling twice on each side before cutting to the other, then coming in from below.

Harald checked her footwork: her stance was deep, her steps measured, her posture upright.

It was hypnotic. The blade looked massive in her hands, but she wielded it with perfect grace.

“Wow,” whispered Sam, tone sober.

Nessa ignored them till she’d crossed the gym, then spun the sword around once more and straightened from her stance, resting the blade against her shoulder.

She didn’t look good.

Skin pasty, eyes ringed still with shadow, her face was drawn and exhausted. Her chest rose and fell, and she managed a smile, still confident, still appearing, at any rate, to be self-possessed.

For a moment they just stood there, the sound of Nessa’s breathing the only sound in the echoing gym.

“Well, this is weird.” Nessa took a final sharp breath and smiled. “My teaching Harald and his maid while feeling like dog shit. But such is the world, is it not? Shall we make the best of it?”

Sam crossed her arms.

“You’re up for this?” asked Harald.

“Well!” Nessa wiped her brow with the back of her glove. “Vic has made it quite clear that the terms are non-negotiable, and, he insisted, ultimately to my advantage. Who am I to argue? I suppose thanks are in order.” She inclined her head with mocking formality. “Thanks, Harald. Your faith in me has restored my sense of self-worth.”

“I meant, are you physically capable?”

Nessa narrowed her eyes just a fraction before her smile returned. “Physically? I don’t think this will be a problem. You probably don’t even know how to hold a blade, much less test my limits. Yes. I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly.”

“You look like you’re going to vomit,” said Sam.

“It’s entirely possible, dear.” Nessa’s smile was shadowed, unrepentant. “But it’s not as if I need to bark at you non-stop. A minute of coughing up bile shouldn’t ruin your session.”

“For what it’s worth, I advised Harald against this.” Sam’s tone was cold. “His life is on the line. We’re going to lose Darrowdelve Manor, and Harald’s doing everything he can to salvage the situation.”

“Sam,” protested Harald.

“I tell you this so you appreciate what he’s doing for you.” Sam raised her chin, blue eyes flashing. “If you don’t take this seriously, or think you can twist him around your finger so that you can break the terms, I will personally see to it that you don’t come back.”

“How absolutely dreadful,” drawled Nessa, eyebrows raising. “Has she always been so yappy, Harald?”

“Both of you, please.” Harald took a deep breath and reached for that core of resolve. “Nobody here wants you to succeed more than me, Nessa. But if you can’t commit, I’ll hold to the terms. Shall we start the lesson?”

“Yes, let’s. Any more sermonizing and I’ll walk out now.” Her eyes flashed as she stared at Sam. “Fetch your blades. Let’s see what nonsense Vic has taught you.”

A few moments later Sam and Harald were lined up before her, longswords in hand. The blade felt, if not comfortable, at least marginally more familiar after some four days of interminable swinging and clashing with Sam.

“Show me what Vic taught you,” said Nessa, her own sword still propped against her shoulder. “I’ll just evaluate for now.”

Harald turned to face Sam and adopted the Tower stance they’d been taught. Blade vertical, pressed just inside his shoulder, chest puffed, elbows down, stance wide and deep.

Sam did the same, the tendons of her forearm visible, and then nodded. “Cut!”

He stepped in and slashed down at her torso. It was a good blow; he felt it come from his core, and when she parried their swords rang out brightly.

But he didn’t linger; he immediately withdrew to the stance and stood there, sword up.

They remained thus for a moment, and then, uncertain, glanced at Nessa.

“That’s it?” she asked.

Harald straightened. “That’s it.”

“By the angels,” moaned Nessa. “All right, that’s fine. We’ve a lot to learn. Let’s see.”

She began to pace up and down before them, frowning.

Harald watched her, feeling nervous, defiant, resolute.

“Let me make one thing clear from the get-go,” said Nessa at last. “Everything that we’re going to work on here is part of a dance. Combat is a flow, a never-ending tide that shifts and eddies and never ceases. The guards you’ll learn, the parries, the footwork, we’ll focus on each part in isolation, but you must never forget that it’s all liquid, ever-shifting, never stopping.”

She raised her blade, hilt by her hip, tip pointing upward at Harald’s face. “The Plow.” She shifted, tip of the sword lowering to the floor and leaving her wide open. “The Fool.” She swept the sword behind her, tip still pointed at the floor. “The Tail.” She flowed up to the stance Vic had taught them, hilt by her shoulder, but now the sword sloped backward, “The Roof.” She extended her arms straight up, blade still angled back, looking like an executioner about to lop off a man’s head. “High Guard.”

Finally she flowed into a more threatening stance, hilt held just behind her temple, sword pointing at Harald and parallel to the floor, as if she were about to stab him through the head. “The Ox. You’ll learn all of these guards and when to use them, but don’t be fooled. They are meant to flow into each other. Like this.”

And Nessa began to move.

It was bewitching, mesmerizing to watch.

Her blade gleamed and flowed back and forth, rising and reversing, her feet never stopping as she side stepped, retreated, advanced along an oblique line. Back and forth, as if she faced an invisible opponent, and though Harald caught glimpses of the guards she’d mentioned, they were flashes that rarely lasted for long.

“Then we add the blows and parries.”

Her blade began to lash out, thrusts and lunges, slashes and cuts. Some swept up from beneath to rise up, others scythed down from above. Stabs that came in from the upper left, the upper right. Whirls and parries, retreats and sudden gliding steps forward.

“Footwork makes this possible. The blade captures the eye, but it is your feet that allow you to strike and recover. Occasionally you lunge and lean forward, but always mind your center. Never overextend, never lose control. Always back and forth, side to side, seeking and binding, killing and retreating.”

She was breathing heavily now, and abruptly stopped to lay her blade across her shoulder once more. A coil of curling black hair had fallen across her face, and this she blew away with a smile. “If you can remember that one key lesson, if you manage to not become fixated on any one guard, any one step, if you can remember in the heat of battle that it is a dance like any other, requiring speed, courage, prudence, and strength, then there is a chance you might become a passable swordswoman. Or man. If you forget?”

Her smile grew cold, her eyes narrowing. “Then your opponent shall show you the error of your ways, once, and once only.”

Harald nodded sharply, his heart pounding. To move like Nessa, to flow like water, to wield his blade like a flickering flame: in that moment there was nothing more in the world that he desired, nothing he wouldn’t do to achieve that same mastery.

“But we must start from the beginning.” Nessa wiped the sweat away, her complexion having paled dangerously. “Enter the Tower stance Vic taught you, which is a variation of the Roof.”

She turned so that her back was presented to them both, and entered the stance herself. “And now strike as I do. Ready? Watch carefully.”

And with casual, ineffable grace, Nessa began to teach them the ways of the sword.