Zamora woke to a dull, throbbing ache that seemed stitched into every breath.

  Her eyes fluttered open. Candlelight. A familiar ceiling. The scent of clean cloth and bitter herbs.

  And a hand holding hers.

  Karen sat beside the bed, shoulders squared despite the exhaustion in her face. When she noticed Zamora stirring, relief softened her expression.

  “You’re finally awake.”

  Zamora swallowed, throat dry. “Where… am I?”

  “My living quarters,” Karen said. “I brought you here from the infirmary. You needed quiet.”

  Zamora tried to sit up, failed, and winced. Karen steadied her without speaking.

  “Where is Garn?” Zamora asked.

  Karen’s jaw tightened. “Being reprimanded. Maldon’s second-in-command dragged him away the moment the yard incident ended.”

  Zamora coughed, pain scraping her ribs. “Finnian…?”

  “He’s alive,” Karen answered. “And he’s in isolated training. He had to relearn how to fight.”

  Zamora blinked. “After… I won the duel?”

  Karen nodded. “He agreed to use a shield. But he refused the tower shield Garn wanted.”

  Zamora’s gaze drifted, confused. “What happened?”

  Karen exhaled. “You don’t remember everything. So—listen.”

  Finnian woke with grit in his teeth and his back pressed into a cratered wall. His head throbbed. His ears rang with distant shouting, but the yard had gone strangely quiet around him—as if everyone was waiting to see what he would do next.

  Garn stood over him.

  “You lost the bet,” Garn said.

  Finnian pushed himself up on his elbows, face twisting as he tasted blood. “I’m not using a tower shield.”

  Garn stared for a moment, then… surprised him.

  “Fine,” he said. “Compromise.”

  Finnian’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of compromise?”

  “You’ll use a shielded gauntlet,” Garn said. “And you’ll use a longsword.”

  Finnian’s grip tightened on the sand. “And everything my master taught me? I’m supposed to throw it away? Start from nothing again?”

  Garn’s mouth curled into a grin that looked like mockery, but his eyes stayed clear—coldly practical.

  “If you learn one-handed techniques,” Garn said, “and modify the greatsword forms you already know, you’ll be able to switch between one-handed and two-handed styles whenever you need. Offense when it matters. Defense when it matters.”

  Finnian hesitated. His pride wanted to spit in Garn’s face.

  But his body—his bruised ribs, his heavy shoulders, his stiff hips—remembered every moment he’d forced himself to move like someone else.

  Akash watched from within the markings and remained silent, but her thoughts moved like smoke.

  So that’s what he wanted.

  He didn’t want the brute to abandon his commander.

  He wanted him to evolve—without breaking who he was.

  Akash’s eyes narrowed. What kind of person did I contract with…? No way he’s just a normal fifteen-year-old.

  Finnian finally exhaled. “...I guess that can work.”

  He looked away, defeated. “I’ll trust you.”

  Garn laughed. “You don’t have a choice anyway.”

  Finnian didn’t laugh back.

  But in his chest, something loosened—like a chain had finally been cut.

  Karen finished, eyes steady. “That’s how it happened.”

  Zamora nodded slowly. “Thank you for telling me, Captain.”

  Karen started to respond—

  The door slammed open so hard the candle flickered.

  A small woman rushed inside, breathless, eyes wide with panic. She wore the insignia of Maldon’s order.

  “Ana?” Karen said, startled.

  Ana didn’t bow. Didn’t slow. She pointed as if her finger could drag Karen by force.

  “COME TO THE EAST TRAINING HALL!”

  Karen blinked. “What happened?”

  Ana’s voice rose to a shout that cracked. “MISS YONA IS FIGHTING YOUR NEW MEMBER!”

  Karen’s blood went cold. “Yona… Eragon?”

  Ana nodded frantically. “YES!”

  Karen’s mind snapped into motion. “Where are Maldon and Riktor?”

  “Out on the king’s orders,” Ana said. “Negotiations. They took knights—and noble house escorts.”

  Karen’s eyes widened. “Then who can stop them? The only ones still inside the walls who can even attempt are Titus—Riktor’s second in command—and…”

  Ana pointed at Karen like she’d been waiting for her to realize it. “YOU.”

  Karen frowned, incredulous. “Me? I can’t even use Vyze.”

  Zamora pushed herself upright, coughing. “Take me with you.”

  Karen turned sharply. “Zamora, you can barely—”

  “I can walk,” Zamora insisted, voice raw. “I… need to.”

  Karen hesitated—then nodded once. “Fine. Get up. Follow behind me. I’ll go first.”

  Zamora forced her legs under her. Pain screamed. She swallowed it down.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she rasped.

  Ana looked relieved enough to cry. “Yes ma’am!”

  They moved.

  The royal garden wasn’t meant for violence.

  White stone paths, trimmed hedges, fountains that whispered instead of roared.

  Yet the air there felt ready to split.

  Because Garn walked into it like he was taking a stroll.

  Behind him, footsteps snapped against the stone—sharp, angry, disciplined.

  “Barbarian.”

  Garn didn’t turn.

  The voice followed him anyway, cutting through the morning like a blade.

  “Stop walking.”

  He kept going.

  Yona Eragon’s shadow slid across the path beside his. She was dressed like a noble’s weapon—armor polished, posture perfect, sword at her hip like it belonged there the way lungs belonged in a chest.

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  “You think you can ignore me?” she said, tone tightening.

  Garn didn’t even glance at her. His hands were in his pockets like the palace was his home.

  Yona’s jaw flexed.

  “You attacked a fellow knight in public. You threatened discipline. You—”

  Garn yawned. Loudly.

  That sound—casual, disrespectful—cut deeper than any insult.

  Yona’s steps sharpened until she surged ahead and blocked his path.

  “This is royal ground,” she said, voice cold. “Do you understand what you are?”

  Garn tilted his head as if the question bored him.

  “A problem you want to solve?” he replied.

  Her fingers hovered near her sword.

  Garn stepped around her like she was furniture and continued walking.

  For half a heartbeat, Yona stood there stunned.

  Then she followed.

  Each time she demanded his attention, he gave her silence.

  Each time she raised her voice, he showed her his back.

  And each step deeper into the garden made it worse.

  Because nobles were watching now.

  Servants paused with trays trembling in their hands.

  Even the fountains seemed to quiet.

  Yona’s agitation climbed—higher, tighter—until it reached its peak.

  “Enough.”

  Her voice dropped, no longer controlled—no longer noble.

  It was hatred given shape.

  Garn finally stopped walking.

  Not because she told him to.

  Because he had chosen the place.

  He turned slowly and met her gaze. The corner of his mouth lifted—not a friendly curve, but the beginning of something dangerous.

  Yona drew her sword.

  And declared loudly enough for the garden to remember:

  “Today, I—Yona Eragon—shall cleanse the palace of such filth.”

  Her Vyze surged outward in waves.

  Not a spark.

  A presence.

  The hedges trembled. Leaves shook. The fountain water quivered as if it feared her.

  Vessel-ranked.

  Across from her, Garn did not flinch.

  Inside him, Akash hissed. Retreat. You’re out of your league.

  Garn laughed quietly, like he’d been waiting for this the whole time.

  “What better way to awaken my Vyze?”

  Vyze comes from within, Akash warned. It’s already hard for you because of your barbarian body—your muscles are like iron. You can’t force it like—

  “Then what better way to temper steel?” Garn muttered.

  Mana surged through the markings on his body.

  Akash’s eyes widened. What are you doing?! Your body can’t handle that much of my power!

  Garn didn’t answer.

  Flames erupted—dense and forceful—rolling off him in waves to meet Yona’s Vyze like opposing storms.

  Above, palace windows opened.

  King Xavier watched with Crown Prince Gilliman and Princess Diane.

  The King’s face was tight with stress. Diane squinted, then grimaced.

  “It’s too hot,” she said, turning away.

  King Xavier followed after her. “I think so too.”

  He paused and looked back at Gilliman. “Are you coming?”

  Gilliman remained at the window, eyes fixed on Garn. “I’ll watch from here.”

  The King exhaled. “Suit yourself.”

  As Diane walked, she glanced back once—eyes gleaming.

  A new toy has fallen into my lap.

  Yona moved first, gliding forward through the heat.

  “The flames mean nothing to me.”

  Garn condensed fire into his right arm and unleashed it like a flamethrower.

  Yona vanished into the blaze—

  And a sword dropped from above, wrapped in swirling Vyze, slicing down through the flames.

  Akash shrieked. MOVE!

  Garn dodged left, but not enough.

  A deep cut split across his chest, red spilling hot down his skin.

  Yona’s voice was calm. “Lucky. I was trying to cut you in half.”

  Garn staggered back, breathing hard, eyes narrowing.

  He searched her body—expecting burns, even a scratch.

  There was nothing.

  Akash’s voice turned cold. You can’t win.

  Garn wiped blood from his mouth and grinned anyway. “Let me try one more thing.”

  Four fireballs formed around him—tight, controlled.

  Akash’s eyes narrowed. How are you shaping mana that efficiently—?

  Garn ignited himself again and charged.

  His left hook came—

  Deflected.

  A fireball smashed from the opposite side like a second fist.

  Yona dodged—

  Another fireball struck from behind.

  The assault became layered, relentless—like Garn had grown extra arms made of flame.

  Yona’s eyes sharpened. “It’s decided.”

  Her Vyze flexed outward—

  All of Garn’s flames extinguished at once.

  The sudden silence was brutal.

  Yona raised her blade and slashed down.

  And then—

  A hand grabbed her Vyze-wrapped wrist.

  Purple lightning arced along an arm thick with power.

  Titus.

  “Why,” Titus asked, voice mild, “are knights trying to kill each other?”

  Yona tried to pull free. “Let me go, Titus. He’s a danger to the kingdom.”

  Titus hummed, uninterested.

  His arcing Vyze surged and shoved Yona back as if she weighed nothing.

  Titus was crowned-ranked. One of the few beneath the king who stood at the peak.

  Not the strongest—

  But strong enough that the garden suddenly felt small.

  Titus glanced at Garn. “You’re lucky.”

  He nodded toward the entrance. “If your captain hadn’t come begging, I would’ve ignored this and let you die.”

  Karen arrived, breath ragged from running.

  Behind her, Ana helped Zamora limp into the garden.

  Zamora saw Garn’s burned skin. The blood leaking down his chest.

  Her breath hitched.

  She tore away from Ana.

  “What are you doing?!” Ana hissed.

  Zamora limped forward, stumbled, fell—

  And crawled.

  She passed Yona without fear.

  Titus started to speak. “He’s fine, no need to be so—”

  Zamora crawled past Titus like he didn’t exist.

  Like crowned-ranked power meant nothing compared to the man bleeding in front of her.

  In Garn’s inner world, Akash smiled. I like this one.

  Garn, barely conscious, answered in thought. Yeah. But she has a long way to go.

  Zamora reached him and patted out the remaining embers on his body with shaking hands.

  Titus turned to Karen. “Let’s change the reward for this little favor.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “What reward?”

  “I’ll take a quarter of your order’s funds for the next three months.”

  Karen’s face tightened. “That’s more than half a month’s span. What’s the catch?”

  Titus’s gaze slid to Garn… then Zamora.

  “I want them.”

  Karen’s expression snapped. “What did you say?”

  “I only need Garn,” Titus said, shrugging. “But the beast girl grew on me. Resolve like that is rare.”

  Karen clenched her fist. “Why?”

  Titus’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Because he’s almost there.”

  Before Karen could answer—

  Akash’s eyes opened.

  She manifested from Garn’s markings in a pulse of heat and crimson glow.

  Not a phoenix.

  A girl.

  Titus blinked. “...Not a phoenix?”

  Karen stared, stunned. “You’re—”

  Akash didn’t explain.

  She looked at Garn—and her face shifted, alarm overtaking amusement.

  “Titus,” Akash said sharply. “SUBDUE HIM. NOW.”

  Titus frowned. “He’s unconscious.”

  Garn’s hand moved.

  Blackish-orange flame twisted around his arm and lunged for Titus’s head like a blade.

  Titus’s arcing Vyze met it.

  Purple lightning clashed with black flame—explosions of heat and crackling force tearing the air.

  Titus stared down, eyes narrowing. “What is this?”

  Akash’s voice was tight. “I don’t know.”

  Titus snapped his head at Karen. “Your sword.”

  Karen threw it without thinking.

  Titus caught her greatsword, wrapped the blade in Vyze, and extended its reach like a spear of lightning.

  He drove it into Garn’s chest—into the wound Yona had opened.

  “This might hurt,” he said.

  Then he sent his Vyze through Garn’s body like a current.

  Zamora thrashed, trying to break free of Akash’s grip.

  Akash sighed. “Silly girl. He’s safe.”

  Zamora didn’t listen.

  Akash knocked her unconscious with a flick of power.

  Titus stopped the current after a moment. “That should do it.”

  Akash glared. “You could’ve been gentle.”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  Akash smiled. “Understandable.”

  Then her eyes sharpened like a threat made real.

  “If he died,” Akash said, “I would have rampaged through your kingdom to avenge him.”

  Titus paused. “Oh.”

  “I might not kill every crowned-ranked,” Akash continued, “but I could destroy this entire place before the rest arrive.”

  Titus stared at her. “What mythical creature are you?”

  Akash’s smile widened. “I’ll leave it up to your imagination.”

  She faded back into Garn’s markings.

  But before she fully vanished, she looked at Karen.

  “Watch yourself,” Akash said. “This one is weak to provocation. Don’t tease him too much.”

  Karen blinked.

  Then her stomach sank.

  Did I… cause this?

  The garden’s heat finally began to fade.

  And Garn’s body finally went still.