The Trade would last for two weeks. For the first week, the schedule remained entirely the same—the only difference day-by-day was which part of his skeleton Blake had to refine. He got better at secretly reforging his bones while on shift, increasing the dose of fiendsmoke he injected into himself.

  After two days of shadowing the barterers, they let Blake give it a try. He wasn’t as effective, but when they needed an extra hand, it was better than missing a sale entirely. (He still didn’t employ Sclera’s method of grabbing people by the throat, because that seemed like horrible customer service, but maybe that was the cause of his lack of sales.)

  Always, Blake watched for Svarikson. He didn’t want to be caught unaware again. But while he was looking around the plaza, he also hunted for any sign of the Path Paladins. He didn’t even know what to look for, but if any of them had tattoos like what Wind-Eyes had, he knew to stay away.

  When he began reforging the bones of his arms, he had to jab the rushlight through muscle, which was unpleasant, and many of the bones weren’t nearly as easy to get the fiendsmoke into.

  By the time he’d used up three vials, about halfway through the week, he was beginning to feel the effects of so much catalyst used. His bones were stinging constantly, like they were still corroding, and they didn’t stop vibrating now. Ethbin assured him that advancing to the next stage would lock the advancement in, and it’d go away, leaving him with an immensely refined skeleton.

  Blake could only hope the old man was right, otherwise this was going to be a long life.

  When he began working on the bones of his legs, on the fifth day of the week, he asked Ethbin, “What’s the condition for advancing to the next stage? Is there a knowledge component as well?”

  Ethbin only laughed, then said, Not for the Body Tempering sub-stages. But when you make it to Foundation, then yes.

  “Do you think I’m going to make it to Foundation?”

  If you survive long enough.

  “Of course.” Blake winced.

  After he finished reforging the skeleton of his legs, he moved onto the most difficult part—the individual bones in his feet and hands. Ethbin guided him on where to insert the petrified rushlight, because if he stabbed it into the wrong spot, he could tear a tendon, and then he’d truly be in trouble. Worse, he had to puncture each bone individually, which left an annoying amount of holes in his feet, and even though he bandaged them, it made walking painful.

  On the seventh day, he moved onto the most difficult part: his hands. Once he had the rushlight in place, he held it with his teeth, then used his spare hand to pour fiendsmoke from the last vial. His hands were the last part of his skeleton to refine, and he understood now why he had to wait for the end. He had plenty of practice to make the process smoother.

  Once he began the process of reforging his left hand, he shifted to his right hand and did the opposite, pushing through the pain to empty the last vial of fiendsmoke.

  His midday shift began soon after, and all throughout the shift, he worked. A few of the customers asked if he was alright—he winced almost every time he had to reach for a fur or dig through a bin of teeth. Every time he tightened his grip around something, his bones trembled, and a deep scraping pain rattled throughout his body. His body trembled with each movement, and he couldn’t control the awkward vibrations of his body.

  You’re almost there, Ethbin assured him. I know you can do it.

  “I’m trying, I’m trying,” Blake said, the corners of his eyes watering from sheer discomfort. He hid behind a rack of howler furs and whispered, “Does it get easier in the next stages?”

  No.

  “But—”

  You’ll get used to it. You’ll become more powerful. Then it will feel easier.

  Throughout the shift, Sclera also asked him about his hands. He’d wrapped bandages around them to catch the blood from his injection points. He told her that it was because he was practicing getting through Body Tempering, and wanted to see what his body could take. She only shook her head and muttered something about how Blake was a beardless fool, that stabbing his hands wouldn’t help him refine his bones.

  (He was pretty sure ‘beardless’ was an insult, and that Ethbin cursing the ‘beardless Father’ was immensely heretical, but he never pressed the man about it.)

  But the excuse held, and that was that.

  The seventh day also marked the beginning of the display fights between the Green Bears and the Red Pines. All through the day, disciples of the sects stepped up onto the raised platforms and squared off in scheduled matches. It wasn’t a tournament, as far as Blake could see, but bets were placed, and the crowd took great enjoyment in watching the young and middle-aged sect members take each other on.

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  Not all the fights were between opposing sects, either. Sometimes, members of the Green Bears ended up challenging each other, and same for the Red Pines. It seemed more like entertainment, though there were a few onlookers who seemed to be taking note of which sect was performing better.

  Blake took a short break from bartering to watch Konuth and Iver’s fights. Konuth was paired off with a young Blended man from the Green Bears, who he beat handily, and Iver fought a human woman who used an axe on a rope. Techniques flashed over the crowd, with Iver’s common flame attacks flashing against the woman’s vines. After a long skirmish, she defeated him.

  As the three boys walked past Blake’s stall, he heard Konuth and Froskur lightly teasing Iver about losing to a girl, but Iver simply said, “Tradition is tradition: if she is more skilled than me, she deserves to win. I will do better next Trade, I will find her, and I will defeat her.”

  As the sun began setting, the fighters’ Smite techniques flashed out with greater vibrance. There were a few fighters who employed techniques with colours Blake just couldn’t place. Yellow was sunlight, that made sense. But what did magenta or blue light mean? It had to be some unique combination of mana aspects—and it was always Blended who used them.

  As Blake’s shift neared an end, he estimated he was about three quarters finished reforging his hands’ skeleton. He could barely move his fingers, and every movement was like crushed glass crunched in his veins.

  This was what he got for going above and beyond…

  It had better be worth it.

  But instead of a relaxing end to his shift, Sclera caught his attention and lifted her chin, signalling Blake to look over his shoulder.

  Svarikson approached the stall, marching with purpose. He held a howler pelt and a shroomclaw core in his hands. Lips curling into a snarl, he locked eyes with Blake. When he reached the counter, he slammed the pelt down, then pressed the shroomclaw core atop it with purpose.

  “This pelt is faulty,” he declared loudly, then lowered his voice and whispered, “Fiend-blend. Where’s my ring?”

  “Why the soft voice?” Blake returned in a slightly sing-song manner. He’d tucked Ethbin’s ring into his pocket when his shift began, and no one would see. “Afraid someone might hear about how a Blended near-mortal thrall escaped you, then killed your two thugs?”

  Svarikson scowled, then demanded, “What was in the ring?”

  “I threw it away. In the alleys. When I escaped you.”

  “We searched. We found nothing.”

  “Look harder.”

  “You will listen to me, fiend-blend!” Svarikson reached across the counter and grabbed a handful of Blake’s shirt in his grip.

  Sclera clicked her tongue, arms crossed, and faced Svarikson.

  “On my authority as an associate of the Green Bear Sect,” Svarikson said, “I order you to stay out of my business, lest I have you arrested for conspiring against the Steerman’s Favoured.”

  “I am a Scryer,” she said. “My capacity is not combat. And I imagine your grievance to be somewhat justified when it comes to this ruffian.” There was no one else on shift to help him.

  “Now, now,” Blake said, glancing around. Heads were turning all around the plaza, and people were staring at him and Svarikson. “You don’t want to make a scene, do you? That’s why you had your thugs drag me off to an alleyway—”

  “Your existence costs me every second. Every moment you go free, every second that I fail to enact justice, my authority dims. My foothold slips. My position weakens because you are alive. And…with whatever you have done to gain power as quickly as you have…it ends now.”

  Now that Blake thought about it, Svarikson’s beard had grown rather mangy, and he seemed to have put on a few extra pounds. Had he really started to go crazy?

  “Not my fault you couldn’t catch a near-mortal fiend-blended tenant,” Blake said. But he really didn’t want to get in a fight right now, not when he was so close to Tempering two, not when he could barely use his hands properly. “Now, just let me—”

  Svarikson pulled, dragging Blake through the counter. Wood shattered, broken beams tore his legs, but an impact that would’ve previously broken his bones only made them tremble. He threw Blake down onto his back in the middle of the plaza hard enough to create a shockwave of dust. Blake coughed, winded, but his spine was intact. Before, a hit like that could’ve paralyzed him.

  Even Svarikson seemed surprised by how little damage he’d done to Blake.

  Marketgoers backed away, forming a circle around both of them, and Blake scrambled up to his feet.

  “This man stole from me!” Svarikson bellowed. “He evaded justice. And now, he must pay the price!”

  “You broke your word,” Blake countered. “You tried to claim rent early, and I wouldn’t have been able to pay it. That was never in the terms of our agreement. But I tried to let it go, to leave you be! You couldn’t let that happen, could you?”

  The crowd seemed neutral. Sclera stepped forward, eyes glinting with curiosity, but she didn’t intervene.

  Before Blake could try to talk around it anymore, Svarikson pulled a small hatchet from his belt. With his other hand, he plucked a water canteen from his belt and poured it over the hatchet. Instead of slicking off, then water glommed around the weapon. Was that a Shaping technique?

  Then Svarikson slashed the axe through the air, whipping the water at Blake.

  It was definitely a Smite technique.

  Blake jumped to the side, performing an aerial to dodge the attack. The water slapped into the ground harmlessly, scouring away a patch of dirt. The crowd gasped, and there were a few laughs.

  “Alright, then,” Blake said. “I really didn’t want to do this, but…”

  You’re ready, Ethbin said. You’ve been weak your whole life, but that changes today.

  But Blake was only Tempering one. Svarikson was at the fifth stage.

  And Svarikson didn’t use six entire vials of fiendsmoke to refine his skeleton, Ethbin added.

  Wincing, Blake pushed through the agony in his hands and gripped his staff. He tugged it free and took a fighting stance.