"Who are you supposed to be?"

  The auburn-haired girl's voice carried obvious resentment, sharp edges barely concealed beneath a veneer of civility. She stood amid the carnage she'd created, residual silver energy still flickering across her fingertips, and stared at Lord Roger with the kind of suspicion reserved for people who arrived too conveniently late.

  "Why, I'm Lord Roger Friverr." He spoke with practiced elegance, one hand gesturing expansively while the other swept his long blonde hair away from his face—trying unsuccessfully to keep the strands from touching the blood spatters on his armor. "Heir to the very land you currently stand upon, as it happens."

  A flash of polished steel caught the dying light—his pauldrons glinted, and his movements were economical, the kind a predator used when it never intended to waste motion. He smiled, all charm and calculated warmth.

  "And you are?"

  His eyes gleamed with genuine intrigue, the kind of interest a collector might show when discovering an unexpected treasure.

  The girl's jaw tightened. "We are the trainees coming from Draymoor. We were ambushed, as you clearly saw. Our destination is the capital."

  Each word was precise, carefully enunciated. The kind of speech that came from someone who'd taught themselves to sound educated, to rise above their station through sheer force of will. Few village children her age could manage it—most still carried the rough edges of rural dialect, the shortcuts and slurred vowels of agricultural poverty.

  "I know your purpose." Roger's chuckle was light, almost musical. "I'm asking about you specifically."

  For someone who'd just witnessed an onslaught and delivered a killing blow himself, he seemed remarkably calm. No tremor in his hands. No horror in his eyes. Just mild curiosity and that persistent smile.

  He'd probably seen war too many times. The thought crossed Notch's mind as he studied the Lord through his pain-hazed vision. Roger looked young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three at most, certainly in his early twenties—but his eyes told a different story. They held the kind of weariness that only came from watching people die. Repeatedly.

  "My name?" The girl looked genuinely surprised, as if nobility asking for commoner names was some unprecedented breach of protocol.

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  Roger nodded, patient.

  "I'm Aelira Greystone." She leaned back against the part of the carriage she hadn't reduced to ash, attempting to look casual despite the blood under her fingernails.

  "That's nice." Roger tilted his head, considering. "So what was your assessment score?"

  "High grade. Fire affinity." The confidence in her voice was unmistakable now—pride mixed with the knowledge that she'd earned it, proven it with nine bodies' worth of evidence.

  "Strong girl." Roger's laughter came sudden and hysterical, genuine amusement at the understatement. "No wonder you killed them all."

  The laugh cut off as abruptly as it started. His attention shifted, swinging toward Notch with theatrical precision.

  "What about you?"

  Notch struggled to stay upright, legs trembling, one hand pressed to his chest where his fractured core pulsed with every heartbeat. Crystal still gripped his sleeve, trying to steady him.

  "I-I'm Notch Dryk." The words came out blubbered, weak. "Poor grade. Fire affinity."

  Roger's eyebrows rose. He was quiet for a moment, studying Notch with the same intense focus he'd given Aelira—but sharper now, more analytical.

  "Hmm. That doesn't seem right." His tone was conversational, but something dangerous lurked beneath it. "Your skill just now showed at least a medium-grade feat. That level of heat concentration, the precision..." He trailed off, already moving toward his destrier where the surviving bandit boy was being secured with rope.

  Notch said nothing. What could he say? Actually, I'm an interdimensional refugee with apocalyptic power levels who accidentally crippled himself trying to appear mediocre?

  Roger worked the knots efficiently, binding the terrified boy to the saddle pommel before swinging up himself with practiced grace.

  "Don't worry." He looked down at Notch, that smile returning—warmer now, or perhaps just better practiced. "You're medium grade now. Because I said so."

  The casual authority in those words was staggering. Just like that, Notch's official ranking changed. No paperwork, no testing. Pure aristocratic fiat.

  Roger settled into his saddle, adjusted the reins, then addressed the scattered children with the same tone someone might use to suggest a picnic.

  "Well then. The capital is still quite far, I'm afraid. We'll need to divert to my town—Harrowfen. It's a small trek from here, perhaps two hours at a moderate pace. Even the injured should manage it without difficulty."

  His gaze swept across the three wounded medium-grades, the traumatized poor-grades huddled together, the body-strewn road.

  "In the meantime, I'll dispatch a rider to inform the knights at Vaeloria that your arrival will be delayed by at least a day. Standard protocol for... complications." The pause before 'complications' suggested he considered the word woefully inadequate for describing twelve corpses and two destroyed carriages.

  He clicked his tongue. The destrier began moving, hooves crunching over debris.

  Slowly, uncertainly, the children began to follow.

  Aelira went first, chin raised, refusing to show weakness despite the exhaustion clearly dragging at her limbs. The three injured medium-grades helped each other stand, moving in a tight cluster. The poor-grades from Notch's carriage clustered together like frightened sheep, casting nervous glances at the bodies.

  Crystal tugged gently on Notch's sleeve. "Can you walk?"

  "Have to." Notch forced one foot in front of the other, each step sending fresh lances of pain through his chest. Sly tightened her coils, trying to help, but even her healing warmth couldn't completely mask the damage he'd done to himself.

  They walked.

  Lord Roger led from horseback, posture relaxed, occasionally glancing back to ensure his ragged procession was still following. The captured bandit bounced along behind the saddle, bound and silent, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his young face.

  The forest pressed close on both sides. Shadows lengthened as the sun continued its descent. Somewhere ahead, Harrowfen waited—a town Notch had never heard of, ruled by a man who smiled at corpses and promoted children on whims.

  Behind them, twelve bodies cooled in the dirt, and Sir Henry's blood soaked into the earth of Bandit's Creak.

  Notch walked, and wondered what kind of place trained nobles to be so comfortable with death that they could laugh in the aftermath and offer hospitality in the same breath.

  The capital felt further away than ever.