“Hile, Sister!” Hunter called, panting.

  Sister Ursa scowled, clutching her spear.

  “Transient? What is the matter? Did something happen?”

  “What? No, no. Everything’s fine.”

  “Why are you running, then?”

  Hunter gave the woman what he hoped was a disarming smile.

  “Uh… Exercise?”

  Sister Ursa gave him an icy look, unamused, but her face softened as Fyodor padded up to her to say hello. She’d saved their collective bacon back in Thraggoth’s Run, opening the Propylon Arch just in time. The direwolf hadn’t forgotten it, and neither had Hunter.

  “I would have to ask you to stay away from the Arch, unless you have business here,” she said, stroking Fyodor’s back. “And to refrain from disturbing my vigil.”

  “Apologies, I’ll keep that in mind,” Hunter said, and turned to leave. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Have a pleasant day!”

  “Wait, wait. Out with it. You came all this way, you might as well say your piece.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “You have an honest face. It’s like an open book. Now speak.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Hunter was sick of running circles around the courtyard, but that was only part of the reason he was out there. Truth was, he’d been hoping to find Sister Ursa. There was something he wanted to ask of her.

  “I’m looking for a sparring partner, is all. You fit the bill, and then some.”

  Sister Ursa blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter—a deep, genuine sound that echoed off the stone walls.

  “Me? You want me for a sparring partner?“ she said, still chuckling. “You’re braver than you look, I’ll give you that.”

  “Well, it’s not like there are many people around I could ask,” he shrugged. “I thought I might start with the one person I’ve already seen carry a weapon around. Frankly, it was either you or the Callanthines, and those candlesticks they carry look a bit too scary for sparring.”

  “We have a resident weapons master, you know. You’re lucky he’s above taking offense at such trifling matters. Though if you find the Callanthines’ candlesticks scary, I’m afraid you’ll find Gauffrey’s épée absolutely terrifying.”

  Hunter hadn’t forgotten about the weapons master; he’d just hoped to avoid him. To call the man standoffish would’ve been an understatement. There was something cold and calculating about him that sent a chill up Hunter’s spine, something unmistakably predatory. Still, since the Sage intended to take control of his Transient body once he was done with it, Hunter supposed he didn’t have much to fear from her weapons master.

  “Do you know where I could find him?” he asked Sister Ursa.

  “Ask the Callanthines,” she replied. “Though I suspect you’ll have to make a formal request first, one the Sage herself will need to approve. Otherwise, he’s unlikely to give you the time of day.”

  Hunter had hoped to avoid the Sage as well. Biggs and Wedge, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get a chance to help him with Thought Sentry. They’d taken their newfound roles as wardens of his psyche very seriously, following him everywhere, never letting him out of their sight, and giving any Callanthine who wandered too close a withering stink-eye. It was a dead giveaway, and Hunter didn’t want to raise any suspicions.

  He thanked Sister Ursa, bid her farewell, and made his way back to their lodgings in Tor Taravus. Aumir was still away; Hunter didn’t know where he’d gone or when he’d be back. If he had, he’d have already asked him to be his sparring partner.

  He summoned one of the spectral attendants, made his formal request just as Sister Ursa had instructed, and then settled down to practice Mystical Phenomena. Slowly but surely, he was getting the hang of the coin trick. He still hadn’t managed to land heads ten times in a row, but what had once seemed wildly improbable now felt like only a matter of time and practice.

  He spent the rest of the day alternating between cooking, meditating with Mystic Reflection, and casting Mystic Eye on random objects until his Essence pool ran dry and his nose started bleeding from the recoil. All of it was part of the training regimen Mortimer had helped him put together, and Hunter had to admit, he was starting to enjoy the idea of having a routine to stick to.

  That routine extended beyond Elderpyre, too. He made a point of taking frequent breaks throughout the day, logging out to keep his physical body fit, clean, fed, and hydrated. Living this way, split between two worlds, could still feel jarring at times, but Hunter was slowly, finally getting used to it.

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  He had just finished preparing breakfast for Fyodor the next morning—Aether-infused mutton, the direwolf’s favorite—when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Enter!” he called from the kitchen, and one of the Callanthines moved to answer it.

  “Transient,” he heard a voice, cool, measured, and unmistakably Gauffrey’s. “Your request has been approved. Join me in the salle d’ armes—the training hall.”

  “Uh… when?” Hunter asked, poking his head out of the kitchen door and wiping his hands on a towel.

  The weapons master regarded him over his gold-rimmed spectacles, expression unreadable and distinctly unimpressed. “Now. And bring your armaments of choice, should you so desire.”

  “Can I bring them?” Hunter asked, glancing at the direwolf and the ravens. Normally, the three of them managed just fine on their own, but he’d rather keep Biggs and Wedge close. There was little point in using Thought Sentry if they weren’t there to help him detect threats. “They’re well-behaved, I promise.”

  Gauffrey made a noncommittal gesture that Hunter took as a yes, and he hurried off to his room to get dressed and grab his gear. When he returned to the door a few minutes later, he found the weapons master standing exactly as he’d left him. Hunter could swear the man didn’t even breathe, let alone fidget.

  The so-called salle d’armes was a small, stocky building on the far side of the fort, little more than a rectangular block of stone. Tall windows flooded the interior with light, making the hardwood floors gleam. Weapon and armor racks lined the walls, laden with every kind of equipment imaginable.

  “I am told you favor the glaive,” Gauffrey said as they made their way to the sparring area that occupied most of the building’s center, wasting no time. “And that you wish for me to be your… sparring partner.”

  Those last two words carried a faint edge of disapproval, just enough to make sure Hunter didn’t miss it.

  “That’s correct, though I suspect you’ll end up tutoring and instructing me in the use of weapons rather than merely sparring,” Hunter said. His response was truth and diplomacy in equal parts; there was no reason to start on the wrong foot.

  “I’m glad we’re on the same page,” the weapons master replied without even glancing at him. He walked to a rack filled with polearms and selected a glaive. “Please join me in the sparring area. We’ll begin with an assessment of your combat skills and mastery of the weapon.”

  The assessment lasted nearly half an hour. What started as a few casual, almost easygoing exchanges, quickly ramped up to a brutal sparring session that pushed Hunter to the very edge of his ability. The weapons master wasn’t trying to defeat him; he was conducting a stress test, and was doing so with the detached coolness of a scientist running a routine experiment.

  “That’s enough,” Gauffrey said at last, lowering his weapon, and it took everything Hunter had not to drop his own and collapse to his knees. He was drenched in sweat and panting, and his arms and legs were burning from exhaustion. The weapons master, by contrast, didn’t look even slightly winded.

  “I was informed of the existence of a book documenting the readouts of your System,” the weapons master said. “May I see it?”

  Hunter retrieved the notebook from the Arsenal Bracer’s storage space and handed it to him.

  “I haven’t updated it in the past few days, but all the combat stuff should be more or less accurate.”

  Gauffrey studied the book for several minutes, his icy eyes darting from line to line with impossible speed behind his spectacles. Hunter took the opportunity to sit on the floor and meditate, cycling his Essence to restore his stamina and shake the stiffness from his limbs.

  “It is accurate, yes,” Gauffrey said at last, as though no time had passed at all. “Your base Strength and Dexterity attributes are lackluster at best,” Gauffrey said. “Your Stamina is only marginally better, though this Conditioning ability compensates for it considerably. Without it, you wouldn’t have lasted even a third as long as you did.”

  “I was hoping to gain a few more ranks in it,” Hunter said. “Get it to 25. That’s the upper limit of all skills and abilities for my Rung.”

  If the weapons master heard him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he kept staring at the pages.

  “Your general physical condition is commendable for one such as you, judging by your Athletics skill,” he went on. “Your technique and grasp of the flow of combat is adequate as well. That’s your Close Combat and Evasion skills. Unfortunately, the breadth of your weapon mastery is rather narrow.”

  “I’ve only really been trained in using the glaive and the bow.”

  “So I can see. It’s your other abilities that lift you beyond the realm of the mundane and dull. Glaive Expertise, Dodge Counter, Opportunist, Adaptive Defense, Fulcrum, and, most interestingly, Danger-Sense and Asymmetric Tactics.”

  “Some of these aren’t at 25 yet, either,” Hunter replied, sidestepping the barb. “I was hoping to improve those too.”

  “There is merit in refining those, yes,” Gauffrey said, still all but ignoring Hunter. “With proper instruction and a little effort, I could bring you to the pinnacle of your Rung. Discounting your still unimpressive physique, of course. Tell me, who has tutored you thus far?”

  “Fawkes of the Lodge,” Hunter said. “A master of the blade. And Elder Wroth of the Behemoth Nation.”

  “I thought as much,” the weapons master replied with a nod. “I was certain I recognized traces of one of the lesser Brennai glaivefighter Paths.”

  “The Path of the White Cloud.”

  “One of the lesser ones, yes,” Gauffrey said, dismissing it with a wave. “And your general understanding and combat flow show elements of an áeld martial Path.”

  “Yes, that would be Fawkes.”

  The weapons master looked up from the notebook, studying Hunter for a long moment.

  “There’s still something else,” he said finally. “Some Wessmar mercenary training, if I had to guess.”

  Hunter had heard that before. That was exactly what Fawkes had said the first time she’d seen him use the techniques he’d learned from studying the works of the Italian Masters.

  “I’ve also studied a few martial arts manuals from my own world,” he told Gauffrey. “If you mean the more technical moves and countermoves, that’s where I picked them up.”

  “Interesting. I would like to examine those as well, if possible.”

  “They’re stored up here, unfortunately,” Hunter said, tapping a finger against his temple. “In the System. And they’re far too long to copy by hand. Not to mention the illustrations.”

  “I see,” said Gauffrey. “Thank you, anyway. That will be all. You may leave now.”

  Hunter raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

  “I thought you were going to help me.”

  “I am,” the weapons master replied with a nod, his expression unreadable. “As I said—you may leave now.”

  Still confused and not entirely sure what the hell had just happened, Hunter did as he was told. He gathered up Fyodor and the ravens, who had been waiting patiently by the door, and headed out. With or without the weapons master’s help, he still had plenty of work ahead of him.

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