The next morning, I found myself back on the cathedral’s rooftop, staring down Salem’s dreaded obstacle course like it had personally insulted my mother. The air was cold enough to bite, the kind of cold that made you question whether your skin was still attached.
This was it — the last day before we set off on our two-day journey to Port Fallas, and my last chance to prove to myself that I could dismantle this monstrosity of a training gauntlet before the tournant. Tomorrow I’d be in a wagon, not a rooftop, and I refused to spend the ride brooding about missed jumps and botched landings.
I flexed my fingers, rolling my shoulders, listening to the quiet clicks and pops of joints that hadn’t quite forgiven for the last ti I’d done this. Sowhere off to the side, Rodrick was manning the bell tower, which was a polite way of saying he was in the best possible position to watch fail spectacularly while ringing out my humiliation across the entire district.
Salem was down below, a dark shape in the distance, hands clasped behind his back like an executioner deciding when to pull the lever.
The course itself stretched before in the patient, smug kind of way only inanimate objects can manage. The narrow planks over dizzying drops, the swinging beams, the pair of spires with that nasty little leap between them — all lined up in a sequence designed to remind you that gravity isn’t just a force, it’s a hobbyist sadist. I could almost hear it whispering: Go on, jump. See what happens.
Salem gave the signal and that was it. My body moved before my brain could offer an opinion. Feet pounding against the first stretch of space, I hit the opening obstacles like they owed money.
Last ti, I’d been cautious. Careful. The kind of careful that makes you look like you’re thinking about how careful you’re being. This ti I didn’t even bother to think. I was already stacking enhancents before my first landing — calves, thighs, lungs — layering the power until the air felt thin around .
I was doing three at once now. I’d been fumbling toward this level just a few days ago, but after last night’s training I could slip into it without effort. Almost. The sonic burst, though — that was still a mystery wrapped in Salem’s smug diagrams and vague taphors about "splitting the energy and dispersing it throughout the body." I’d tried it twice in the dead of night and nearly convinced myself my spine had unzipped, so that was a skill I’d have to keep practicing on the road to Port Fallas... preferably sowhere Salem couldn’t see fail and offer "helpful" comntary.
The narrow arch before was nothing — just a sprint and duck, weight centered, arms loose. The side step felt like child’s play, montum carrying over and onto the next platform in one smooth arc. My lungs didn’t burn. My legs didn’t hesitate. I was starting to suspect I could keep this pace for hours, though I knew full well I’d probably cough up a lung or two before the second hour was through.
Then the spire lood ahead, all jagged gray stone and deliberate cruelty. It was ant to be climbed, to make you scramble for purchase until your arms scread and your grip turned to mush.
I didn’t bother. I’d seen Rodrick pull off sothing better, and I wasn’t about to let him keep that little crown unchallenged. I shifted my focus to my hamstrings, layering the enhancent until my legs felt like they could punch holes through the sky, and then I leapt.
Stone blurred under . My boots kissed the ledges only to push off again, each rebound sending higher until the top of the spire was suddenly there, right under my hands. I didn’t even pause — the second spire was waiting, and between us yawned the gap that had made hesitate last ti.
This ti? I gave it a polite nod and leapt, stacking one enhancent on my left calf and two on the right, doubling the push. The space folded beneath , and I landed on the far spire with the sort of snarky satisfaction you only get when you know soone’s watching and probably grinding their teeth about it.
The rest of the course lted under my feet. Down the balance planks, across the rope net, the final drop back to the roof. I enhanced my bones on the way down — a charming little precaution against shattering them into powder on impact — and landed with enough force to make the tiles shiver. The air rushed out of in one pleased exhale.
That was it. Rodrick’s record? Dead in the water.
I let the smugness bloom, hands spread, voice carrying. "I think it’s safe to say," I announced to no one in particular and yet everyone at once, "that I’m basically ready to take on this entire tournant single-handedly. I might even give the other contestants a head start, just to keep it sporting."
Salem, who had been standing near the bell tower’s base, didn’t smile.
Rather, he burst into laughter so sudden and violent I was briefly concerned he’d pulled sothing in the process. He laughed until he had to wipe his eyes, and when he finally straightened, he looked at with that irritating brand of pity reserved for the truly misguided.
"You," he said, chuckling slightly, "are still an unregistered mage."
I froze. The pride curdled in my chest. "Oh, right. That..."
For the record, unregistered mages are not a rare breed. They are the bottom of the food chain. The ones who haven’t graduated from an accredited academy yet, who don’t get the official papers, the title of registered mage, the shiny crest, or the invitation to apply to a university.
Once you’re in the university, you work as an undergraduate until you’re polished enough to be officially handed a rank, which — because mages apparently love chess taphors — runs from pawn to king.
Pawn, knight, bishop, rook, queen, king. That’s the ladder. I suspected I might scrape in at pawn or knight level on my best day, even though I knew damn well my fighting skill was borderline professional.
It didn’t matter. In the tournant, I’d likely be facing graduated mages, as they called them, those who have succeeded in completing the highest form of their education at university. Real mages. The kind who could lash a man to piece while politely asking for salt. My edge would have to co from my relics — the pen, the stopwatch — and the hope that my knack for improvisation didn’t decide to take the week off.
By afternoon, the adrenaline had worn down into sothing quieter. We’d finished packing for the trip. The man who would be driving our wagon was a youngish boy with scrappy blond hair and a single snaggle tooth that seed to have unionized and gone on strike from the rest of his mouth. His na, improbably, was Dunny.
I asked Salem where he’d found Dunny. Salem, in his usual fashion, gave the kind of blank, long-suffering stare that said I heard you, I’m not answering, and we’re both going to pretend that was satisfying. Which, from him, was an answer in and of itself. I decided to let it go — mostly because if I pressed, I’d either get a parable about onions or a request to spar blindfolded over boiling oil.
While Salem busied himself overseeing the loading, I drifted toward Dunny. He was currently tying down a crate like it had personally wronged him.
"Nice knot," I said, leaning on the wagon’s sideboard. "You planning to keep the supplies in or make sure they can’t escape if they develop sentience?"
He glanced at , half a smirk tugging his mouth. "Both."
"Good answer," I said. "So, Dunny — that your real na or the kind you give strangers so they don’t know you’re secretly a runaway prince?"
"Real enough," he said, cinching the rope tighter.
"Mm. Cryptic. I like it." I picked up one of the sacks and tossed it onto the wagon bed. "You’ve driven wagons before?"
He gave a flat look. "Wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t."
"I an, that’s debatable," I said. "I’ve seen Salem hire people for much stranger reasons. One ti he brought ho a man because he ’had the right kind of walk.’ The man left after two days and three of my spoons went missing."
Dunny snorted, a quick, reluctant sound. "I can get us to Port Fallas without killing anyone."
That earned a raised eyebrow and so silence.
"Alright, mystery boy," I said, tossing another bundle up. "Here’s the deal — you get us there in one piece, and I’ll buy you a drink in Port Fallas. Or a book. Or a pet goat. Whatever you’re into."
He shrugged, but I caught the glint of amusent in his eyes. "The goat’s tempting."
We settled into a rhythm after that — him loading with quiet efficiency, filling the air with enough words for both of us. The supplies were simple enough: food, water, spare clothes, the usual weapons and tools to avoid becoming roadside stains. My pack was heavier than most, weighted down with Salem’s book, my pen, my spear, the stopwatch, and Vincent’s revolver. Just in case.
It would be , Salem, and Rodrick entering the tournant. The others would hold the cathedral. I said my goodbyes in the courtyard, the sun beginning its slow dive behind the rooftops. Aria was first.
"Keep safe," he said, and before I could deliver a cutting remark about the impossibility of that request, he kissed my cheek and pressed sothing into my hand. A small relic — a gemstone wrapped in delicate golden rings that shifted like clockwork when I tilted it. He explained, with the pride of a craftsman, that he’d stored so of his own power in it, three uses at most.
I smirked. "Three? You wound . Were you afraid too much of your magic would make unbearable?"
The blush was instant. Worth it. I thanked him before tucking it into my coat.
Syrene was next, Leo draped across her back like a very pleased cat. She bowed low enough that a strand of her silver hair slipped over her shoulder, her voice steady but warr than usual as she said, "Truly, Cecil... thank you. For giving a place here. For giving us a place."
Leo waved his tail and twitched his ears in a way that I chose to interpret as goodwill, though for all I knew it was the squirrel signal for I will steal your breakfast when you least expect it.
Before I could turn away, Elian and Jules appeared out of nowhere and threw their arms around at the sa ti. It was less of a hug and more of an ambush.
"Careful," I said, patting them both on the back with the kind of caution usually reserved for handling live explosives. "If people see this, they might think I’m likable."
At the far end of the room, Hollow gave a shy wave, his cheeks coloring as he clutched Aurel’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.
I raised a brow in silent acknowledgnt, my eyes flicking to the darker corners of the hall. No sign of Miko — which ant he was definitely here, and definitely watching from so shadow he thought was clever.
And then there was nothing left to do but climb aboard the wagon, the wood creaking under my boots, and watch the cathedral recede into the evening mist — not just smaller with distance, but folding itself away into mory, like a Chapter snapping shut behind .
Reviews
All reviews (0)