The rhythmic clop of hooves on the forest floor blended with birdsong and the distant yips of hounds. Trees swayed in the warm breeze, their branches whispering secrets above. Shafts of golden light pierced the canopy, catching on ferns and damp bark. Somewhere to the west, a hunting horn let out a distant call.

  Jack rode near the front, flanked by the older nobles. His borrowed grey gelding snorted beneath him, and the horse’s hooves were steady on the mossy trail. Brass fixtures on the bridle caught the light, glinting with rune enchantments. The older nobles’ beastkin guards were never too far away. Although they kept their eyes on him, they appeared less vigilant now; no longer seeing him as a threat to their charges.

  The six younger nobles followed at a respectful distance, all stiff-backed and tight-lipped after the midday rest. Further still trailed the six older commoners, and behind those, a retinue of servants. Silent, watchful, and accompanied by a small automaton porter that rolled along the path, its beetle-like shell exhaling faint hisses of aether-steam as it carried two panniers of spare cloaks and refreshments.

  Jack tried to ignore the presence of Baron Greaves to his left. It was like riding beside a coiled adder. Every chuckle, every glance from the man made his skin crawl and tempted him to pull his dagger and strike. Still, he held his tongue and his blade, at least for now. The dozen-plus personal guards shadowing the nobles would cut him down in seconds.

  “You held yourself well this morning,” said Baron Argil. “Many a young man turns green after their first kill.”

  Jack dipped his head. “Thank you, my lord. That was… my first stag.”

  Baroness Idrisa gave a small laugh. “You’ve the look of someone who hadn’t even swatted a fly before today.”

  If only you knew, Jack thought while offering a fake, embarrassed smile. Give me a few years, and I’ll gut you like a fish.

  “More ink on his hands than blood, I imagine,” said Baroness Quill, brushing a fleck of leaf from her gloved lap. “Still, you didn’t flinch or vomit. That counts.” She looked back at the young female noble who emptied her stomach at the sight of the stag being butchered and shook her head.

  “Thank you. My lady… if I may,” Jack began, “I had questions about the Blood Mage class. My lord said it was… different?”

  “Curious already?” Idrisa arched a brow. “That’s promising. The class rewards hunger.”

  “What would you like to know, son?” said Argil.

  Jack glanced around, lowering his voice as though unsure if it was polite to ask. “None of the available books on classes includes anything about the class… only that it’s forbidden, my lord.”

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  Greaves gave a soft laugh. “Forbidden indeed. The class is powerful, but it requires blood sacrifices to gain power. The crown wants to keep the power to itself.”

  Jack’s eyes widened at the implication. What? Is he suggesting the King’s a blood mage?

  Baroness Vampese leaned in. “We don’t get skills like warriors or mages. We get weaker echoes. Shadows if you will… Skills imprinted in blood. Of course, we still have our main class, so on the surface you’ll appear to be a simple scribe.”

  Jack nodded. He’d realised this much from his new pseudo skills, but he required confirmation.

  “When you kill something with a skill,” said Argil, “you have a chance to absorb a trace of it. Not the full power. No, just enough to give you a flavour. Hence, pseudo skills.”

  Jack widened his eyes in mock surprise. “So… my lord. If someone had, say, a sword skill?”

  “You might get a shadow of it,” said Idrisa. “Not enough to make you a true swordsman, but enough to turn a clumsy swing into a serviceable one. Though with enough usage, they will upgrade to the full skill.”

  This time, Jack’s eyes widened for real. They can upgrade.

  “It’s all chance,” added Quill. “You don’t choose, and most skills are useless.”

  “Useless, my lady?” Jack echoed, feigning curiosity. He already had useless pseudo skills from warriors… that is, they were useless as long as he didn’t take up a sword.

  “I picked up Improve Yield over a decade ago,” said Baron Trefin, one of the lesser nobles riding beside Quill. He was red-nosed, had large jowls, and held a permanent sneer. “Makes crops grow better. Never planted a bloody thing in my life. Gods damn useless chaff.”

  “Accurate Measurements,” said Argil, gesturing to Jack. “Picked that up from an Expert Tailor I ran through in the Shays’ riots. I can look at a man and tell you his inseam measurements to the inch. You’re a thirty-four, aren’t you, boy?”

  Jack blinked, recalling the old dwarven washerwoman who took his measurements with a skill. Sounds like a similar skill. He nodded to confirm the measurement.

  Trefin burst into laughter. “He’s never been wrong! Won me a crate of two-hundred-year-old brandy once.”

  “Yes… and I never did receive a bottle,” Argil chuckled.

  “Our next skill harvest,” Trefin said, “I’ll rectify that oversight.”

  Skill harvest? Jack thought. Are they talking about a blood magic ritual?

  “I gained De-Bone Chicken,” muttered Greaves. “Don’t ask.”

  Even Jack chuckled at that, though the sound caught in his throat when Greaves glanced his way.

  “Of course they aren’t all useless,” Baroness Vampese said. “Just last month, I acquired Age Wine. Despite being a level zero pseudo skill, it ages a vintage by twenty-five years.” She chuckled. “I have no plans to waste my time ageing wine, but I can improve my own drink.”

  The other chuckled or nodded in agreement.

  Jack nodded along. They kill people for skills they don’t even care about. No wonder this class is forbidden.

  “Occasionally, we gain an exceptional skill, my boy,” Greaves said, snapping a branch from a nearby tree.

  Baron Trefin chuckled. “He can’t help but show off this one.”

  The others laughed.

  Baron Greaves ignored them. “Take this.” He passed Jack the branch before riding a couple of metres away.

  Jack held the branch, confused.

  “Throw it at me, as hard as you can,” Greaves ordered.

  Jack’s eyes widened, and he looked at the guards surrounding them. “But, my lord. I can’t.”

  Greaves laughed. “I insist. Throw it as hard as you can.”

  Jack shook his head. He didn’t want to die because he threw a rotten branch at a rotten noble.