Harald forced himself to breathe easy, to remain calm, shoulders back, blade steady. The scale-light gleamed down the length of his wooden longsword. It was ridiculous to stand against Nessa, a Level 4 Bladeweaver.

But he didn’t step aside.

She approached him with furious directness, goaded now into finally raising her blade, and when she came in range she snapped it into a thrust.

It was easy to parry, but then her sword swirled around his, guiding it effortlessly away, and stabbed into his shoulder hard enough to drive him back a step.

“This isn’t a contest,” Nessa snapped, stepping back. “I could break every bone in your body, your clavicles, your ribs, your jaw. Get the hell out of my way, Harald.”

Who rolled his shoulder around and settled into his stance again. “I’m still here.”

She rolled her eyes. “You insist on a lesson? Very well.”

Again she stepped forward, and now her strikes came too fast for him to follow. A blow to his forearm, a rap across his knuckles, a strike against his thigh, followed by a thrust just below his sternum.

Harald sucked in air as he staggered back, pain blossoming across his body, but though his hand stung and the great muscle of his thigh was spasming, he didn’t drop the sword. Instead he shook out his hand, forced a tight breath, and stepped forward again.

“What do you want?” Nessa’s frustration boiled over. “Have you become a masochist? You want me to hurt you?”

“I want you to go back to your room.”

“It’s not happening.” She raised her jaw. “You’re just pissing me off. We’re not all like you, Harry-boy. Perfect like tales of redemption. Some of us can’t escape the sucking mud.”

“It’s all a choice.”

Her eyes flared in fury. “No. It’s not.”

And now she did hurt him. A savage demolition that involved a series of brutal strikes. Harald swung his sword back and forth, desperate to parry something, but she read his every movement and struck expertly through his flailings.

His wooden blade clattered to the ground as he sank to one knee, head ringing from a blow across the temple. He reeled, fought the urge to keel over. Had he not become familiar with nausea and pain over the past few weeks, he might have conceded right there.

But instead he blinked away the dazed blurriness of his vision, groped with numb fingers for his sword, and raised it shaking before him.

“You’re kidding me!” Nessa’s bark of laughter was acidic with shocked disdain. “What do you think is going to happen here, Harald? That you’re going to redeem poor little me? That your nobility will melt my heart, wash away my weakness, and leave me in love with you?” She pointed her blade at this face. “If you force me to attack you again, I will knock you the fuck out.”

“Go for it,” he rasped, and with great effort, fighting against the stinging pains and throbbing aches, he rose to both feet.

Nessa just stared at him. “Do you think this is some prelude to romance, Harry? I could never love you. You’re not my type, with that face, that… body.” She waved her sword at him. “You’re just a pathetic, spoiled, rich brat whom we deluded for too long into thinking he was special. You’re not. It’s too late for you. You’re too old, too weak, too…” She sneered. “Get out of my way, Harald.

Her words stung. Not that he’d believed any of that, not consciously. But still they hurt, like dagger thrusts into his chest.

Harald closed his eyes for a moment, caught his breath. Maybe she was right. About him, who he was.

But that didn’t change why he’d come down here.

He tightened his grip on his longsword and raised the tip, settling into the Plow once more.

“Fine.” Nessa’s expression grew cold. “Fine. Let’s find the limit of your tolerance for stupidity.”

And this time she did hurt him. Not raps and pokes, not sharp cracks and surgical strikes, but hard, bloody, two-handed blows.

Harald tried not to cry out, but the pain was too much. He staggered back as she cracked his ribs, struck his knee hard enough to make his leg buckle, stabbed him in the gut with enough force to make him gag. The final blow to the head made everything go white.

When he blinked back to awareness, he was laid out across the floor, his mouth tasting of blood.

He blinked.

The scale-lantern still glowed peacefully.

Turning, he realized he’d blacked for just a second.

Nessa was opening the front door.

His thoughts were scrambled. His ribs flared with pain as he inhaled. His fingers were already swollen, might be broken. Blood was running down the side of his face, wet and filling the seam of his lips.

Gasping, trembling, he pushed himself up to all fours. His left arm was numb. It would be so easy to just rest. To let go.

But even as Nessa opened the front door, he closed his left hand around his practice blade and rose unsteadily to his feet.

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

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Strength has risen from 8 to 9

Your Dexterity has risen from 8 to 9

Your Constitution has risen from 8 to 9

“Nessa.” His voice sounded weird, as if it came from down the length of an echoey tunnel. “We’re not done here.”

She wheeled around and stared at him. Emotions flickered across her beautiful face. Disbelief, horror, exasperation, and under it all, something raw, something pleading, something vulnerable.

“Stop, Harald. Just stop.”

By the Fallen Angel it hurt. Wincing, he closed his swollen fingers around the hilt and raised the tip. Sank slowly into the stance. His right eye was swelling shut.

“You can change,” he rasped. The words came of their own accord, floating to him from the void. “You can buy that white dress. You can walk into the Conservatory. You just need to want it.”

She laughed, raising her eyes to the ceiling as she blotted sudden tears away, and then she was upon him, dashing his sword from his clumsy grip with a smack of her open hand.

The blade clattered to the ground.

Harald bent laboriously and picked it back up.

“Stop,” she pleaded. “Just let me go.”

“I believe in you,” said Harald. He shuffled around to position himself between her and the door. “Even if you don’t.”

“But why?” Now the pleading was there, on the surface. “I’ve done nothing but belittle and manipulate you, use you, spend your scales. Why are you doing this?”

Harald took a moment to find the right words. It felt like dredging up unyielding blocks of wood from a deep, sucking mire. “Nothing is going to stop me from rising. Becoming the best. I will become unstoppable. But before, I was… wounded. Turned against myself. I lacked… clarity.”

By the angels it hurt. Blood was running into his closing eye.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“That clarity is mine now. I see what I want, and I will have it.” He raised his wooden blade and pointed it at Nessa’s heart. “I want you, Nessa. By my side. With Sam. With Vic. Rising. Climbing. Conquering. We can do this together. We can remake this world. We can remake ourselves. You have that hunger. You have the talent. It’s just turned against you. I can help.”

The words were coming from far away. He was barely aware of what he was saying. But his iron will, his Ego of 18, kept him locked and focused, even as his body yearned for oblivion.

“I can lend you strength until you find your own.” There. He’d said his piece. Dry-swallowing, he slowly settled back into the Plow. Dropped the hilt to his hip, tried to keep the point from wavering. “So come at me, Nessa. Strike me down. Or you can give yourself a chance. You can step back from the abyss.”

Nessa’s gray eyes filled with tears, brimmed, and ran down her pale cheeks. Those on her left cheek briefly followed the twin scars that ran obliquely across, then brimmed again and resumed falling.

“You bastard,” she whispered. She snatched up her wooden blade, raised it overhead as if to strike him down, a final, terrible blow, but then she bowed her head.

For a moment she stood thus, shoulders shuddering, and then she lowered her sword.

Painfully, slowly, Harald straightened, lowered his blade. He stepped toward her, extended his hand. “Come on, Nessa. We can walk this path together.”

Her blade slowly sank as if her arms were gradually losing all strength, and then it slipped from her nerveless fingers to clatter upon the marble floor.

“You bastard,” she whispered again, then inhaled sharply and raised her face just enough to study him through her locks of black hair, eyes glittering.

Harald held her gaze, hand extended.

“You’re making a mistake.” She ran her wrist across her wet cheeks. “I’ll betray you. Hurt you. Disappoint you.”

Harald said nothing.

“I’m broken, Harald. Some wounds you don’t recover from. Some sins. You don’t know anything about me.”

Harald’s hand shook, but didn’t drop.

She glanced at it, then gave a despairing laugh. “How the world has turned! To think that you’re offering to help me. I really have hit rock bottom.”

And she took his hand.

They didn’t so much shake as simply clasp, and then she released him and shook her head. “You look terrible.”

Harald smiled wearily and moved over to a chair. “Thanks.”

Nessa hesitated, hand moving to her belt. She bit her lower lip, then drew out a scale. It was a Silver Starburst, its pale gold curvature catching the light and shimmering with an explosion of iridescent hues. “Here. Take this.”

Harald eyed it, then her.

“Take it,” she said, tone growing sharp as she thrust it at him. “I apparently don’t need it any more. It’ll heal you, some.”

A Silver Starburst was worth ten Copper Moons. He took it, turned it about. Like all scales, it was smooth when rubbed in one direction, abrasive in the opposite. Its underside was creamy white and nacreous. No larger than the circle formed by thumb and forefinger, it felt deceptively fragile.

Harald glanced up, caught Nessa’s stormy gaze, but she couldn’t hold it. Crossed her arms and looked away, impatient, spots of color appearing on her waxen cheeks.

This scale represented more than ten Copper Moons.

“Thanks,” he whispered, and absorbed it.

The act was simple. You simply willed the scale to enter you, to pass through your skin. It glowed brightly, flaring gold, then faded from view as it melded with his essence.

Warmth washed over him, as if someone had opened an oven. Pain melted away, tight knots and abrasions, throbbing aches and snarled muscles.

His breathing deepened and smoothed out. His right eye partially opened. It wasn’t a complete healing; even a simple beating took at least a Golden Dawn to be healed away completely. But the Silver cut the pain and damage by half, and that was more than enough.

Harald stood. “We’d better rest up. Tomorrow is a big day.”

Again Nessa laughed, the sound mocking as she hugged herself. “Right. Our Level 4 delve.”

He considered her. The old Harald would have offered a drink, eager to explore the new space that their friendship had moved into.

The old Harald wouldn’t have shut the fuck up.

Instead, he collected both practice blades and picked up the lantern. “I’m heading up.”

She glanced at him, surprised. It was clear that he was now willing to leave her downstairs, unguarded. She’d no doubt expected him to insist she come with him.

Hand shaking, Nessa curled a lock of hair behind one ear and gave a jerky nod. “All right.”

Harald took the lead, limping up the stairs, and after a moment Nessa followed.

He led her to her room and stepped aside, lantern held down low.

Nessa put her hand on the door then looked at him. A speculative, probing look, wary and hesitant.

“Good night, Nessa.” And with that he turned away.

He felt her gaze between his shoulder blades till he turned the corner in the hallway. He didn’t know what she’d expected, feared, thought he might ask, but it didn’t matter.

He’d done what he could.

Now he had to rest, to sleep deep, to recover.

Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

He let himself into his room, got into his night clothes, and turned off the precious lamp. Lay back on the covers, fingers interlaced behind his head, and stared up at the gloom.

Then, hesitant, he summoned his window.

Strength: 9

Dexterity: 9

Constitution: 9

Ego: 18

Presence: 9

The numbers frightened him. They were exhilarating, yes, but the abnormality of his growth was starting to verge on the impossible.

He was just on the cusp of being as physically formidable as any active, strong person out there. A rugged day laborer, a promising raider, a hearty guard.

And he felt the difference. Three weeks of extreme exercise couldn’t have resulted in this rapid change. His muscles felt heavy and dense, as if infused with mercury. His step had grown lighter, his tolerance for effort, extreme.

In two weeks he’d blasted past the results of his previous efforts, the three months that had barely edged him up into the 7’s.

The growth in his physical stats had taken all his attention thus far, but now he focused on his Ego. That 18.

It’s what had allowed him to rise time and again to confront Nessa. More, it had removed his doubt.

He considered this realization.

The odds against him were astronomical. A little under two months remained for him to overcome Yeoric. He had no Class, no Ascended Thrones, nothing.

And yet he hadn’t doubted.

Hadn’t let his crumbling familial fortunes dissuade him.

Ego 18.

Was it his, or on loan from Vorakhar?

I can lend you strength until you find your own.

Was it his strength he was lending, or a demon’s?

Unable to resolve the question, he dismissed his window and turned onto his side. Despite the Silver, his body still hurt.

He needed to sleep.

But no matter how hard he quested for oblivion, it felt like forever before it came to claim him.

* * *

The storm had abated to a fine drizzle when Harald awoke at Sixth Bell. They’d agreed to conserve their strength and skip the run that morning, so he instead set about doing a stretching routine, trying to unlock the residual aches from the night before.

“Breakfast is ready!” Sam called from the stairwell, just before Seventh Bell, and that prompted him to at wash his face and dress.

The swelling of his right eye had gone down, but his face was still discolored, with mottled greens and blues around his eye and a red scab visible across his temple through his short hair.

Ah well. Not as if he needed to worry about his looks.

He descended to find Vic helping Sam in serving the food, freshly bathed and with his golden hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“There he is—Harry!” Vic froze in surprise. “Whatever happened to you last night? Did you try to seduce a mule?”

Sam turned, saucepan in hand, and her eyes widened as well.

Before she could protest Harald fended them off with raised palms. “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks.”

Nessa appeared in the kitchen doorway, but drew back, suddenly nervous.

“I decided to try my luck with Gustav one last time,” Harald said, moving to pull out his chair. “I thought it worth the beating. If I could find the vault before our adventure today, I could possibly gain some Artifacts, perhaps even Ascend my Throne with enough scales…”

Vic stared at him, deadpan. “So you brutalized yourself instead.”

Harald shrugged. “Nothing a solid breakfast won’t help. Morning, Nessa.”

Nessa slunk into the kitchen like a shadow. She looked even worse than the night before, exhausted and drawn, but she gave a pained smile and sat.

Sam frowned. “You both look like you need a week’s rest, not a dungeon delve.”

“Would that the world gave us what we needed,” said Harald, shoveling scrambled eggs with mushroom and cherry tomatoes onto his plate.

“He’s turned into a philosopher,” said Vic, pouring out glasses of juice. “How fortunate for the rest of us. Of course, had you found the vault, I would hope you roused the rest of us before diving headfirst into the chests of scales. You have debts now, you understand.”

“Of course,” said Harald as Sam sighed dramatically.

They ate quickly, Vic encouraging them to put away as much food as possible, though Nessa once more barely nibbled on her own portion.

Then they rose, took a half bell to don all their gear, and met in the entrance hall.

Harald had donned his leather armor once more, and buckled his fancy longsword at his hip, though now its ostentatious hilt and the large gem in the pommel seemed ridiculous.

Sam was suited up in her striking armor, but was staring at the marble floor, and only too late did Harald see some dried blood splatter from where he’d taken his beating.

She glanced up at him, frowning, but he gave a quick shake of his head. For a second he thought she’d ask regardless, but then she subsided, turning to glare at Nessa instead.

They donned hooded cloaks and headed out. Vic offered to pay for a carriage, and they jostled and rode down to the Dungeon Plaza. Flutic was gray and overcast, but its streets and avenues yet bustled; perhaps the cries from the costermongers were less enthusiastic, but after days of a veritable storm, this drizzle felt like a reprieve and the whole city seemed intent on making the most of it.

Vic was in fine spirits, and regaled them nonstop with ribald tales of his adventures when he’d first entered the dungeon some four years ago. Harald was sure half the stories were complete fabrications, but they kept the atmosphere light, and given Sam’s intensity and Nessa’s distracted stare out the window, it was all for the best.

They spilled out into the dungeon plaza. The Humble Petitioner’s line was short; few wished to stand all day in the rain. But a decent line was being quickly processed by the main gate where raiders with writs were intent on starting their delves early in the morning.

A group of Nihtscua warriors seemed indifferent to the rain, their striking warpaint resistant to the drizzle, their wolf fur mantles bulking them up and making them seem all the more feral and alien.

Beyond them stood a contingent from House Emberfell, distinctive in their fiery orange tabards and cloaks of slate blue. A trio of elves were next, elegant and ethereal in their mithril chainmail that hugged their frames like tailored clothing, each wearing an identical cloak of thick white fur trimmed with leaves of metallic green.

Harald was studying the elves, fascinated as always, when a voice rang out behind him, hearty with cruel amusement.

“Look who it is! Lucine, it seems Harald’s made new friends. Do you think they’ll treat him as well as we did?”

A cold anger caused his breath to catch, and slowly, deliberately, Harald turned to stare at the group that had stepped up behind them.

Derrick with his shit-eating grin was looking back at his companions. Yeoric in his half-plate, Lucine the half-elf, and dour Gazurn with a new warhammer slung across his broad back.