When we arrived in town, The Valiant First was already standing in wait, fully suited up in armor. Gorian had his plate armor on, its dents all smoothed out, and the surface polished to a shine.

  “Welcome to Boisville, Sister Zadina. We’re honored to have you join us in this dive,” Gorian said after a formal, sweeping bow.

  Zadina dipped her head in return. “Thanks for having me. Our church is very interested in the peculiarities of the phenomena here.”

  So protecting me isn’t her only job here? I don’t like where this was going. Getting entangled with the church is never a good thing.

  Kamuel approached, wearing chainmail armor with a white surcoat that had the symbol of a single leaf branch on it. “Sister, did you get a chance to read the write-up I sent over?”

  “Yes, undead that are resistant to holy magic are very concerning indeed.”

  That’s because those are cursed undead. Those things won’t go down for good until you take down the Donkey Master himself.

  I had dealt with him enough lifetimes to know. The optimal method was to ignore his spawns and use your armies to beat a straight path to him. Then you must challenge him to a one-on-one.

  That is assuming you’ve already obtained the headdress.

  However, I didn’t control armies here, and I had no idea where the headdress might be.

  Gorian turned to me. “My Liege, thank you for joining us as well.”

  “Can you not call me that? Just Josephine, or Lady is fine.”

  “Nope, can’t do. Can’t have the Lady of these lands be part of an adventure party.” Justin chipped in, dressed in a glossy black leather jacket. “You and your brother are apparently rather popular ‘round here.”

  Probably because we kept visiting for the festivals and dances... Unintended consequences.

  I shook my head and sighed.

  “We do need a name though. You need to be registered with the Adventurers’ Guild else we can’t enter the dungeon as a group,” Serina said matter-of-factly. She wore a full-body suit of armor made of iridescent scales, making her look even more exotic.

  “I will go with Joan.”

  —

  From a distance the Adventurers’ Guild rose like a miniature fort of rough-hewn grey stone over the surrounding buildings. More details appeared as we got closer. Dark green ivy, glistening under the sun, crawled over the walls. Its tendrils twined around reliefs of what I assumed to be past adventurers and the tall windows that were recessed into the stone.

  A heavy, iron-banded double door that looked solid enough to withstand a battering ram barred its entrance, though one side stood ajar, with people coming and going from it.

  Inside was a large cavernous hall with vaulted ceilings held up by dark, wooden beams. On one end of the hall was a large fireplace rimmed by a large stone arch, where many rough-looking men and women in a variety of outfits were gathered. On the other end, a long counter stretched from side to side, with several attendants in uniform standing behind it.

  In the center of the room were several long wooden tables with long benches. Many adventurers gathered there, either sitting or half-standing on the benches in conversation with each other.

  The atmosphere was warm and buzzing, with the smell of ale, woodsmoke, leather and steel heavy in the air.

  However, all conversation ceased once Gorian entered, leading me in. At first everyone looked over at Zadina in her stark-white robe, and the golden sunburst on her chest. Murmurs rippled, followed by nods of approval. But inevitably, all eyes converged on me in my cloak of black velvet. Curiosity and doubt burned in those gazes.

  An all too familiar feeling.

  A giant of a man in leather and fur stomped over, blocking our path to the counter. “Yo, Gorian! What do you think you’re doing? I didn’t think we’re that desperate!”

  Gorian didn’t flinch from the spit flying at his face, casually folding his arms. “And what is it that you think we’re doing, Jakon?”

  The man and his wild mane of orange hair turned toward me and thrust an accusing finger. “You’re sacrificing that little girl to appease the foul spirits. I came to these civilized lands to escape such deeds.”

  I looked down at myself. I was covered from head to toe in my cloak and hood. My face should have been shrouded by the shadows I had extended over it through [Shadow Spread].

  “Little” I can understand. I am tall, but still only as tall as Ben who is nine.

  But “girl?” How did he know that? Am I shaped that differently now?

  Justin grabbed the giant by the arm and pulled him out of our way. “Relax, big guy. Ain’t no such thing happening. That La… umm… kid’s just coming with us to… watch.”

  “Watch! Are you insane?” A voluptuous woman in a tight black robe and pointed hat shrieked at Justin.

  Unlike me, she actually had curves.

  "Why would you go into a corrupted dungeon with dead weight as your sixth man?!”

  Justin ducked away from the ruckus of shouting that popped up around him.

  Nostalgia swelled up within me. The men that the Dauphin had given me were just the make-shift remnants of groups that the English had demolished in battle. When I first arrived at camp, there was a seemingly warm, casual atmosphere amongst the men as they chatted away with each other, but underneath it all, I sensed the tension, taut as a steel line, of despair and desperation: a wail from the depths of their forced smiles and the wary, constantly vigilant eyes.

  Each lifetime, I would be greeted by Jean and Pollichon in their rag-tag rusted armor, and unkempt faces of dirt and wild, unshaven hair.

  “??You lost, Mademoiselle? This ain’t the place for whores.” The two of them would challenge me snidely.

  I would know them so well in time, for the two would always become my first fidèles. But the first time, however gray that memory had become, I knew them only as Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy, two strangers who viewed me only as a lost camp follower.

  Like clockwork, two men stepped in front of me. “Hey Gorian, why don't you let Gary here take care of the pampered lady, while I help you guys take care of things down there.” His scarred lips cracked a skewed grin. “She can watch him all she wants.”

  Loose, ill-fitting armor and disheveled hair. The past took hold of me.

  My gloved hand snapped out and grabbed the hand of the taller one, not hard, not soft, but firmly, not letting go.

  “Are you tired of defeat?”

  “What?” He blinked, eyes wild. But I saw that thread of wary weariness.

  “Do you despair of being mired in the morass of endless loss?”

  “What? Maybe?” he blabbered. He tried to pull his hand but of course he couldn’t.

  Not with his spirit so crushed.

  “It is time we rise. The voice will call, and we must follow, else we will be forever lost. Can you step forward with me?”

  “Yes..?”

  “What’s your name?”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Nathan…” The one whose hand I was holding yelped. His friend hurried to add, “Gary…”

  “Nathan, Gary… I’m but one, of flesh and blood like you, but I will advance. I will persevere. And I will prevail. Believe in me.”

  Silence answered me, as it always had. The two of them retreated from me, their heads bowed.

  Zadina had her icy eyes locked on me, unwavering, unblinking.

  Justin whistled beside me. “Yeah, I’m definitely sticking with Liege.”

  —

  The green-haired girl at the counter squeaked like a meek little mouse when Zadina leaned over it.

  “Please register me for the Bloomsil Dungeon.” She placed a metal tag down upon the grains of polished wood with a cold click.

  “Of course, Sister, just give me a moment.” The receptionist’s eyes widened at the sight of the tag and quickly picked it up, slotting it into a slit on the smooth, grey stone box beside her.

  She placed her hand upon a quartz crystal hanging off her neck and her eyes glazed over momentarily. Once her eyes cleared, she nodded at Zadina. “Sister Zadina. You are silver rank and have no marks against you. This clears you for our dungeon. You’re now registered.”

  I watched as Zadina took back her Adventurer’s tag and put it into a pouch at her sash. According to the books on adventurers, depending on their class silver rank adventurers could go anywhere from 16th to 20th level.

  Which end of that range is she on?

  Next, Gorian ushered me to the counter. He gave the receptionist a wide toothy grin. “Cindy, can you issue… Joan, here a temporary tag? Corwin said we can speed things up, ya know?”

  Cindy was unmoved by Gorian’s words. “I’m sorry Sir, but the guildmaster is currently out on an important trip. I do not have the authority to issue such a tag.” Her brown eyes shifted to me. “Eloquent as she is, Guild rule clearly states that she must be a verified bronze rank or above to register for Bloomsil Dungeon.”

  Gorian growled. “When does that bastard get back? He should’ve known we were coming!”

  “I believe it was an emergency sir, but I’m not sure when.” She then lowered her voice and whispered, “we heard it might be royal summons.”

  “Of all the rotten timing.” Gorian moaned.

  Serina moved up beside him, and asked in an even voice. “Let’s set her up with a regular tag then. Can you at least expedite the exam? Especially given…” She glanced over her shoulder at the crowds in the hall. “Everyone is stuck topside for now.”

  Cindy pulled out a blank metal tag and slotted that into the grey stone box. “Let’s see, just Joan? Female… Human?”

  Her fingers tapped on the quartz when I answered with a nod to each question.

  “Your role?”

  That gave me pause.

  The roles for adventure groups are Tank, Scout, Striker, Support and Caster.

  I wasn’t quite sure which of those I should take.

  Gorian, Serina, and I all answered at the same time.

  “She’s a Striker!”

  “She’ll Support.”

  “Caster.”

  Cindy looked at the three of us in confusion.

  A thought occurred to me as I became conscious of Zadina’s gaze on my back.

  While the Valiant Fist had seen my shadow spells, especially my sword, I’m not sure if showing it to a Paladin of light is a good idea.

  None of the books I read in the library had even mentioned dark spells.

  “Striker, I’d like to register as that.”

  As for Support, I wasn’t sure if showing off my [Divine Knight] abilities was a good idea either. She might get the wrong idea.

  “Your class?”

  Whatever hidden flag that was on me still wouldn’t let me say [Sorcerer]. But I already blurted out “Caster” before, plus I do want to practice spells down there, maybe the normal ones, like [Mana Bolt].

  “Mage.” I finally replied.

  “So, Magician.” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you not say you want a Striker role?”

  “Just hurry. She doesn’t know what she wants.” Gorian growled again.

  “Alright, your level then. We can assign you an exam based on that.”

  “Two.”

  Her eyes shot up from the quartz. “That’d only qualify you for an iron exam.”

  “Bah!” Gorian exploded. “She’s ready for the bronze one.”

  “That’s four levels above her. And she’s going to take the Striker exam as a mage? This is highly unusual and dangerous!”

  “I’ll vouch for her. The lass doesn’t move at all like she’s level two.”

  “Yeah, I’d feel sorry for the exam admin.” Justin quipped from behind me.

  —

  Monsieur Besnard, another of my ma?tre d'armes, was always insistent that I pay close attention to footwork.

  "Le jeu de jambes, mademoiselle," he would say, tapping his shoe with a cane, "it is the prélude to action, the seed of beauty, and the harbinger of disaster.”

  My footwork was of course awful, and oftentimes disastrous, but he made me focus on the efficiency and style of my steps, to speak the words that had been instilled in me through my gait. And from there those words would translate up through my body into the swing of my blade.

  The instructor was late, much to the chagrin of Gorian, whose metal boot was tapping an impatient beat against the packed gravel.

  “What’s the big deal!” The grizzled-haired man hollered as he stumbled, swaying into the training yard. The wind blowing past him assaulted us with a whiff of stale alcohol.

  “Damn it, Laz! You’re making us look bad. Just pass her and let us be on our way. Be glad I don’t report you to Corwin.” Gorian rumbled.

  A wave of murmurs rose in agreement behind us. For some reason a large contingent of adventurers had followed us out behind the Guild House to watch me.

  Don’t they have something better to do?

  Actually, I knew the answer to that. Serina had told me that most of them were out of action due to how unpredictable the Dungeon had gotten nowadays.

  “No.” The voice that answered had iron in it. Laz pulled at the strings of his grease-stained shirt as he walked over to a rack of weapons. “I ain’t letting no dainty know-nothing damsel pass just ‘cause you want her as a blood sacrifice. Hyycck…”

  He would’ve sounded more dignified and convincing if he didn’t hiccup at the end there.

  “For the last time! There’s no sacrificing anyone. She’s coming to help us, as a party member!”

  “That one?” Laz squinted one eye dubiously at me. “Striker right? You even know what that means?”

  “I move around, find the enemy’s weak points. Get in, hit them hard, get out,” I recited from one of the handbooks.

  “A book girl, eh? We’ll see what that gets you. Your weapon?”

  “Sword, straight and long, hopefully.”

  A wooden training sword flew toward me hilt first and I snatched it out of the air. It was a short sword, but handled more like a long sword for my size.

  The man knew his weapons.

  Laz side-stepped out into the center of the training yard.

  “Careful, Laz might be old and washed up, but he’s still dangerous.” Gorian warned, backing away from me. “Just make it quick, we don’t have time to dilly-dally,” he grumbled as he joined the rest of the onlookers behind the low wall circling the yard.

  I turned to Laz and his gait told the story. His body still teetered from drinking, but his steps were solid beneath him, right foot dragging a little into the dirt as he circled me.

  An injury? A hint of caution? Or bait…

  His steps spread further apart as he sank low, the motion masked by his back straightening from its slouch. His shoulder angled toward me, sword arm coiled ever so slightly back.

  “So missy, you think you got what it takes to go down there and come back? Show me.” The bitterness of that voice and the long stare stirred in me memories of going through roll-call at camp for the first time, when I walked past the rank and file of defeated men.

  Who had he lost down there? Or was it himself?

  “Strikers are all about speed, you know?” He pulled a yellowed handkerchief from his shirt pocket and blew into it, his nose honking. “Tell you what. I’m going to throw this into the air, and if you can tag me before it lands, I’ll pass you without the extra steps.”

  He tossed the wadded up, snot drenched cloth into the air.

  Ever since I had learned [Hasted Steps] from the book that Mama had gotten me, I had been obsessed with using it to reproduce the way that foreign lord had attacked me. Specifically the way he disappeared and reappeared instantly beside me. It wasn't perfect, but eventually, I stumbled upon the idea of copying [Focus Cast].

  What if I could focus mana, not just for damage, but for effect?

  It took a few tries, but given my compulsive nature:

  I made it work.

  [Hasted Steps]

  I cast the spell, pumping nearly double the mana into the waves of magic flowing into my body.

  The wad arced through the air, sinking now. My muscles constricted. My boots shot into the ground, denting the gravel. My body bolted forward.

  The air shuddered around me as I appeared in front of him, my body already mid-swing, my cloak fluttering behind me. I whipped my sword in a downward arc. It grazed across his chest and knocked down his sword.

  The problem with this method was momentum. That lord probably had some spatial teleport magic, but here my speed carried me past Laz. My boots skidded across the gravel, rattling loudly. The tip of my sword traced an arc in the cloud of dust swirling around me.

  Laz was down on the ground, lying back on his elbow, his legs sprawled out with a wet spot in the crotch of his pants.

  Stunned silence hung over the crowd. The wad unfurled and drifted from side to side until it settled on the gravel.

  The wind shifted my hair.

  My hood was down.

  I overdid it.

  “In life, or in battle,” Monsieur Besnard had told me, “One must always walk sur ses gardes.” He whipped out a blade at me seemingly out of nowhere. “Expect to strike or be struck at any moment.”

  By then, I had already known what to expect, and my blade was already half out of its sheath blocking his.

  That was as the slower, more awkward Joan.

  With Josephine, all bets were off.