Vic left that evening on undisclosed business.

Nessa was long gone by that point.

Sam had departed without saying another word.

Harald fixed himself a bowl of leftovers, poured himself a glass of water from the bucket he fetched from the well, and sat before the parlor fire, slowly shoveling food into his mouth.

He wasn’t hungry, but he knew he needed to eat. To consume fuel for his body.

The house was empty, and sounded like it. Even as it settled down for the night, timbers creaking, the tenor of the silence was different. The feel.

He was alone.

Harald stared into the fire, only rising on occasion to toss in another log.

He didn’t want to spend the evening going over everything that had happened. Searching his actions for mistakes, for signs of demonic influence.

Maybe it was there, maybe it wasn’t.

But what was done was done.

Instead, he turned his thoughts to what he could do differently moving forward.

The key element was to hew to discipline. There were no shortcuts, no easy way to achieve the power and dominance he desired without constant, hard practice. His body had come a long way, but if anything it just showed him how much farther he had to go.

And Nessa had put to rest any illusions he might have had over his own lethality in battle.

If he wanted to become strong—which he did, now more than ever—then he had to continue what he’d been doing, and if anything, push himself harder.

As for his friends?

Harald finished his bowl and set it aside, sitting back in his armchair and lacing his fingers beneath his chin.

He wanted them in his life. For many reasons. Selfish reasons, practical reasons, mostly, but the most powerful one, the foundation to his desire, was because he liked them. He wanted them around. He wanted to share his victories with them, his meals, his nights, his wins, his losses.

He cared for Sam, for Nessa, even for Vic.

So he would continue training as before. He would push himself to the breaking point.

But with one difference.

Moving forward, he would take time to do as Vic had suggested. He’d widen the scope of his vision, and he’d act with integrity, would ask himself what his friends needed, try to learn what they were struggling with, seek to help them on their journey as they’d been helping him.

Harald smirked and shook his head. When he put it that way, it came down to one simple thing: he’d try to be a better friend.

And if his Soul Nature fought him on that?

Then he would fight his nature.

*

Furthak’s Smithy was a rambling series of connected buildings, workshops, and storage chambers. It looked disreputable at a glance if you were just striding down Fire Lane; a mass of low roofed, ad hoc construction that appeared cobbled together over time, expanding to fill a whole city block just as flotsam might accrue on the shore after a wreck at sea.

Smoke rose from dozens of chimneys, and the clatter of hammers formed a constant din. There was no inviting entrance, no polished sign; instead there were a number of dark doorways through which a constant trickle of customers passed, turning knowingly and with confidence from the lane to enter Furthak’s domain.

Sam hitched her pack and hesitated. A fine misty rain was falling, enough to make the walls glisten and the lane liquefy into mud. It had permeated her woolen cloak, wet her face, and soaked through the tops of her boots. Within was warmth, friendship, good cheer.

But still Sam hesitated, backing up against the wall of the Sodden Goat tavern that stood on the other side of the lane from the smithy.

She hefted her pack. Within was her ruined armor and enough scales to convince Furthak—or one of his apprentices—to start working on it.

But why was her heart hammering so?

She’d stood in her room at the manor, furious at Harald, at Nessa, at the world, at herself. Determined to head out into Flutic, to explore, to spend scales frivolously for the first time in her life. Had wandered to her square little window and stared out over the estate wall at the rooftops and chimneys and distant towers.

Go where? Spend her scales on what?

The very thought of picking a tavern at random, finding a seat at the bar or asking for a solitary table at which to drink a cup of ale made her feel nauseous.

But she had to go out. She had to do something.

Because if she didn’t, if she couldn’t, then she’d have to admit there was something profoundly wrong with her, and that was a subject she wanted to avoid as strenuously as she could.

Which was why she’d packed up her armor, elated at that thought of visiting Furthak first. It gave her a goal, a practical and needed errand to run, and then, after that was taken care of, well. She’d figure the rest of the day out from there.

But now she stood in the damp and the rain, armor heavy over one shoulder, frowning and uncertain.

She’d vowed to think things over.

But was having her armor repaired an answer to questions she hadn’t even dared ask herself yet?

The longer she stood there, the more pathetic she felt, the more lost, the more forlorn.

A large, heavyset man came stomping down the center of the lane, puffing on a pipe, the cowl of his cloak pulled low over his bearded face.

Sam shrank back.

Furthak himself.

A heavy hammer hung from his broad, tooled belt, and his hands were the largest she’d ever seen, his knuckles like chestnuts, the veins on the back like earthworms, his palm callused and creased like a giant leather glove.

Furthak was making a beeline for one of the entrances, but some instinct caused him to stop, turn, and stare right at her.

Caught.

Sam squared her shoulders and forced a smile.

“Sam?” His rumble like was the thunder that had been missing from the storm. “That you?”

“Hello Furthak.” She pushed off the wall and stepped up, trying for nonchalance. “You available for some more work?”

His frown had terrified at her at first. Great craggy brows that bristled with red and gray hairs, his eyes sunken but sharp like a bird of prey’s, his cheeks red as if burnished by the flames he’d spent his life mastering, his beard more iron now than red, with its tip singed and his mustache hiding his mouth. It was a striking visage, all hard angles and obdurate planes, and she’d barely been able to squeak her replies to his questions when they first met.

Now? Now his glare felt strangely like home, and for some reason that made her feel even sadder.

“More business? That why you’re quailing against the Sodden Goat like a virgin on her wedding night?”

“That many brides visit the Goat before their husband’s beds?” she asked lightly. Deflection, she’d learned with Furthak, was key.

“Ha. Perhaps they should, at that. Come on then.”

She followed his broad back into the smithy. He led her through a warren of storage rooms filled with raw materials and finished goods, grinding and polishing rooms, fitting chambers, through the open air smelting yard, past a couple of smaller forges being worked by his apprentices, and then at last to the heart of the smithy, the his main forge where his dwarven anvil sat resplendent.

Several apprentices were present, tending the large brick oven where endless coals smoldered, or tinkering away at the workbenches. They called out their greetings, but Furthak ignored them, moving over to one of his benches as he pulled off his cloak and tossed it at a youth who rushed up just in time.

“Blasted weather,” he muttered, wiping at his face and turning to regard Sam with a gaze that was far too sharp. “Nobody in their right mind would be out in it.”

“Unless their need was sharp,” said Sam, setting her armor on his bench. “I’ve bad news about my commission.”

Furthak grunted and undid the straps with a surprisingly delicate touch, given how thick his fingers were. Sam winced when he drew out the armor, setting it on the bench piece by piece without comment till it lay before him in all its ruined glory.

“Hmmph,” he grunted, puffing on his pipe. He turned over the partially melted cuirass, then ran his fingers over the torn chain and leather. “You told me you’d not be wearing this in earnest for years to come.”

“Things changed.” Sam didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she linked them behind her back. “My life changed. Master Darrowdelve—Harald—ended my oath.”

Furthak glanced sidelong at her from under his bushy brows, not saying anything as he took her measure.

Sam tried for a smile, but her mouth felt tight, the expression strained.

“Did he now?” Furthak nodded slowly, still studying her. “So you donned your armor and went straight for the dungeon?”

“You know it’s always been my dream.” She gave a helpless shrug. “Harald changed after his first delve. He became more serious, more committed to training, to making something of himself. But he was so lost that I felt—well. I decided to train with him, to help him earn a class. To go into the dungeon and make my own scales.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“You’re not in need of scales. That’s what you told me when you badgered me into making this. You had more than enough to cover the costs and keep yourself in comfort.”

“Well, yes. It wasn’t just for the scales.” She shrugged one shoulder, feeling herself seven years old before his ornery stare. “I’ve just always wanted to be a raider.”

“Hmmph.” He ran his thumb over the ripples that had formed in the steel. “You survived this blow?”

“I shouldn’t have.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” He walked around the scarred bench and took up a paldron, turning it over in the red light. “He ask you to help him? Offer to pay?”

“Harald? No. I was the one who offered to help him.”

Furthak’s face was as expressive as a granite cliff.

“He’s like a brother to me,” she protested. “He’s a good person. Always has been, in his way. And Darrowdelve Manor has been my home. It’s where I grew up. When I saw how much trouble he was in, and how he wanted what I wanted, it felt right to just offer to help. To train with him.”

Furthak nodded slowly, but she could tell he wasn’t agreeing with her, just taking in her words. “A good person, you say. Like a brother.”

Sam nodded.

Furthak set the paldron down. “Follow me, Sam.”

He led her out of the smithy, through a dark hallway that opened into the display hall where high-end products were showcased. Past the mannequins in armor, the weapon racks, the cases for smaller, more cunningly crafted items, and into the office.

She’d never been in here.

The place was a mess. It looked like it had been ransacked, with piles of papers everywhere, hammers, crates of supplies, dirty plates, endless rolls of parchment, and a rich and redolent smell that was part iron furnace tang, part pipe smoke.

Furthak rounded his massive desk and sank into his much abused armchair with a sigh. Sam drifted to stand before him till he grunted in annoyance and gestured at one of the chairs. She moved a box of rusted ingots to the floor, and sat as he poured a finger of amber liquid into two metal cups.

“Here.” He set the cup before her, then sat back. “I was oathbound once. I ever tell you that?”

Sam’s cup froze halfway to her lips. “You were?”

“Aye, in Dumrûn. I traveled there when I was young, petitioned to learn the ancient arts from the dwarven smithlords themselves. It took me almost a year to get an audience with a Forge Father. I impressed him enough with what I’d learned that he agreed to take me on if became one of his oathsworn.”

Furthak was staring into his cup, his brow corrugated in thought, but now his gaze flicked up to her, quick as a lash. “You know that the practice of oathbinding originated with the dwarves, aye?”

“Yes,” said Sam quietly. “My father told me as much.”

“He said he’d teach me in exchange for my unpaid and unquestioning labor. I asked how long I’d be oathbound for, and he said no set duration of time. That I’d earn my freedom the day I presented him with something worthy of a dwarf. Seeing as that matched my ambitions, I agreed.”

Sam sipped from the tin cup. It was whisky, harsh and rough in comparison to what was stocked at Darrowdelve. She fought the urge to wince and continued listening intently.

“For the first two years he wouldn’t let me close to the forge. I swept his quarters, I mucked out his latrine, I carried smithing dross and dumped it into the chasms. I grew livid. Thought I’d been tricked, but being oathbound, what could I do?”

Sam’s eyes widened.

“Eventually of course the old bastard gave me access, and seven years later I presented him with a horse shoe he approved of. That earned me my freedom. He offered to continue my training, to start teaching me actual secrets, perhaps even how to summon the Earthblood. We’d grown close, somehow, over those last few years. I was thirty-nine, and he’d been almost all of the company I’d kept for near on a decade. It got so that his praise could make me cry. His criticism made me doubt my self-worth. There were dark weeks there, when I thought I’d never amount to nothing, when I tossed the smithing dross into the chasms, and thought of tossing myself right after.”

He shook his head as if in disbelief at himself, and tossed the contents of the cup back in one go.

Set the cup down with a click, and fixed her with his piercing stare.

“The reason I’m telling you this old story is because on the day he took that fucking horse shoe and declared it fit work for an apprentice dwarf, I felt such relief that I near passed out, and mixed in with it, this gratitude that made me want to bawl. On some twisted level I’d come to love the old bastard. To anticipate his needs, to understand his crankiness, to forgive the endless abuse I suffered at his hands. When he made me that offer, I felt honored in the extreme. And I almost accepted. But I didn’t. I thanked him, packed up my meager belongings, and set off that very same day for Flutic. You know why?”

Sam couldn’t swallow. Could barely breathe. “No. Why?”

Furthak leaned forward, his brow lowering, his stare ferocious. “Because that bastard wasn’t my father, and he wasn’t my friend. The love I felt for him was that of a beaten dog that’s grateful each night his master forgets the whip. Being oathbound poisons you, Sam. It twists you. I fell under that yoke when I was thirty, a man already made. You? You were born into it.”

Furthak sat back, his chair protesting.

Sam’s breathing was deep and rapid. She felt dazed, felt as if she were watching this conversation take place from a yard above and behind herself.

“I… I know what you mean, obviously, I’ve heard, I mean, I’ve lived that life myself, and… and I know that I should have done more already for myself, should have, I don’t know, gone out and had fun or something, but I don’t even know what that means, to have fun, and Harald, Haralds’ a good man, a genuinely good person, he freed me, I was the one who offered—”

Tears were brimming in her eyes, the words spilling from her lips without her knowing what she was trying to say.

Furthak just frowned at her.

Sam cut herself off, sat tall and stiff and panicked.

“Listen, Sam.” He sighed. “You’re a free woman. You need to sit with that. You need to decide what that means. But immediately deciding to train and serve your former master doesn’t sound right, doesn’t sound healthy, and doesn’t even sound like a decision. You want to raid? Well and good. You want to raid with Harald? Well, that’s problematic, but perhaps you can find a way. But you need to take time to decide how to do it on your terms, not his. You need to interrogate your own instincts, because they’ll play you false.”

“Yes.” Sam took a deep shuddering breath. “I just… I just don’t know where to start.”

“That’s easy. Do nothing. Literally. Where you living now?”

“I’m…” She hated to say it. “I’m still in Darrowdelve.”

“Same room?”

She nodded mutely.

“Oh, Sam.” His dolorous gaze made her want to run. “I’ll fix your armor, but on the condition that you get yourself a good room of your own. I’ve a friend who runs a right proper inn called the Flowering Bower. It’s in a nice part of town, bordering with the Angelus. You get yourself a room there, and think things over.”

“Get a room? To think?”

“Aye.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes. Don’t mind the expense, I’ll speak with my friend. You journal, Sam?”

“I… yes. Mostly about raiding, notes from the Gazette, things like that.”

“This time, journal your thoughts. Your feelings. Interrogate them. Eat, drink, write, sleep, and just be. Breathe a little with no place to go.”

Sam nodded slowly. The very idea felt… revolutionary. “All right. But Harald won’t know—”

“Listen to me, Sam.” Furthak leaned forward, his stare as intimidating as the void. “This is your time. Harald can fucking wait.”

Sam’s eyes opened wide.

“This is your time. When you’re ready, you’ll know what to do. But don’t leave the inn till you’re well and truly ready, or as close as you can figure. Can you agree to that?”

Sam fought to catch her breath, couldn’t. So instead she gave a jerky nod.

“Good.” He refilled their tin cups, then raised his own in a toast. “A final drink, then. A toast. To being our own selves.”

“To being our own selves,” whispered Sam, and clinked her cup against his own.

*

Nessa strode down Dark Lane, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword, the other holding a cheroot just shy of her lips.

Dark Lane. An ironic name if ever there was one. Colored lanterns burned bright behind every window, candles lit the balconies that nearly touched overhead, and those who walked its winding length were gaudily dressed as if for a parade.

Dark Lane. Not named for the quality of its illumination, but rather for the manner of deeds that took place behind its many doors.

One idiot catcalled Nessa as she strode by. She didn’t even glance his way, heard more than saw a companion smack the back of the man’s head, heard the whispered warning.

She was known here.

Not a regular.

But a Bladeweaver of her caliber tended to make an impression. Especially when her looks drew eyes as much as the painted men and women who leaned over the balconies, ringing the tinkling bells attached to their wrists as they laughed their husky laughs.

Dark Lane. The air reeked of mud, piss, yearnsmoke, cheap perfume, and desperation. Every corner, every doorway, every stoop featured poverty on the make, enterprising souls looking to capitalize on desires, whether for flesh, drugs, punishment, or simple entertainment.

Nessa navigated the crowd gathered outside the Gallows Theater with its macabre and morbid performances that took place on the infamous basement stage. Winked at the few acquaintances worth being acknowledged. Ignored the greetings of everyone else. Kept her gaze straight ahead.

She gave an up-nod to Berkus, the half-giant bouncer who sat near doubled over in the entrance to the Chopping Block. He grunted in response and pushed open the narrow door with a hand that nearly spanned the five vertical boards painted black and splattered with red paint.

Nessa passed into the dark hallway, descended to the basement level, and crossed to the bar. Familiar faces appraised her, smiles insincere, eyes like those of dead fish.

But tonight she wanted to be left alone.

Had no tolerance for what at other times might be amusing small talk.

She’d only drunk half her wine when Tibbits appeared by her side, his incongruously white hair cropped close, his handsome face pulled into a playful pout, his outfit a mockingly torn replica of what the nobles were wearing at court.

Which was funny, given his pedigree.

“Nessa, my sweetest love. You’ve returned. Can my heart handle such a thrill?”

“You tell me, Tibbits.” She blew out a ring of smoke and turned to face him.

“Oh, she’s come for business, not pleasure.” Tibbits smile glistened in the dark. “And so soon? Didn’t you darken my doorway but a few nights ago?”

“You’re keeping tabs?”

“Oh no. I’m not one to judge. Care to follow me?”

Nessa felt her chest grow tight. “Lead on.”

Tibbits led her to the back and into a tiny hallway that was all doors. Each was painted with the sigil of a major Flutic House, and he knocked on the dragon head of Drakenhart before cracking the door open, peered inside, then opened it with greater authority.

“Make yourself at home, love.” He gestured grandly at the tiny setee that was squeezed against the back wall, a single lantern with purple-tinted light giving the small closet of a room an otherworldly feel. A circular table of black glass was set before it, and the smell of vomit hung thinly in the air.

Nessa grimaced, stepped in, turned, sat.

Tibbits closed the door behind him. “What caliber, dear?”

She dug out a Silver Starburst. Part of her spoils from their most recent delve. “Here you go.”

“Lovely.” Tibbits pulled a silver case, knelt before the table, and set it out between them. The inside of the lid was solid lead, scored with faint cuts, while the other half held a razor and five thin vials pressed between black velvet grooves.

With quick professionalism he cut her Silver to slivers on the lead, then drew out a small mortar and pestle that he used to grind it into a fine dust. Into this he squeezed several drops from the vials, and then he tapped out the final product onto a silver plate which he set before her.

“Pay on the way out, love.” He stood, snapping his case closed. “Take your time.”

And then he was gone.

Nessa’s stomach burned with acid.

She sat still, blade propped against the setee, hands on her knees.

The silver plate gleamed in the purple light.

Glory.

She couldn’t breathe.

Need had her by the throat. It was right there. She’d earned this.

She thought of Harald. His mooncalf face, his round features, his snaggly teeth. Once she’d felt little more than contempt doctored with a modicum of fondness for his earnestness.

Now?

Not contempt, that was for sure.

How he’d changed. That morning, as he’d dueled her, she’d caught a glimpse of something in his eyes. A severity, a shocking, murderous intent. He’d been swinging his sword like a stick, but his abilities, his focus, his ferocity—he had the makings of a real fighter.

Nessa hissed and bowed her head, digging her thumbs into her eyes.

All she had to do was take the glory.

So why was she thinking of Harald?

How he fought to carry those sandbags. How he drilled at all hours with the blade. His will, his intent, his focus. There was no denying it.

It was impressive.

A word she almost never used.

But now she understood why.

He was a demon’s plaything.

The words he’d spoken that night when he’d turned her back from the door had been lies.

Nessa stood, took two steps to the exit, turned to stare at the silver plate. The room was claustrophobic. She wanted to pace. To swing her sword.

He’d lied.

Hadn’t he?

She’d always held that actions spoke louder than words.

What did his actions say about him?

“Damn it,” she whispered, running her fingers through her hair. Why was she hesitating? She’d come here with one intent.

Resolved, she sat again, reached for the plate.

Saw Harald’s flat stare.

Not the stare of a child, or a fool, or a weak man, or a spoiled aristocratic brat.

His gaze spoke volumes as to who he was. Who he was becoming.

He’d not stopped her when she’d made her intentions clear that morning. Instead, he’d simply stared at her. A flat, measuring stare.

The same stare her swordsmaster used to regard her with when she cried that she couldn’t go on.

Daring her to do better. Be better.

“He lied,” she whispered.

What had she said to Harald that night?

You’re making a mistake. I’ll betray you. Hurt you. Disappoint you.

He’d not protested.

No, of course not, instead, he’d betrayed her.

Hadn’t he?

She set the plate down and buried her face in her hands.

“Get it together, Nessa.” Her whisper sounded like a prayer. “You don’t owe him anything. He’s just like the others. Just like all the others.”

But, she realized, she didn’t believe it.

She dropped her hands and stared at the glory. Pulled on her lower lip, then let out a cry and smacked the plate, knocking it and the drug aside.

“Fuck,” she moaned, turning away and snatching up her blade.

Two steps and she was out the door.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”