“What do you think?” Fawkes asked him.

  Hunter frowned and said nothing, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

  The trek to the clearing where they’d set up camp the previous nights wasn’t a long one. Fawkes was typically against idle chatter while on the path; she’d often chastised Hunter for making small talk instead of paying attention to their surroundings. This time, though, it was her that did most of the talking.

  She spent the last quarter-hour or so laying out her most recent thoughts on his training options. She’d taken quite an interest in the subject. It was clear she’d been turning it over in her mind for some time, studying his notes, trying to figure out how the System worked. Hunter was hoping she might drop the subject when they reached the campsite. She didn’t.

  “All I’m saying is,” she went on, “there’s no need to box yourself in. You have a rare opportunity to forge your own path. It’d be a shame to squander it.”

  Her idea of forging his own path, as it had turned out, was dropping the glaive as a weapon of choice altogether, and start training from scratch with a saber like her own. Or like Reiner’s.

  It wasn’t that her suggestion lacked merit; as she’d pointed out, the only reason he’d been using a glaive was that he stumbled upon one on his first day in Elderpyre. It hadn’t been a deliberate choice. If he’d had a proper selection of weapons to choose from, he probably would have gone with something like a Renaissance-style bastard sword instead.

  Still, she was being pushy, and that wasn’t like her. Granted, she’d bossed him around plenty in the past – that was just part of her personality. Her charm, even. But despite her strong opinions, she’d always respected his choices, no matter how dumb or crazy she might have thought they were.

  This time, it felt different. It felt uncomfortably like Grimm trying to play him into picking the Mystic class all those weeks ago. In fact, it was worse; Hunter didn’t give two shits about Grimm. As far as he was concerned, that conceited bastard could go sit on a cactus. But Fawkes, he wanted to listen to. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he craved her approval. Even now, his mind was working overtime behind the scenes, trying to find a way to rationalize listening to her advice.

  “There is this classical áeld Path,” she continued. “The Path of the Crescent and Star. It’s one of the Seven Cornerstones – the seven Paths that lay the foundation for Ascension. Tried and true, time-tested.” She paused, glancing at him. “I could get my hands on some tomes, maybe a manual or two, to help us with the basics. If you take it seriously, you’d leave these White Cloud yokels in the dust in no time.”

  “Alright,” Hunter sighed. “I’ll bite. Tell me about it.”

  “The Path of the Crescent and Star is about balance,” Fawkes explained, her tone animated. “It’s not just steel or sorcery, but the marriage of the two. It teaches you to wield your weapon and Essence as one. It’s a craft of versatility, of knowing when to rely on steel and when to call upon the stars.”

  “Is it the Path your master trained you on?” Hunter asked, still very skeptical.

  That put a dimmer on her enthusiasm. She paused for a moment as if searching for the right words, then nodded.

  “Yes. Or at least he tried. I didn’t have much of a gift for the proverbial Star, though.” She tapped the hilt of her saber. “Only for the Crescent. But you do.”

  “What about Reiner?” Hunter pressed on. “Did you train him to follow that Path too?”

  “No,” she admitted. “Reiner was naturally ambidextrous. I thought the Path of the Twin Crescents would fit him better – two blades, two focuses, perfect for his talents. But if my own master had been the one teaching him, I believe he’d have insisted on the Crescent and Star regardless.”

  She paused, her gaze distant, then let out a sharp sigh.

  “Sometimes I wonder whether I should have done the same. In this life of ours, there are problems you can’t simply stab to death.”

  So that was it. Fawkes wanted him to train as the Elderpyre equivalent of a gish. A spellsword. Hunter was more than familiar with the concept. It was every weeb’s wet dream – the perfect way to Mary-Sue up a jack-of-all-trades, plot armor usually included.

  “Isn’t this similar to what I’ve already been doing, more or less?” Hunter said. It wasn’t, not really, but if saying so could get him out of this conversation, he wasn’t about to split hairs.

  “Exactly!” Fawkes exclaimed, her enthusiasm reigniting. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, lad! Why try to reinvent the wheel, when the áeld masters perfected it ages ago?”

  “If – and that’s a big if – I said yes… What would you have me do?”

  “Learn to use a blade, for starters. Master the essentials of both swordsmanship and spellcasting. Then scour any tomes and manuals I can find for ways to weave the two together.”

  “Could you please translate that in System terms?” he pointed at the notebook in her hand. She’d been clutching it tightly, as if it were all the proof she needed to back up her suggestions.

  “Of course,” Fawkes said, flipping open the notebook. “Look. You’ve got two of those Inspiration points left, correct? You use both of them to learn Danger-Sense and Dodge Counter. You’ve already been leaning heavily on your fighting skill, so that’s no skin off your teeth.”

  So far, so good. Danger-Sense was an auto-pick – no question there. As for Dodge Counter, Fawkes had a point. Since he was already heavily invested in melee combat Skills and Abilities, it made sense to double down and pick something that complemented them.

  “Then I’ll start teaching you how to use a saber,” Fawkes continued. “Judging from how swinging that dirk around a few times got you a Short Blade Mastery Skill, I think it’s safe to assume you’ll pick up a saber-relevant one just as quickly. We’ll work on it until it hits 20, then see what new Ability options the System throws your way.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “What about sparring with the other Aspirants?” Hunter asked.

  “You’ll spar with me instead,” Fawkes shrugged. “I don’t see anyone complaining about that. Certainly not Wroth. Or, better yet, you’ll spar with them using a saber. The handicap will do you good.”

  Hunter frowned. All that nonchalance was starting to get on his nerves.

  “I’m not dropping the glaive,” he said. “I’m not against learning to use a saber as a sidearm instead of the dirk, but I’m only four points away from maxing out Glaive Expertise. I don’t want to let all that training go to waste.”

  “Good thinking,” Fawkes stopped to jot down something in the notebook. “That’s what we’ll do, then. First, you’ll max out Glaive Expertise to get that point of Inspiration, then you’ll switch over to the saber.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “And what will you do, lad? Keep training with a weapon while that System of yours blocks you from improving further with it?” She waved her hand dismissively. “Only a fool would do that.”

  “Alright,” Hunter said with a sigh. “Let’s say I won’t. What else?”

  “You’ll have to keep training your mystical Skills and Abilities, of course – especially Eldritch Power. The Path of the Crescent and Star was originally conceived to work in stride with astral sorcery, but I believe we can adapt it to your own kind of magic. It’s not traditional, but it’ll get the job done.”

  “Is that all?” He did his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. It didn’t matter. Fawkes was too engrossed in planning out her new pet project to notice anyway. She flipped through the notebook with a sharp focus, completely oblivious to his tone.

  “Well, for starters. I’ll have to see what I can dig up in those books I mentioned. They’ll give us a better idea of what’s worth pursuing and what isn’t.”

  “And what about the White Cloud?”

  “What about it?”

  “Why’d you have me get involved with all that, if I’m just supposed to drop out midway?” he pressed, long-held frustration suddenly boiling over.

  That finally got her to look up from the notebook, her gray eyes narrowing as she met his.

  “Is something the matter, lad?” she asked, tone carefully measured. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

  Fuck me if I know what I wanted anymore. That’s what he wanted to say. You’ve jerked me around so much that I’m not really sure why I do half the things that I do.

  But he didn’t.

  “What was the name of that make-believe game Reiner was into?” he asked instead with a deep sigh.

  “Exemplars?”

  “That one. I feel like you’re just playing Exemplars right now. Trying to strategize and min-max me like it’s just a game to you, like I’m some make-believe character.” He let out another sigh and rubbed his eyes. “Isn’t it funny how the tables turn?”

  That gave her pause. Her expression shifted, her sharp gaze softening as she absorbed his words.

  “Hunter…” she said finally, her voice low and unsteady, almost pleading. It caught him off guard; he’d braced for anger or deflection, but not this. “Apologies. You’ve misread the situation. I’m not trying to play games with you, lad. All I want to do is make sure you don’t end up skewered on some monster’s spear too.”

  “I get that,” he said, his own tone softening too. “It’s just that I’d rather have my choices be my own.”

  Fawkes nodded slowly. For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy but not hostile.

  “Fair enough,” she finally said. “I let my worrying get the best of me, I reckon. Apologies. Won’t happen again.”

  “It’s alright.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “So I guess I better get to learning something that keeps me from getting skewered, then?”

  Her lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, though her brow remained clouded.

  ***

  Hunter spent his last two points of Inspiration on Danger-Sense and Dodge Counter, then went to gather some firewood as Fawkes was setting up camp. Sundown was still a few hours away, but they both needed some rest. The hike back to the Sacred Training Grounds would be a long one.

  As he usually did, he’d sent Biggs and Wedge out to scout for firewood. They were good at that. Normally, all Hunter had to do was follow their mental directions, picking up dry sticks and twigs as he went. This time, however, something was off. By the third loop around the clearing, his patience was wearing thin. They were leading him in circles.

  He stopped in his tracks, narrowing his eyes at the treetops where they perched.

  “You think this is funny?” he grumbled, scanning the underbrush for any sign of actual firewood. There was none.

  No response came – no caws, no chitters, no mental quips, no nothing. The ravens were keeping radio silence. That was never a good sign.

  “If Fawkes freezes tonight and makes you two into earmuffs, don’t come to me crying.”

  Still nothing.

  His irritation gave way to unease. Biggs and Wedge were never this quiet.

  “Alright, guys. What’s going on?”

  Biggs ignored him completely. Wedge gave him a look of contempt. Hunter knew it was contempt, because the feathery fuck made it abundantly clear through their mental link. Hunter couldn’t believe it. The two buffoons were giving him the silent treatment.

  “Alright, guys,” he said. “Joke’s over. You’ve made your point. I’m all ears. What’s going on?”

  As if on cue, both of the ravens exploded into exasperated caws as they bombarded Hunter with a kaleidoscope of images enough to make his head hurt.

  “Slow down, slow down. One at a time.”

  Wedge shot him another exasperated look as Biggs set out to do the best he could to explain, ruffling his feathers as if to buy time.

  An image game through their shared link – that of a single Bramble Blight seen from a literal bird’s eye point of view. Then came a sound – the unmistakable voice of Fawkes hissing something unintelligible. And then came a blinding burst of light that felt sharp and searing, almost like staring directly into the sun. Then the memory of a stinging sensation flooded his whole being, mercifully diminished; saltwater and copper, the recoil of Mystic’s Eye.

  Oh, he thought. That.

  He’d been worried about that. Fawkes had suggested he use the ravens as a conduit for Mystic’s Eye, a lens to filter the torrent of information burned directly into his brain. Biggs and Wedge had borne the brunt of the jarring magical feedback, which apparently had left them rattled and resentful.

  Biggs wasn’t done. He projected another image, this time more abstract. It was a mix of fractured shapes and splintered colors, overlaid with a deep, resounding sense of vulnerability. It was as if the raven was laying bare its discomfort – being forced into a state where its control was stripped away, its sense of self stretched thin. Its purpose was to make Hunter feel bad, and it had fulfilled it admirably.

  “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” he said. “I’m sorry. I won’t use you two like that again unless it’s life or death, okay?”

  The two ravens, after a moment’s hesitation, sent back a feeling – a kind of tentative acceptance, albeit tinged with a strained undercurrent of reluctance.

  Hunter glanced back toward the clearing, where Fawkes was laying down their bedrolls.

  There was a lot of that going around today, it seemed. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, they’d all find a way to shake off the weight of today. Or maybe not. Either way, the night ahead wasn’t promising much rest.

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