The announcement that they were going to raid the dungeon coincided with a steady deluge of rain as a heavy storm front moved in across the city and drowned the world in the continuous rumbling of thunder.

Harald insisted on continuing the morning runs, but they were miserable affairs. Sam was game. They ran for an hour, but by the second day their sodden shoes began to raise blisters, so he was forced to concede.

Life was simple.

Everything was reduced to training, eating, sleeping.

But nothing was ever enough.

His only limitation was physical weakness, and there was only so much he could force himself to do.

Still, on the second night, Harald found himself unable to sleep. Body smoldering, his exhaustion customary, he lay staring up at the raftered ceiling of his bedroom, wide awake.

In his mind he envisioned the longsword drill that Nessa had imparted, known as the “Dungeon Square.” She’d sketched the framework on the wall with chalk, which consisted of four quadrants superimposed over four concentric circles, with each segment labeled from 1 to 4. This numeric sequence dictated the order of strikes, guiding the swordsman to transition smoothly between quadrants, working their way in from the other rings to the inner, ensuring a rhythmic flow of attack.

Over and over Harald envisioned his blade sweeping and cutting, whirling and slashing, upper right, lower left, lower right, then upper left, then dropping to the next concentric circle, moving to the lower right, back up to the upper left, and on and on in a mesmerizing pattern.

Harald couldn’t turn off his mind.

Finally he tossed his covers aside, rose, and exited his room.

The house was still and dark but for the storm raging outside.

He descended without light to the gym, only to pause at the entrance to the cavernous room.

Someone else was within.

A single lantern was set on the floor close to the entrance, and by its light Nessa trained.

Harald could only stare.

She’d been clearly been working for some time, for her body gleamed with sweat, and her blouse stuck to her torso in dark patches. Her hair was bound back in a simple ponytail, from which curly locks had escaped to hang before her face.

She moved smoothly from stance to stance, her blade cutting and sweeping, its naked length slashing almost too quickly for Harald to follow.

Only now did he truly understand her description of battle as a dance.

Then, as he was about to cough into his fist, she sped up.

Clenching her jaw, she put more energy into her guards and strikes, somehow blurring as her swept forth and drew back, leaped aside and then lunged. In half the time she executed double the strikes, and her blade gleamed with a lambent silver light all of its own.

She struck four, maybe six times in only a couple of seconds, and then she sprung, her blade a cyclone about her, to fall into a crouch as she brought it down in a massive overhead strike that unleashed a flash of silver like a burst of lightning.

A crash echoed through the gymnasium as if she had cleaved through a mass of glass panes all at once, and fine sparks of electricity ran up Harald’s arms and jolted him even where he stood, easily a dozen yards away in the shadows.

Nessa remained crouching, blade point down on the matt, leaning her weight on the hilt, gasping for breath.

“Damn it,” she hissed, her frustration obvious.

“Hey.” Harald stepped forward, palms raised. “I came down to train. Didn’t know you were here.”

Nessa drew herself up smoothly, her expression closed and rich with disdain. “You were watching?”

“Only because I didn’t want to interrupt.” Harald tried to not let her accusatory stare make him feel like a creep. “I’m sorry if I should have announced myself.”

Her haughty glare remained for a moment longer, but then her shoulders slumped and she looked away. “It’s fine. Not like there was much to watch.”

“Are you joking?” Harald smiled in amazed awe. “What even was that final technique? You moved too fast for me to even watch.”

She cut a glance back at him. “That’s no surprise. You’re aware that I’m a Level 4 Bladeweaver?”

“Vic said as much.”

“I have a number of Actives. I just haven’t used them for awhile, and…” She trailed off, lips thinning in displeasure.

Harald remained silent.

“And glory makes them harder to use.” She stared at her blade. “Reason enough right there to not indulge.”

Almost Harald told her how amazing she looked regardless, but that would just be an invitation for more disdain.

So instead he strode over to the practice bags and drew forth his training longsword. His arms were tired, his hands sore, but still he took a deep breath, turned to face the chalked Dungeon Square on the wall, and settled into a deep stance, left leg forward.

Nessa rested her blade over one shoulder. “You’ve already done that for an hour today.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he explained. “Kept thinking about it.”

“Go on, then.” She moved out wide.

He began with the first blow, blade cleaving down obliquely from the upper right, down to whirl and cut right back up from the lower left. Around and around he worked the sword, the progression slow and awkward compared to Nessa’s sublime control.

But Harald focused and didn’t allow himself to grow discouraged.

“Move your feet,” said Nessa. “With each blow, shift out to the side. Nobody fights like a post.”

“Right.” Harald had forgotten. He began the pattern again, blade up by his shoulder, then stepped out to the far right to cleave down in an overhead strike. As he cut back up along the same line, he leaped lightly to the left, then leaped back again as he reversed the blade and struck upward from the bottom right.

Back and forth he flowed, until again Nessa called out.

“Enough. You’ve got the basics, but not the understanding. Face me.”

He did so with some trepidation. Only then, standing close to her, did Harald realize how pasty and sick Nessa looked once more, her eyes sunken, her lips pale.

“There Dungeon Square is more than a drill.” She raised her blade and smoothly, slowly flowed through all four cuts. “These four cuts, the four quadrants, represent a tactical approach to combat. I attack you high on your left, you move your sword to parry.”

She did so slowly, and Harald raised his blade to block her strike.

“That leaves your lower right undefended, which is where I strike next.”

Her blade came down and around and rose to strike. Harald shifted to parry.

“Then I come at you from your lower left, you parry, opening your upper right.”

Again she came at him slowly, and again he did as she instructed.

Her smile grew dangerous. “But then I begin to move faster.”

At first the tempo helped make his own movements rhythmic, and the clang of blade on blade was both pleasing and simple to keep up with.

But her pace kept increasing, as did the power of each blow, and soon Harald felt himself completely outclassed; his stance came apart, his arms grew numb, and each time he parried she simply smacked his blade away, leaving him wide open for the follow-through.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

In a matter of moments he stumbled aside, overwhelmed.

“The Dungeon Square,” she said, voice calm as if she’d not just torn him apart. “A means to come at any foe quickly and brutally, to overwhelm them with a quick succession of blows, to shatter their stance and their guard, and expose some quadrant to your strike with which you’ll kill them.”

Harald nodded, wide eyed, hugely impressed.

“So.” She propped her blade on her shoulder once more. “Resume your drill. But now envision your opponent. Move and strike, move and strike, and remember what you are seeking to do. The faster and smoother your Square, the more easily you’ll overwhelm your opponent.”

“And if they know the Square?”

Her smile was predatory. “It’ll avail them nothing if they haven’t been taught how to defeat it. But that’s a lesson for another night.”

Abruptly Nessa gagged. She cupped her hand over her mouth and turned away, her shoulders hitching violently.

“Nessa?” Harald took a hesitant step forward.

“It’s nothing,” she said, voice thick and throaty. She make a choking sound, then rushed to the wall where a towel bucket sat and crouched before it.

Harald could only watch as she spat bile and gagged and choked. When the attack eased off, he approached, a cup of water from the great barrel in hand.

Nessa looked up, eyes gleaming, face bathed in sweat, even as she wiped her wrist across her pale lips.

“I am a paragon of virtue,” she whispered, accepting the cup. “Do as I say, Harald. Not what I do.”

“You’ve left all that behind,” he said, feeling foolish, feeling young and naive and pathetic. “You’re making your own change now.”

She laughed huskily, drained the cup, and then rose on unsteady legs. “Is that so? Well, in that case I feel relieved. For a second there I was worried.”

“You can change,” said Harald. “You just need to want it.”

“Oh Harald.” She reached out and cupped his cheek. “Is that all it takes? If only someone had told me before.”

He bit back on any more foolish words he might utter, and could only watch, helpless, as she gathered her black hair into a fresh ponytail, her elbows pointing at the ceiling, her mocking gray eyes examining him all the while.

When she was done she dropped her hands. “Sometimes desire is not enough,” she said, tone bleak. “The finest walls will topple if built on a cracked foundation.”

“Then fix your foundation.”

He fully expected a cutting reply, but instead her expression turned inexpressibly melancholy. She pursed her lips then walked away, blade propped over her shoulder once more.

He watched her go.

At the last, she turned back to look at him, eyes gleaming in the gloom. “I wish I could, Harald. I wish I could.”

And then she was gone.

Harald scowled. Vorakhar’s gift had reduced the world to black and white. You either trained, or you didn’t. You either rose up early or your slept in. You pushed hard, or you gave up.

On some level, he couldn’t fathom why one might desire to be better and not accomplish it. The only reason you’d fail was because you didn’t really want it.

But why would you want to fail?

“You idiot,” he sighed. Hadn’t he spent most his teenage years choosing exactly that option? But now, standing here in the gym with a sword in hand, he couldn’t remember why. Why had he chosen to slide into sloth and complacency, to lie to himself and refuse to act on his dreams?

It had only been a few weeks ago. Surely that life, that Harald, was still something he could recall?

Slowly, methodically, he set about the Dungeon Square. No hurrying, no sloppiness, just slow, steady strikes as he shifted from side to side, envisioning Nessa before him, parrying each blow.

What did he know about her? That she’d been accepted and rejected from the Conservatory. That she had a passion for music, and a reluctant genius for violence. Were her parents dead? No. Her father yet lived, he was a knight, wasn’t he? But she didn’t speak to him. She’d cut herself off from her inheritance and family name, had taken to living on the streets. Vic had met her years ago, she’d been fighting off… was it muggers? Or had it been men sent by her father? He’d been impressed by her skill, and stepped in to help, and they’d been best friends ever since.

Harald frowned. That’s what they’d told him. It couldn’t be the whole truth.

He slowly accelerated his strikes, sweeping them through the imaginary Nessa’s parries again and again.

But no matter how many times he struck, her pitying smile never went away.

* * *

Harald made the last two days count.

His Strength and Dexterity rose by a point each, putting him at a spread of 8 across his Physical Stats.

One point of Strength while working the Marheim weights, a bar across his shoulders, a bucket hanging from each end with over sixty pounds of stones in each.

Dexterity came as he wove his blade through the forms. Practice increased his surety, which increased his speed. He spent more time sparring and working the bind with Sam, cutting at the Dungeon Square and lunging at an apple set atop a sternum-tall pole than anything else, and on his last day he was rewarded by the sound of glorious, astral trumpets sounding in his mind.

“A response from the Platinum Rose,” Vic said over dinner on their final night. “I’ve taken the liberty of watching for it. You don’t mind?” He barely waited for Harald to shrug. “And I’m delighted to say that the estimable Master Ling has blinked. He is pleased to be of assistance, and given our desire for expediency, he is personally expending an enormous amount of personal favors to move our auction to the general house, with greatly lowered fees. Ha!”

“He never stood a chance,” said Nessa, sipping her wine.

“Nobody does.” Vic stretched back in his chair. “Everyone sees a louche wastrel, and realizes too late that they were dealing with a veritable assassin of hopes and dreams.”

“Watch out Harald,” said Sam darkly.

“Barring my friends of course!” Vic leaned forward swiftly to smack Harald on the knee. “Now eat up, everyone. Tomorrow we go a-delving.”

Harald ate three full plates. He noticed that Nessa barely touched her food. Instead she took sips of her wine and fidgeted, her knee bouncing, endlessly curling her hair behind her ear before she excused herself to go to bed early.

Vic watched her go, his expression turning sour.

“She’s not broken the terms,” said Harald quietly.

“Emotional intensity is a trigger for glory cravings.” Vic sighed and took up his fork. “Good or bad. That’s what makes it so pernicious. She’s already shrugged off the worst of the physical symptoms, but the prospect of the dive tomorrow is working her up.”

“Should we be taking her then?” asked Harald.

“She’s a Level 4 Bladeweaver.” Vic pushed his food around the plate. “Without her I’d be far less assured of bringing back a good haul for Countess Sonora. And of protecting you two chickies.”

“She’s not a child, Harald.” Sam’s voice was low. “It’s… admirable that you want to protect her, but she has to decide she wants this.”

Harald nodded, staring after the departed Nessa. The new, practical, hard-edged element of his personality acknowledged the cold truth of the situation.

But another part of him, something deeper, something more perceptive, wanted her to pull through.

Not just because he’d had a crush on her for years, nor just because she was beautiful and mysterious and appealed to his desire to be a savior.

But because of her potential.

Like called to like, and he could sense her immense capacity for growth, for mastery, for dominion.

If she could fight as she did now while laboring under the weight of glory addiction and pain, what could she do if liberated and freed to soar?

Harald ate in ruminative silence as Vic held forth on what they should expect on the 4th Level, his own experiences there, and the tactics they should employ.

But none of that would matter if Nessa was missing in the morning.

Vic wouldn’t escort the pair of them alone.

Sam watched Harald warily as they tidied up the dishes, and when the time came to say goodnight, she bumped his shoulder with her fist. “Stay focused, yes? We’re about to take a major step tomorrow. We need to keep sharp.”

“Right,” he said, knowing he wasn’t convincing her.

They locked the doors, blew out the lanterns, and retreated to their rooms just as Tenth Bell rang.

Harald didn’t get undressed. Instead, he waited for half a bell, descended to the gym to collect some items, then rose to the entrance hall, and there sat in the chair closest to the front door, crossed his arms, and settled in to wait.

Eleventh Bell rang.

The darkness was near absolute.

The old manor house settled, making strange clicking and groaning sounds as the old timbers accepted the coolness of the night.

Harald’s thoughts wandered. He thought of the coming raid. Of his last raid. Of Vorakhar, of Yeoric.

He thought of Sam’s resolute conviction. Of Vic’s mercurial support. Of Ustim’s betrayal, of the wide world contained within Flutic’s walls that he knew so little about.

And then, finally, he heard a soft tread on the staircase, so quiet that he almost missed it.

Harald raised his head but couldn’t make anything out in the dark, so, when he judged the moment appropriate, he bent down and pressed the button at the back of his father’s scale-lamp.

It blossomed to life, bathing the entrance hall in golden radiance.

Nessa stood frozen on the steps, dressed in her leather armor, boots in hand, her longsword buckled at her hip.

Her eyes were wide with shock.

“Evening, Nessa,” said Harald.

She straightened from her crouch, a blush rising to her pale cheeks. “Harald. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

She studied him, then descended the remaining steps with a light tread. “I was just heading out for some fresh air. The rain’s stopped. I’ve always enjoyed walking the streets after they’ve been washed clean.”

Harald rose to his feet, tired, reluctant, resolved.

“You needn’t have worried.” Her tone was as light as her tread, her smile amused. “I assure you I can handle myself against any dangers in the Angelic Quarter.”

Harald crossed his arms and held her gaze in silence.

She flushed again and glanced away, then inhaled and took an experimental step forward. “So—I’ll be going? You need not stay up.”

“You’re obviously free to leave.” Harald reached for one of the objects he’d propped against the wall. “Those were the terms. But I’m asking you to change your mind. Asking you to stay, Nessa.”

She glanced at the wooden practice blade in his hands. “What’s that for?”

“This one’s for you.” He extended it to her, hilt first.

Her voice grew sharp. “I don’t need it.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

For a long moment they stood thus, till at last she took the blade.

He picked up the second and moved to stand before the front door. “Consider this a rider to our contract. You want to leave? That’s fine. I won’t call out for Vic, won’t shout for Sam. You just need to get past me first.”

Nessa raised a dark brow. “Get past you?”

Carefully, wearily, Harald sank into the Plow, the dull tip of his wooden sword pointing at her face. “That’s right.”

“This is ridiculous.” She set the wooden blade upon the closest chair. “Get out of the way.”

“You come any closer and I’ll strike.”

Her brows lowered. “All I need do is draw my actual blade and that toy of yours will be sliced to pieces.”

“You could slice me to pieces while you’re at it. But that’s not necessary.” He nodded to the wooden sword. “That should suffice.” Now he smiled. “Unless you’re scared?”

“Oh by the angels,” muttered Nessa. “I’ll ask one last time. Please move?”

Harald settled himself a little deeper into the stance. “I’m kind of comfortable here. You’ll forgive me if I say no.”

“Fine.” She snatched up the wooden practice sword, twirled it around so quickly that the air moaned, then snapped it upright into a Plow stance of her own. “This is ridiculous. But if you want me to put you in your place, I shall.”

“Come on then, Nessa.” Harald’s heart began to beat faster. “Defeat me, and your life is yours to ruin. But if you can’t, you’ll go back to your room.”

Nessa shook her head pityingly. “This isn’t even a competition. But since you insist. My apologies in advance for what you’re about to suffer.”

Harald made no response. He simply flared his fingers on the leather grip, and watched Nessa glide toward him with murder in her eyes.