Gard knew better than to expect peace at the Table while he was out meeting with High Warden Vaust. A day didn’t pass without someone stirring some form of trouble. He’d long since learned to live with it. Such was life after taking up the mantle of being Vanded’s Vice-Master.

  So when word reached him on his return that Han and Albor had nearly come to blows with a visitor—and that Eberhard had allowed that same visitor to claim a writ duel—Gard wasn’t surprised. Mildly irritated, yes, but irritation was his baseline mood. Running Hollowstone Table in Vanded’s absence was like herding a pack of marrowhorns: too stubborn to obey, too restless not to gore each other.

  Still, the Chapter-Master’s word was clear. Anyone with the strength and will had the right to join. If Han agreed to test some stranger, so be it. Those involved would earn a reprimand later, which they’d probably hoped to avoid, but as long as nothing was broken, the infraction was always minor.

  Normally, Gard didn’t bother watching writ duels. They didn’t interest him much, and if a new initiate proved too reckless for Hollowstone Table, they’d give him reason enough to cast them out eventually. He’d done it before, and he’d undoubtedly do it again.

  But Han wasn’t Third or Fourth Binding like the usual challengers. She was Seventh. Duels at that level were rare, and the last time a Kindled had joined the Table that way had been more than two years ago. That was enough to draw him down to the underground dueling hall.

  The chamber was broad and circular, its floor and walls carved from rough marrowstone, a raised platform of ashstone at the center to absorb most potential damage. Gard slipped inside still wearing his formal grey cloak, staying just within the shadows by the door.

  The duel hadn’t yet begun. Han stood at the center, her claymore sunk point-first into the stone, one hand resting lazily on its broad hilt. Across from her, a hooded woman in a dark mantle and charcoal overshirt inspected the racks of practice weapons. Strands of raven-black hair slipped loose from beneath the hood. She stood with arms folded, head tilted in quiet thought.

  “Lady, just pick something,” Han called, her voice carrying easily. “I’m sure you can swing steel, but they’re all the same cheap ashbone here. Doesn’t matter which you pick.”

  The woman flicked her a glance, then reached for a long glaive with a tapered head, giving it a single clean sweep. Seemingly satisfied, she stepped onto the platform and set the butt of the weapon lightly against the stone, posture relaxed.

  Han eyed it. “Polearm user, huh? You’d have been better off bringing your own. I might’ve even bothered waiting.”

  “I think this will work just fine,” the woman said.

  Han gave a sharp snort. “Confidence, at least.” She kicked her claymore free and swung it up into a ready guard. “Let’s see if it holds.”

  The newcomer didn’t move. She simply watched with a calm, almost casual stillness.

  Gard’s eyes narrowed. He could tell she was indeed Kindled, but her exact strength eluded him. She was above the Fifth Binding, no doubt, but beyond that? It was difficult to say. Han was putting on her usual mask of confidence, but Gard knew her well enough to see the tension underneath. If even he, at Eighth Flamebinding, struggled to read this woman, then she was at least Seventh with extraordinary Resonance control. Possibly higher.

  Seventh was the reasonable guess, given how rare higher Bindings were. Eighths and above didn’t walk nameless into Chapter halls. But something in her stance gnawed at him. And the ring on her finger had not escaped his notice. A Vaultring, it looked like. That wasn’t the sort of trinket just anyone wore. They were rare and could be ruinously expensive, and its presence suggested she did have a weapon of her own stored away, but had chosen not to use it.

  Gard didn’t want to dismiss Han’s chances outright. But he did wonder.

  The starting declaration of the duel dragged a moment longer than it should have, pulling his attention to the side of the chamber. Eberhard was standing there waiting for both fighters to ready themselves, not having understood that the woman was already prepared. Albor frowned beside him, and—strangely—there was a little girl standing a few steps away, closely watching the hooded woman.

  Gard considered her. A daughter, perhaps? They seemed to share a resemblance, from what little he could see. Though he questioned the judgment of anyone who’d bring a child to this place. Something about the girl made him pause, but finally Eberhard’s voice rang out, calling for the duel to begin.

  Han moved first.

  She came on hard, Resonance flaring down the length of her claymore, wrapping the edge in the violet flames of a Third Seal Form. She closed the distance, bringing the sword’s weight and fury crashing down.

  The woman didn’t move until the last instant. Then, with a motion almost dangerously fluid, she slipped aside. Gard expected a counter—the glaive to lash out—but instead she only drifted back, measured and quiet.

  Han stopped, adjusted her grip, and gauged her again. Then she shifted her weight. Resonance gathered at her heels, and she shot forward in a burst of speed no ordinary fighter could match.

  Yet the woman did, darting aside again, covering nearly half the platform in a single explosive step before her momentum simply vanished.

  Gard’s eyes widened slightly. He’d had no issue seeing Han’s activation of the Second Seal Form Breakstep, and he was fairly certain this woman had just done the same. But he hadn’t glimpsed even a flicker of Resonance. To move that far, that cleanly, without leaking energy… only long, refined experience could explain it.

  Han must have felt the same. Her shoulders tightened, her eyes narrowing, taking it as a challenge.

  She surged forward again with Breakstep, her body blurring—but the hooded woman only gave a featherlight hop backward, heels barely brushing the stone as she landed. For the briefest instant, a smile flickered beneath the hood.

  Then she suddenly shot forward, glaive whipping up—not with a Form, just a clean slash toward Han’s shoulder. Han dodged easily, but Gard didn’t get the sense it was ever meant to land.

  Han’s claymore answered with all its weight. Resonance burned into another Third Seal Form as violet tongues of fire crawled across the floor, leaping up at the woman’s legs to pull at her feet. The blade scythed for her side.

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  But she arched back beneath the swing, spine bending almost unnaturally, then snapped upright and kicked off the ground. A wave of force burst from her heel, tearing the violet flames loose and blasting her backward into yet another controlled retreat.

  Han chased, chaining Breaksteps, her claymore hammering down in vicious arcs. Yet the woman only flowed around her, answering with seamless Breaksteps of her own and offering nothing but the occasional flicker of a counterstrike.

  It became less a fight than a dance, the two Kindled weaving through each other’s reach, steel flashing in bursts of violet light and Resonance ringing sharp against the stone.

  Gard frowned. To the average onlooker, it might have seemed Han was slowly building an advantage. She was the one claiming space, swinging with correct weight, forcing exchanges with offensive Forms. And her blade was getting closer—sometimes within a hair of the woman’s chest, close enough to shear a lock of black hair had she been a moment slower. Were they any lower in Binding, Gard would have called a halt to the fighting there.

  But no. He saw it. Han must have felt it, too. Even as the narrow escapes grew more numerous, they weren’t from fatigue or desperation. They almost looked intentional. As if the woman was testing the edge of the blade. Measuring Han’s tempo. Letting the claymore kiss past her ribs, always just out of reach, teasing the risk.

  Playing.

  Now and then, a glimmer of teeth flashed under the hood in a grin, as if to confirm what Gard suspected.

  Han’s attacks grew tighter, but also sharper-edged with frustration. Not sloppy—she was more disciplined than her temper suggested—but Gard saw the cracks forming.

  He shifted slightly, eyes moving to the girl at the side of the chamber. Small fists clenched at her chest, gaze locked on the duel. Worry writ across her face, yet still she seemed entranced by the display. He wondered if she could even follow half of the movements.

  Then came the clash that shattered the rhythm.

  Han roared in a heavy downward sweep, claymore wrapped in Resonance that whipped wind and fire across the stone. The hooded woman stepped into the attack, bringing the shaft of her glaive up crosswise to catch it. She must have infused the shaft with Resonance, because for a heartbeat the clash held—steel locked against ashbone. Then the shaft cracked with a splintering snap. She twisted, forced the blade wide, and in the same instant Breakstepped clear once more.

  Han’s snarl of frustration echoed off the chamber walls. “Bleed and burn me dry, I get it. You’re having fun. How about trying for real this time, yeah?”

  The woman stopped, tilting her head. Then she looked down at the two halves of the broken glaive in her hands.

  “…Alright.”

  She dropped the blade half and lifted the shaft, leveling it at Han like a spear.

  “Crushing Wake.”

  Gard still couldn’t feel her Resonance, but when the shaft dipped by a fraction, the air itself shuddered. A wave of gray-white force exploded outward, racing across the platform.

  Han had no chance. It hit like a catapult stone, slamming her straight off her feet into the far wall. Stone cracked. Ashstone flooring buckled, gouged with deep claw-like furrows.

  Silence followed.

  Gard stared.

  The woman lowered the shaft, looking at Han now half-buried in stone. “…Well. Crap.”

  Gard mentally recalibrated his estimates. That had been a Fourth Seal Form. One he knew well. But he was nowhere close to mustering such devastating force from such little motion and such a pitiful weapon. At minimum, she was Ninth Binding. Tenth was very possible.

  Which begged the question of who she was.

  On the far wall, Han groaned, coughing dust as she peeled herself out of the stone, blood on her lips.

  “Oh good, you’re alive,” the hooded woman said. “Was worried I overdid it.”

  Han spat grit and waved her off. “Alright, alright. I regret asking you to take it seriously. You win, you monster.”

  The woman turned expectantly toward Eberhard.

  He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Ehm. Yes. Winner’s clear.”

  “Great.” She let the broken shaft fall and stepped down from the platform, walking toward the girl without a care.

  “Mommy!” the girl cried, rushing into her arms, all worry washed away in bright excitement. “You’re amazing!”

  The woman ruffled her hair with one hand. “Thanks, kiddo. Just… remember that me getting a little too caught up in fights like this doesn’t mean you should, okay?”

  Her gaze shifted to Albor, looming nearby. His face was noticeably paler than usual as she smiled faintly from beneath the hood. “Feel like taking me on next?”

  He shook his head at once. “No, thank you, lady.”

  “Shame.” She turned toward Han, who stumbled over, brushing grit from her shoulders. “You weren’t too bad. You’re Kindled, right?”

  Han’s expression pinched slightly. “…Yeah, I’m Kindled,” she said with some bitterness.

  The little girl had taken partial cover behind her mother, but peeked from behind the mantle, watching Han earnestly. “…Are you okay? That looked like it hurt…”

  Han blinked, staring at the child. Her eyes flicked to the hooded woman, then back again, awkwardness twisting across her face. “…I’m good, yeah. Some parts hurt, but I’ve been through worse.”

  The girl brightened. “Good!”

  Han didn’t seem sure how to respond to that.

  That was when the girl’s mother turned, hood tilting toward the shadows where Gard stood. “So, who’s that guy?”

  The others followed her gaze, some surprise showing, and Gard finally stepped forward.

  “Vice-Master!” Eberhard said quickly.

  “Oh, shit,” Han muttered, though Gard still heard it. She eyed the broken stone scattered across the chamber. “Oi, Gard. I’m not the one who wrecked all this, ‘kay?”

  He raised a brow as he crossed the chamber. The other woman’s eyes tracked him the entire way.

  “I saw the duel, Han. I know you didn’t break it.”

  He met the stranger’s gaze.

  “I did break it,” the hooded woman said. “But technically, she asked me to.”

  “What? No, hold on—” Han started, but Gard cut her off.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The woman regarded him. “Vera. Vera Morgans. And this is Serel.” Her hands rested lightly on the girl’s shoulders as she spoke.

  Gard looked down at the child, who peered up at him, shy but honest.

  Up close, that strange sensation from earlier was even more noticeable. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think she was Kindled herself. It was a similar impression, but weaker, less defined. Did she have a powerful relic, perhaps?

  “I’m Gard,” he said at last, meeting the woman’s gaze again. “Gard Whiteforest. Vice-Master of the Chapter.”

  He studied her face beneath the hood. He didn’t recognize her, but he hadn’t been in Marrowfen long enough to know every strong Kindled who passed through. And false names were common enough.

  “So I heard,” Vera said. “You watched the fight, then? What did you think?”

  “I think you needed a stronger opponent.”

  “Hey,” Han protested, but Gard ignored her.

  Vera chuckled. “Are you offering yourself up?”

  There was something in her eyes then—glinting behind a pair of spectacles he only now noticed. Odd, impractical things to wear in a fight. The look was violent, enough to set a cold thread down his spine.

  “I am not,” he said, voice flat. His gaze shifted to the ruined stone. “Right now, I’m thinking about how much it’ll cost to repair this.”

  “…I’ll pay for it, if you want.”

  Gard turned back, somewhat taken off guard. Rarely did anyone volunteer such a thing. Especially without knowing the price beforehand. “…We’ll see. The Chapter-Master has done worse. We’re used to fixing it.”

  “Alright. Let me know if you need anything, though.”

  “I will.”

  “So—” She turned to Eberhard. “About the writ. When do I get it?”

  Eberhard hesitated, then glanced at Gard. “I’ll have it ready before evening.”

  “Good. That means I can take that contract today?”

  “It does.”

  “Which contract?” Gard asked.

  “The Servitors in the ossuary,” Eberhard replied.

  Gard’s brows rose. His eyes met Vera’s. She met it without flinching. “I see…”

  Strange. Why would someone this strong want such a contract? He didn’t doubt she could handle it, but her earlier offer to pay for damages suggested coin wasn’t her goal. Unless she was careless with money—or had other motives.

  He wasn’t sure if he was suspicious of her, but with the many things going on in the city lately, he was certainly on edge. At the very least, there was more to her than he’d seen here. And what he’d seen was already surprising. But the Chapter-Master’s rule was clear.

  Gard inclined his head once. “Then welcome, Vera Morgans, to the Hollowstone Table. You’ve got your writ.”