Blake stood up, brushed himself off, and took stock of himself. He wasn’t about to die from any wound he had right now. A few scrapes, a few gashes, but nothing that couldn’t be bandaged and repaired.

  But he might not have enough time to repair them. Two Green Bear sect members, both Tempering five, who Blake was pretty sure he could beat if he tried hard enough, were marching up the stairs to the platform.

  For a moment, he considered running. But he still hadn’t enhanced his muscles. He didn’t see a situation where he made it out of Mergewatch before Heron and his men caught up, and then Blake was for sure dead.

  Think, think, think…there had to be something he could do to get out of this…

  Open your eyes, Ethbin whispered, using immense effort to get his voice across to Blake without the ring on Blake’s finger.

  “Huh?” Blake whispered. He glanced up, looking across the platform at Mingel. She stood up as well, brushing off her pants, and turned to face him. Blake couldn’t explain it, but he knew she had something to say. She just looked like she did. “Are you alright?”

  “Quiet,” she snapped. “You don’t have time.”

  “Do you—”

  “Make him promise to only take one life,” Mingel said. “You must.”

  “Huh?” Blake’s heart sank. He hoped she was going to give him some incredible advice for political maneuvering, but that wasn’t it. She was just trying to help herself, was that it? “I don’t under—”

  “Make him promise,” Mingel insisted. Her eyes flared emerald green, and she stared at him with an intensity that didn’t seem natural. There was no self-concern there.

  “I…will?” he said, tilting his head. “Of course, I will, yeah.” If he was doomed, he wasn’t going to drag anyone else down with him.

  Maybe she knew something he didn’t. Maybe Heron was going to take out his rage on the crowd. He was a cultivator, after all. No one could accuse them of being reasonable.

  Before he could say anything else, the two Green Bear guards grabbed Blake by his shoulders and dragged him down to the main plaza below. When they reached the bottom, the crowd stared at him. A few lowered their heads and averted their gazes, as if the ground was suddenly way more interesting than the guy getting dragged to his death.

  They know what farce this is, Ethbin said. They know how unfair it is. You can feel your Honour surging, can’t you?

  A warmth flowed in Blake’s channels. He hadn’t even been thinking about that, but indeed, Honour still flowed freely.

  The guards dragged Blake into a clearing in the middle of the plaza. A circle of Green Bears kept the civilians back, but Ulfreld and a few other Red Pines—including Konuth, Iver, and Froskur—watched too, standing along an edge of the clearing. Froskur chewed his fingernails, Konuth looked poised to attack, and Iver stood rooted, his arms crossed.

  The two guards threw Blake down in the center of the clearing, pushing him to his knees before Heron.

  “What have you done, thrall?” Heron demanded. “I cannot bear this insult.”

  “I beat up your fiancé, dumbass,” Blake replied. “I thought that was pretty obvious.”

  “You—”

  “Actually, hold up.” Blake raised a finger. “I mean, everyone here knows what you’re doing. I’m sure most of them saw through it more clearly than I could—”

  Something impacted Blake’s cheek, and pain erupted across the side of his head. He fell to the ground, half-expecting to spit out a few teeth. But his teeth were part of his skeleton, and they’d been reforged to resist such impacts.

  More importantly, Heron had smacked him.

  Shaking his head, Blake looked up at the man from his new vantage on the ground. “Okay, okay, that wasn’t very nice.” He hesitated. “Now, alright…kill me if you want, but only take one life.” Glancing around, he spotted Mingel’s boots—she had joined them in the clearing. “Promise it.”

  “You’re in no position to make demands,” Heron snapped.

  “And you are in no position to act gracelessly, Silverbeard,” a different voice surged over the crowd. The Green Bears holding back the civilians parted, allowing two men to pass through. They wore a long hauberk of shimmering chainmail (probably enchanted) that extended below their knees, and a heavy gray robe overtop. A white cloak wrapped around their shoulders, pinned at the front with an eye-shaped brooch.

  One, a man with long brown hair, a beard, and a thick mustache, stepped to the front. His cloak covered up his rank seal, but that didn’t matter. Heron glanced at them skeptically, no matter how strong they were.

  “Path Paladins,” Ulfreld breathed, bowing his head. Iver gazed at them with awe.

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  “Oh, shit,” Blake inched away from them, even if he couldn’t make out any obvious weapons they carried. “This cannot keep getting worse…”

  “The boy does not ask for anything unreasonable,” the Path Paladin who spoke earlier continued. “Allow him this courtesy. Or perhaps we should put your dishonourable schemes into words.”

  “I don’t scheme—”

  “And even now, you cannot help yourself.” The Path Paladin scowled. “Do not forget the real power in the north is the King, not your petulant family. You are not nearly as covert as you think you are.”

  “Fine, fine,” Heron said. He marched to the edge of the clearing and whirled around, then drew his sword with a petulant swing. “I’ll take one life. It’s a promise.”

  Blake breathed out a relieved sigh, and the rest of the crowd began looking up again. They stared at him now, unafraid of consequences. He looked up, too.

  Movement, out the corner of his eye. Mingel. She was inching forward, inching closer.

  Whirling his sword with a practiced flourish, Heron built speed and power. White light gathered on the cutting edge of his sword, and the slashed halo flashed to life above his head. Surely, a Core Formation cultivator could break through Blake’s bones with ease. Blake prepared to spring back, ready to dodge. If he could just keep talking, he might be able to buy himself more time…

  Heron surged forward, crossing the clearing in a single step. Too many things happened at once, and Blake barely registered half of it. He saw Mingel’s cloak whirl. She tried to step forward, tried to jump in front of the killing blow. But a hand reached out and pushed her back.

  Konuth. He sprang into the path of the sword and kicked Blake away, sending him skidding across the gravel.

  Light flashed, flying gravel became black silhouettes, and Blake’s vision went blank for a second. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. When the light faded, he jumped back to his feet, standing right beside Mingel.

  In the center of the clearing, Konuth’s decapitated body lay sprawled in the center of the clearing.

  “No!” Froskur shouted. His feet scrambled against the gravel, but Iver held him back. “How dare you, Silverbeard? He had no part in this!”

  Heron looked just as mortified. He flicked the blood off his blade, and his crown faded.

  Konuth…had exchanged his life? For Blake’s?

  Blake glanced at Mingel. She had tried to do the same. Why would they? He wasn’t worth that much. Konuth barely knew him, and Mingel had just met him.

  Unless she’d been trying to get out of whatever punishment Heron would serve her, and thought she’d help him at the same time.

  Blake dropped back to his knees and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He’d caused so much trouble, so much pain. If he’d just given—

  No. He shot those thoughts down immediately, then looked up and glared at Heron. Most of the crowd was silent, save for a few murmurs, and save for Froskur’s aimless scrambling. He wasn’t breaking free of Iver’s hold.

  This was Heron’s fault, it was Svarikson’s fault. They were the ones who’d dug this hole, and Blake couldn’t blame himself for trying to scramble up the sides.

  “Th—this is not enough!” Heron sputtered. “The dishonour! The indignation! Guards, grab the Blended, bring him to me. He must still die. This will be an untold loss of face for my father and the sect!”

  Two Green Bears moved to grab Blake, but the Path Paladin who’d spoken before lifted his fingers and pushed aside his cloak slightly, revealing a long and skinny sword-length baton tucked into his belt. It had inactive runes running its entire length, one rune-line on each of its octagonal sides.

  That had to be some sort of weapon.

  “You made a promise, Heron,” the Paladin said. “And you will keep it.”

  Were the Paladins protecting him? Blake tilted his head. Maybe Wind-Eyes hadn’t been right about them after all…

  “Why are you even here?” Heron demanded, glaring at the Paladin. He gripped his sword and marched back toward Blake, but the Paladin’s arm shot out in a blur, gripping the end of his baton. The runes lit up, flaring with neon green light, and sparks trailed in the air behind it.

  “You will keep your promise.”

  Heron grunted and made a soft stomp of his foot, then flourished his blade and sheathed it. “The sect will have its revenge. My father will hear about this.”

  “Let him.”

  Blake hung his head. Whether it was now or months in the future, something was going to happen. Heron would find a way, just like Svarikson, just like every other grown child that called themselves a cultivator.

  Konuth had only died to buy Blake time. He’d trusted Blake. He’d believed that Blake was meant for something more, hadn’t he?

  Blake had to honour that.

  Standing up, Blake shouted, “Heron! You want your revenge? Make me a deal.”

  Heron, who had poised himself to walk away, stopped and glanced back at Blake. “What, fiend-blend? What other disrespect can you heap onto me?”

  “Duel me at the next Great Trade.” Blake crossed his arms. “Fight me yourself, and leave everyone else out of it. You win, you get to kill me and save some face. There’s absolutely no way I could advance in time to beat you, right? It’s only three months. But if you lose…” There was an opportunity here, and Blake knew it. He glanced at Ulfreld, trying to think of what prize he should claim.

  He was about to demand that Heron leave the Red Pines alone, but Ulfreld spoke up and demanded, “If you lose, you must admit my disciple into a guild apprenticeship aboard the manaship. I heard the Cohongs are looking for new blood.”

  “What?” Blake whispered, glancing at the Elder.

  “You cannot languish in the wilds forever,” Ulfreld whispered. “You know it, and I know it too. You are meant for something more than the Hunters. Do you accept?”

  Blake nodded. Whatever it was, getting a guild apprenticeship with the Cohongs had to be a good thing. He was going to need more advancement resources eventually, and he was going to need help from those who could give it. Getting aboard the manaship was the next step.

  Stomping his foot, Heron threw down his arms. “Fine. Yes, whatever. It’s just a fiend-blended thrall, shouldn’t be a challenge. Now get out of my sight.”

  Blake backed up, still trying to process everything. He wanted to talk to Iver and Froskur, to say his respects for Konuth, but if he stayed out in the open, there was a high chance something else bad happened. He didn’t know what, but something.

  Ulfreld guided him away from the Path Paladins (who Blake couldn’t help but notice staring at him, their eyes boring cold holes into his back) and brought him back toward the inn.

  Blake had lived, but now what?