The food and drink sat on the table untouched, smells of dried meats and cheeses taunting Grant’s rumbling stomach. He’d have loved to make himself a plate with how hungry he was, but he reckoned whatever he ate would end up in a pile on the floor.

  Mr. Nerelot’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, sucking a deep breath in through his nose. “Son, start from the beginning and leave nothing out. The last Campaign was fifteen years ago. It’s too early for another.” He spoke as if putting enough hardness into his words would make them true, as though reality was another slab of steel he could bend to his will.

  The issue could have been settled with a peek out the curtains into the town square, but Grant explained anyway. His words came out choked at first, with the pain and nausea of the Calibration process still fresh in his memory. Then came the Notification about his deadline, his Attributes, and his Identify Spell that gave him Mana Depletion.

  The man’s hulking shoulders shrank with every detail.

  “Except for the Mana Depletion part, that’s what happened to me,” he said softly when Grant was finished.

  The three men sat in silence. Dan stared at the table, Grant looked at Mr. Nerelot, and Mr. Nerelot gripped his whiskey glass.

  “Fifteen years.” The Blacksmith clenched his eyes, and Grant could hear his teeth grinding through his closed lips. “Fifteen short damn years. Thirty-five years too early. Not even enough time for a boy to become a man, and the Goddess demands more. Curse her.”

  Dan’s eyes shot toward his father. “Dad, don’t curse the—”

  “You were supposed to be safe. I promised your dad—” he started, but his voice cracked and he trailed off. He shook his head before starting again. “I failed your dad. Can’t even remember how, but I must’ve. Then I failed you when you were a lad. Broke the only damn promise we ever made each other, face down in a pool of sweat and whiskey.”

  He grimaced, shame on his face and regret in his voice.

  Grant bit his lip, and Dan nodded knowingly. The Blacksmith never raised a hand against his wife and son, but there were stories. The drink was a thorn in their family’s side until a few years back, when hungover and in a rush to finish a job so he could pour himself a glass, he fumbled an ingot onto Dan’s foot, breaking four of his toes.

  He never took another drink.

  He shook his head, and his eyes grew sharp.

  “This ain’t about me. I’ve got all the time in the world for pity and regret. You don’t.”

  Grant hung on every word. “What do I do?” he asked, voice quavering.

  “Son, if we’re going to get you out of this, I’ll need you to think real hard here. Tell me everyone who knows you were selected, no matter how unimportant they seem.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grant said, shaking his head, going hot with embarrassment. “I got Identified in the square today. My own damn fault,” he continued, cringing inwardly as he recalled his disguise.

  “Did the man see you up close?”

  “No, he was over twenty paces away.”

  “Good. Who else?”

  “A soldier interrogated me. His name was Rott.”

  “I know him. Spearman. Good man and a hell of a fighter.” Mr. Nerelot leaned forward, his expression grave. “Did anyone at all get a good look at you from close up, even for a few seconds?”

  “This really short officer did,” Grant said, trying to remember. “I think his name was Captain Nickel?”

  The Blacksmith sucked in a deep breath, leaning back in his chair. “Look, son—” he began, but Dan interrupted him.

  “I’m going with you.”

  Both Grant and Mr. Nerelot’s eyes shot towards Dan at the same time. His father spoke before Grant could process what he had said.

  “Absolutely out of the question.”

  “Is that even possible?” Grant added. “You weren’t selected.”

  “I have an Inherited Class. Got it years back. As long as you have your Interface and have never been through the Portal, you’re compatible. Plenty of nobles with Classes volunteer. I can too.” Dan’s eyes were hard, fixed on Grant. “We can go together, just like our dads did—”

  “I told you never to tell anyone that,” his father said in a tone bordering on anger, “and you’re not going.”

  “Let me do this. Chances are I’ll get high Points like you did, and when I come back in a few years, I’ll—”

  “You’re. Not. Going!” Mr. Nerelot roared, his fist crashing into the table on the last word. The three glasses toppled, and whiskey spilled over the granite, rolling off the edge and dripping onto the floor.

  Before he could process what had happened, Grant looked down to find himself standing on his toes with his back to the door and his hand on its knob, the chair he had sat on tipped over. A deep dent remained engraved in the table where the blacksmith had hit it. Dan remained seated, unfazed by his father’s outburst.

  Deathly silence hung over the room, and Grant couldn’t help but wonder if the guard was going to rush in to investigate.

  He glanced at the dent again. They’d probably piss in their britches, on second thought.

  Mr. Nerelot sighed and sat down. “You’re not going. Neither of you are.”

  The two young men stared unblinking. The Blacksmith surveyed the damage to the table and shook his head, taking a rag from a side cabinet to wipe up the spill. “I apologize. Sit, Grant.”

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  Grant pulled his chair to its legs and sat on its edge, his knees still wobbly and heart pounding.

  Mr. Nerelot glanced at the door, leaned over, and began whispering. “I have a shipment headed for the western territories to set out in three hours. It will be a full wagon of basic armaments—breastplates, vambraces, chain mail, and some spears. Perfectly routine. We’ll have to hide you through the gate, but the guards won’t give the cart a second look, not with my seal on it. The mercs on protection duty and driver will turn a blind eye too, if they know what’s good for them.”

  He stopped speaking for a moment, nodding as the pieces fell into place. “I can call in some favors to the Warthens. Their villa is safe. Help comes and goes all the time. Your presence will raise no suspicion. You’ll have to lie low for at least a few years, but you’ll make it.” He flexed and unflexed his hands. “Most people who try to run get caught because they have no help. You’ll have help.”

  Dan and Grant stared dumbstruck for long seconds and then shot to their feet, their voices drowning each other out. Even the most isolated hermit on the mountain behind the most remote village knew that when it came to conscription, running meant death. And a former Campaigner was sitting in front of him, suggesting he flee.

  It was unthinkable.

  Dan sat back down with his head in his palms, muttering to himself, giving Grant a chance to be heard. “They’ll hang you if they find out.”

  Mr. Nerelot raised a palm, gesturing for silence. When Grant sat back down, the man looked at him piteously. “No, son. They’ll hang you. They might mock execute me, but the Gracian Empire would be licking its chops at the thought of Evenon losing a Rare Blacksmith.” He scoffed. “It’d be as good as sending them a written invitation to push deeper into some contested territory.”

  The Blacksmith shakily poured himself a drink, suddenly looking far beyond his years. He swirled the liquid in its glass, admiring the trails it left on the sides, then pushed it away. He nodded again. “That’s how we’ll do it. That’s the only way.”

  Every bone in Grant’s body screamed that it was a bad idea. There were too many variables. Too many things they couldn’t control for. A random inspection could have a noose around his neck before sundown. Even if they made it past the gate as Mr. Nerelot insisted they would, the average mercenary would happily trade the life of a deserter for a bent silver coin. His stomach churned at the thought of Captain Nickel peeling the tarp back to find Grant crammed in and defenseless.

  There was also no doubt that Mr. Nerelot was underselling how much this would affect him as a co-conspirator if things went south. They didn’t have to execute him to take away his life. They could seize his assets, commandeer his workshop, and force him into servitude, to forge weapons and armor for the noble houses every waking minute. They could take Dan away and make him a ward of the Empire.

  He was powerful, and he was important, but a magic-wielding noble could crush him like an insect.

  Grant’s gaze wandered to his only friend. Dan’s eyes shone wetly, silently pleading for him to save himself. The features he shared with his father were a sad reminder that earthly belongings weren’t the only thing they could take. What would happen to Dan for aiding a runaway? He could be pulled away from his home and stuffed somewhere as a hostage.

  “If my dad says it’s the best way, it is,” Dan whispered. “Let us do this for you. It’s the least we could do after everything.”

  He was right. Grant was being given an opportunity to live a free life. One absent the violence and horrors that lay beyond the Portal. He’d be mad not to take it.

  Rott’s scar came to mind, and a sensation like a thousand needle pricks ran down Grant’s body. A Mage called down fire, lightning, or whatever else it was on him, branding him for the rest of his life. He had survived the fight, maybe even won it, but he was a hardened soldier.

  Grant was an inn boy who had never even stood up to his elderly boss.

  For the first time since he was selected, he knew what to do. Instead of facing almost certain death beyond the Portal, he could get out and start over. There was no shame in self-preservation, and no honor in self-sacrifice. An orphan from a small city could hardly make a difference in the Campaign, anyway.

  With resolve, Grant gave his answer. “Just bring me some more of these meats and cheeses sometime, and you have a deal.”

  Mr. Nerelot smiled brightly, and Dan’s face collapsed into his hands with relief. “Deal. Just so you know, had things been just a bit different, your dad would have been sitting where I am, doing the same for Dan right now.” He took the platter of food off the cart and pushed it towards Grant. “It’s going to be a long journey. Fill your belly ‘cause it’s the last proper meal you’ll be having for a while.”

  Grant sandwiched cheese and a dried sausage between two crackers and took a bite, the flavors filling his mouth. It tasted like the first meal he had in days, and soon, they were talking as they ate.

  They reminisced about old memories, like the time when Dan forgot to prepare for his oral speech test, Grant frantically coined a new sign language to give him hints. Mr. Nerelot beamed at his son in pride when Grant told him he slapped one of his bullies across the face so hard the boy drooled when he talked for weeks.

  It was the happiest Grant could remember being in years. Everything was perfect, except one point.

  None of it was real.

  Mr. Nerelot played his role the best he could. He wore a faint smile, laughed, and added to the conversation, but a sick sensation hung in Grant’s gut as he watched him.

  He was hiding something. It was rumored that a Royal Inquisitor could pull a decades-old secret from a dead man. He didn’t even have enough Mana to cast Identify without burning through his entire Mana pool, but Mr. Nerelot was too honorable a man to be a convincing liar.

  He swirled his whiskey without taking a sip, twitched his leg, and chewed on his lower lip like a man waiting for the signal to charge on a battlefield, not a man spending the afternoon with friends. Grant dismissed the thoughts on account of the risk they were about to take at first, chalking it up to nerves. But the thing about suspicions was they roared hot when given the right fuel, and all the tells were there.

  In a sudden shift in conversation, he gave Grant some tips about his Interface. “You’ve got an Interface now, and you had better use it right. A properly set up Interface can be the difference between life and death, even if you’re not going through the Portal.”

  He talked Grant through the Options. A small red sphere bloomed in his vision on the left, and a blue one on the right, showing his Health and Mana. He also found a clock there, which would normally be a luxury item, even for a lower noble.

  The afternoon wasted away. Grant heard a bell in the background, and after checking his Interface, he chuckled to himself.

  “They’re expecting me at the city gate in some 30 minutes.” He imagined Captain Nickel standing at the gate, fuming as he tapped his foot impatiently. Dan laughed with him, and Mr. Nerelot’s eyes flashed as he checked his own clock. “We’re about to start the loading process for our cart too, and you’ll need to be stuffed in as deep as a mud crab. It’ll be a tight fit, but it’s the only way.

  “Dan, say your goodbyes. I’ll get him there safely. I need you to get back down to the workshop to make sure everything is in order.”

  Before Grant could move a finger, Dan pulled him into a hug that knocked the wind out of him. “I’ll visit you,” his best friend said reassuringly.

  He wasn’t sure what to do with the gesture. It may be years before he saw Dan again. But behind his best friend, Dan’s father stood and watched the two of them. His eyes were heavy, and his mouth curved into a frown. Grant studied his face, searching for more hints, and the Blacksmith immediately averted his eyes, staring towards the door.

  Any card player in the world would have bet his entire fortune if he were at a table with him right now.

  Oh, Grant thought as it came together. About as much as could be expected, I guess.

  With numb acceptance, he hugged his friend tighter.

  “Take care of your mom and dad, Dan.” He paused, considering his next words. “And can you let Mr. Fletcher know I was selected? I feel bad about leaving my room like that.”

  “You got it. I’ll grab anything that looks valuable and take it to you in the villa.”

  He separated from Dan, squared his shoulders and nodded. “I’m ready.”