Complete darkness—the same depthless void as Swart’s realm. Swart lounges on an impossible ledge jutting over nothing, head cocked as if listening to someone we can’t see or hear.

  “Saw your brother,” Swart says. “Older, but still strong—like you.”

  He nods to the blank, answering unheard words.

  “No. I think it’s gone for good. But the promise—your wish—will come true.”

  ***

  We interviewed what felt like a whole division’s worth of candidates, and by the end I was bone-tired.

  Hein slumps back in his chair, rubbing grit from his eyes. “So… how do you suppose we narrow this herd of glory-seekers?”

  I sag too, pen clenched between my teeth, frowning at the mountain of names. A minute ticks by. Then it hits me.

  “I think I’ve got something.”

  He straightens a little. “Spit it out.”

  I grin. “Easy. We run a gauntlet. They all fight me—rounds, batches, whatever we need. Anyone who shows skill, guts, or brains under pressure makes the cut. We take the top twenty.”

  He lets out a tired laugh. “Yeah, that tracks. You’ve always been a battle junkie. Fine—but I’m reserving six slots. We need utility mages—wards, relays—plus we need engineers and medics. People who can do more than swing steel.”

  ‘Always been a battle junkie?’

  “Fair. Uh… help me draft the notice?”

  Deadpan stare. Long sigh. “Sure. Can’t have you doing too much admin now.”

  We lean in over the paperwork and start hammering out the rules: controlled bouts in the drill yard at dawn, mana use allowed within safety wards, tap-out counts as a loss, maiming discouraged but not disqualifying. Twenty slots. Fourteen by gauntlet, six by Hein’s discretion.

  Tomorrow’s going to be messy.

  ***

  We arrive at the reserved space. Finally—a controlled place to try folding mana into close-quarters work without artillery screaming overhead. I want to see whether those borrowed reflexes of mine only flare when I’m about to die or if I can call them up at will. Also: I get to crack some heads. Today’s looking up.

  I ditch the parade coat and go in field kit: fatigue trousers, boots, padded sparring jacket with the sleeves rolled because we’re about to scuffle. When I step onto the sanded ring there have to be a hundred candidates milling around, swapping bets and craning to see.

  In a burst of bravado (read: stupidity) I tell the adjutant to send them at me in roster order—no breaks.

  Why didn’t Hein stop me? Getting back at me for sleeping through admin?

  First up: a man who is twice my height, built like an immovable wall. Muscle balloons against a uniform at least a size too small; the sleeves look painted on. Shaved skull gleaming, eyes a little vacant. More ogre than infantry.

  I remember him from yesterday’s interviews—the one who cheerfully admitted he “likes storming trenches whenever he can.” Definitely more brawn than brain, but no shortage of courage. Claims his nickname is the Vanguard Bull. Cringy, sure, though I’m hardly in a position to throw stones.

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  I nod to the adjutant. He bellows the start.

  He doesn’t finish the last syllable before the Bull drops his center and charges, arms wide for a tackle. My body moves on its own—unearned reflexes. Half-step sidestep, palm to his shaved crown, leg hooked behind his knee. Momentum does the rest. He slams into the packed sand with a grunt.

  “That all, Bull?” I ask, grinning.

  So the reflex thing isn’t just a near-death trigger—it fires in a spar, too. If it’s baked into this body I should be able to call it on command. Next test: add mana.

  Bull lurches up, snorting. A red shimmer crawls over his forearms and shins—crude augmentation, probably straight strength. Good. Would’ve been too easy otherwise.

  He stalks in slow… then something pops in his eyes and he launches, fist like a battering ram. I try syncing mana with the reflex: pull a thread, dump it into my legs. Heat floods down; my calves flare the same red sheen. Theory confirmed.

  I vault over his shoulder. His boosted punch hammers the packed ground, blowing a crack through the sparring surface.

  His arm went in so deep it jammed to the elbow. While he’s yanking and cursing, I’m already moving—hop onto his back, heels hooked, forearm across the throat, biceps squeeze for a choke. He thrashes, red mana flaring, sand spraying. Feels like a minute; probably ten seconds. He finally rips his arm free of the pit he made—but the blood and air aren’t there. His eyes roll. Out cold.

  “Stubborn bull,” I mutter as I ease him down for the medics.

  After watching me put the Bull to sleep I figured at least a few volunteers would rethink things. Nope. If anything the line leaned in closer. The adjutant barked for the next.

  ***

  About halfway through the roster the grind hit me—forearms buzzing, footwork dragging. Hein sat off to the side wearing the satisfied look of a man collecting on that “slept through admin” debt.

  He waved an orderly over with a crate: a dozen squat glass bottles sloshing with dark-green, swamp-water stuff lit from within by faint mana glimmer. “Stamina potions,” he said. “alchemy.”

  They looked like the vegan health smoothies that always tasted like lawn clippings back on Earth. These were shockingly sweet—honey and mint over metal. Heat flushed through my legs and shoulders; lactic burn faded; bruises cooled. My body snapped back toward peak. My brain, though? Still mud.

  “Knew you’d try to fight the whole roster,” Hein added. “Without a break.”

  So I really am that much like the old Kaizer.

  “Next!” the adjutant roared, and back in we went.

  ***

  We left the drill yard full of bruised egos and ice packs and cut back through the garden to breathe and thin the roster. Hein collapsed onto a bench; I dropped across from him, forearms striped with fresh welts.

  While we compared notes I sifted through what the gauntlet taught me. Those reflexes don’t wait for life-or-death—they fire whenever a fight actually excites me. When they light, my body picks the cleanest route to a win on its own: shoot, slip, clinch, throw—whatever closes the problem fastest. If I ride mana on top of that, I can shove power into specific muscle groups on demand: legs for burst, arms for grip, core to eat impact. The reflex even seems to nudge me which to prime.

  I’m nowhere near full control. Trying to force mana into my head just spikes a headache, so no brain boost yet. Vision’s different. Feed a trickle to my eyes and edges sharpen; stress lines, weak points, even a hint of intent flicker in and out—faint.

  Progress—slow, but real. We start sorting names.

  The garden fountains hiss in the background while I flip forms. Funny: we asked for fighters; we got half the garrison. Word of our medals is already currency. If we wipe in the New World, the nobles get to say the Wish-Slayers died gloriously, not wasted by their politics. If we succeed, they’ll scramble to claim credit. Either way, this roster is more than bodies—it’s witnesses. Maybe that’s why Krieg told us to turn the trap into an opportunity.

  “For starters, Bull’s a lock,” I say. “Twice my height, mana-amped his fists red, buried one in the practice pit to the elbow and still tried to tear me off his back. Doesn’t quit. Good for shock work and hauling.”

  Hein grunts and makes a note.

  “Yster.” I hold up a second finger. “Tunnel rat. Spent two tours digging under Anreik trench lines—cave-ins, gas pockets, corpses in crawlspace walls. Came out alive every time. Not flashy in the ring, but nerves of iron and a nose for bad ground. We’ll want him when we start cutting shafts in the New World.”

  “Rickard,” I go on. “Opened with a snap rifle shot before the adjutant finished talking. Clean switch to sidearm when I closed. We need a long gun who keeps his head.”

  “Gonz,” I say, tapping another finger. “Knife crawler. Stayed low, went for my hamstrings three times. Uses short red bursts for pivots. Dirty fighter—in the good way.”

  “Hollerd. Field engineer. Drew a glyph under my boot and locked me half a beat. Brains, wards, tools. We’ll need him when we start building anything that won’t fall over in a storm.”

  “Ickar—the sly one.” I can’t help a snort. “Loosened my shoelace during the bow; cost me half a step later. Tossed a little illusion, faked left, slipped right. Light, sneaky, actually tapped instead of going limp. Scout material.”

  I flick my hand over the remaining stack. “And the eight we flagged in screening—medics, signal, a couple with ward training. Not flashy, but solid.”

  Hein flips through his own sheets. “That’s your fourteen. I’ve got my six—utility caster, surgeon, comms, two engineers, and a cook who can shoot straighter than half this lot.” He tucks the pages together. “I’ll notify them. All twenty report for the formal interview tomorrow.”

  “Works for me.”

  Although we’d planned to leave utility slots to Hein’s six—wards, signal, medics, the support folk—it turned out the candidates who marked “utility” on their forms could swing steel and sling mana about as well as the glory hounds. Some were better. So the split between my fourteen and his six is more theory than fact.

  ***

  An office drowned in velvet and gold trim. Dark gray walls drink the light; heavy furniture crowds the space, all carved claws and gilt edges. Behind a vast desk—more throne than workspace—a man sits in shadow. Sunlight knifes through high windows but never quite reaches his face.

  Before him kneels another figure, likewise half-swallowed by gloom.

  “Rise,” the seated man says, politeness wrapped around poison.

  The kneeling agent climbs unsteadily to his feet. “My lord… that man is strong. I watched him fight a hundred bouts without a loss.”

  “So?” The voice stays mild. “Was he selected?”

  “Yes, my lord. But…” He swallows. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to deal with him here?”

  Shadow flares—pressure, heat, a hint of power leaking. The agent collapses back to his knees. “Forgive my presumption!”

  A long silence.

  “Prepare the man,” the lord says at last. “Go.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll see he receives it.” Relieved to still be breathing, the agent scrambles out.

  Alone again, the shadowed man speaks to the darkness pooling in the corners. “Replace him. And make certain my pet obeys.”