The tournament was a fierce one and the end was now in view. It now remained only a few fighters. Blood had soaked the dirt of the arena floor in dark patches that no amount of raking could fully hide. Limbs had been broken, faces split open, and more than one competitor had been carried out on stretchers, breathing shallow or not at all. The crowd still filled the stands each day, but the energy had shifted from wild excitement to something sharper, hungrier. They came to see who would break last.

  After his bout with Mikos, Gerik sought out the charm seller whose stall stood at the edge of the market row. She was an older woman with silver-streaked hair tied back in a practical knot and hands stained from years of mixing herbs and etching sigils. He found her packing away small pouches of dried roots as the afternoon light slanted low.

  "The bracelet," he said without preamble. "How does it work?"

  She looked up, eyes narrowing at the bruises still darkening his face. "You used it, then. Good. Most never figure that part out."

  "How?"

  "Old charm. Very old. Blood wakes it. A single drop on the bead, fresh from the wielder, and it stirs. Grants a small twist of fortune. Enough to tip a balance, nothing more. But it can only be used three times. After that, the quartz clouds over for good. The copper tarnishes black. No more luck."

  Gerik stared at the bracelet on his wrist. The quartz bead looked duller now, as though a film had settled across it. Two uses left. Annoyance tightened his jaw. He had wasted one on instinct in a fight he could have ended another way.

  He nodded once and walked away without another word.

  Later he sat in the audience stands, away from the waiting area where the remaining fighters paced and sharpened blades. The roar around him was as loud as ever. Men shouted bets over mugs of ale that sloshed onto the wooden benches. Women argued with vendors over the price of roasted nuts. Children darted between legs, chasing each other with sticks fashioned into mock swords. The air smelled of spilled drink, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of old blood carried on the wind.

  A runner found him midway through a long, grinding match between two armored women who traded blows like hammer strikes on anvil.

  "Your next opponent is Badeur Smith," the boy said. "Tomorrow, third bout after noon."

  Gerik asked around after the fight ended. Badeur Smith was a foreigner, broad-shouldered and quiet, with skin the color of dark oak and eyes that gave nothing away. No one knew much about his abilities. Some said he fought with chained hammers. Others claimed he used earth magic to harden his skin like stone. The uncertainty gnawed at Gerik. He had suffered considerably in the last match for not having quality weapons. The short sword he had bought cheap had crumbled the moment he reached home that day, the blade snapping clean at the tang when he tested it against a fence post. He needed better steel. Steel that would hold.

  He walked to the Iron Anchor as evening settled over Thornvale. The tavern was crowded, the same haze of pipe smoke and low voices filling the room. He took his usual stool at the far end of the bar and ordered a cold ale. Cal set the tankard down without comment and returned to wiping mugs.

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  Gerik sipped slowly while his eyes tracked the posters nailed to the board near the hearth. Most were low-pay jobs: wolf pack clearances, lost livestock, petty thieves. Then one caught his fancy.

  A FROST GOBLIN IS NEEDED FOR A MAGICAL SPELL. FEE IS 500 SILVER.

  He smiled for the first time in days, small and grim. He ripped the banner free and carried it to the counter.

  "Which faction owns this job?" he asked Cal.

  Cal glanced at the parchment while scrubbing a stubborn stain from the inside of a mug. "Daylight Order. Looks like you wanna go back to the ol' days, huh?"

  Gerik folded the paper and tucked it inside his jerkin. "I have always been a bounty hunter. Though I haven't really been hunting lately. I need to purchase a weapon with high attacking potential."

  Cal nodded. "Alright. Good hunting."

  Gerik left the tavern and headed to the livery stable on the western edge of the square. Cinder had not returned since the day the collectors came. She had bolted at the scent of chimera and the sound of Remia's screams, vanishing into the hills. Gerik was not mad at her actions. He felt it was for the best after all. She had been a gift from Remia, bought with the first big bounty he had ever claimed after they married. The memory of Remia leading the bay gelding home by the reins, her face bright with pride, still stung. He would not replace her with another. Not yet.

  He rented a sturdy grey mare instead. The stable boy took his coin and handed over the reins without questions.

  Gerik traveled north toward the Icy Plains. The road climbed steadily, leaving the shelter of the foothills behind. By midday the air turned sharp. His breath fogged in front of his face. The horse's breath steamed in thick clouds. Frost rimed the grass beside the path. He pulled his cloak tighter and kept moving.

  He reached the edge of the plains by late afternoon. The ground flattened into a vast white expanse broken only by jagged outcrops of black rock and scattered clusters of stunted pine. Wind cut across the open land like a blade. He chose a sheltered dip between two low ridges where frost goblins preferred to hunt. He set up camp quickly: a small fire screened by rocks, a simple snare of wire and baited meat from his pack, and a blind of piled branches where he could wait unseen.

  Night fell fast. He banked the fire to embers and curled in his cloak. Sleep came in shallow fits.

  By dusk he woke to sounds. Low chitters, the scrape of claws on ice, wet tearing. He eased up slowly and peered through the branches.

  A pack of frost goblins had not only evaded his trap but were devouring his rented horse. The mare lay gutted in the snow, steam rising from her open belly. Six goblins crouched around the carcass, pale blue skin glistening, jagged teeth ripping into flesh. Their eyes glowed faint yellow in the dim light. They had not seen him.

  Silently, with the grace and composure of a hunter, Gerik picked up his bow and nocked an arrow. He drew the string back until the fletching brushed his cheek. He aimed at the head of the largest goblin, the one tearing at the haunch.

  He waited for the wind to drop.

  "Whoosh."

  The arrow flew straight. It punched through the goblin's skull with a soft crack. The body went limp, collapsing face-first into the snow. Blood spread dark against the white.

  The other goblins froze. For a heartbeat they stared at their fallen kin. Creatures in this world could also be ranked using the mission ranks of the two orders. He was lucky; the bunch he had run into were C-rank goblins at best. S-rank or A-rank would not be killed so easily. Goblins tended to eat their dead in times of hunger, but the shock of the sudden attack made them ignore the fallen. They snatched what chunks of horseflesh they could carry and fled into the gathering dark, chittering in panic.

  Gerik stepped out of the blind. Disappointment settled in his chest. He had hoped for a clean kill without losses. He knelt beside the mare, closed her eyes with a gentle hand, then dug a shallow grave in the frozen earth with his dagger and the broken haft of an old shovel from his pack. It took longer than he liked. When the horse was covered he shouldered the dead goblin, wrapped in a length of oilcloth, and started the long walk back.

  He submitted the goblin to the Daylight Order post the next morning. The clerk counted out five hundred silver without ceremony and slid the coins across the counter. Gerik pocketed them and headed straight to the best smith in Thornvale.

  The smith was a squat man with arms like knotted rope. He laid out several blades on a felt cloth. Gerik chose one: a longsword with a fuller running down the center, the steel darkened by a tempering process that left faint blue ripples along the edge. The special feature was a narrow channel etched into the blade, designed to draw blood away from the cutting surface and prevent sticking in deep wounds. It was not enchanted, but the balance felt perfect in his hand. The edge sang when he tested it against a hanging scrap of leather. It parted the material without resistance.

  He paid without haggling. The weight of the new sword at his hip felt right. Solid. Reliable.

  Tomorrow he would face Badeur Smith. Tomorrow he would move one step closer to Pestilence's ranks. One step closer to the Emperor.

  He walked home under a sky heavy with coming snow, the new blade bumping against his leg with each stride.