In an alley, a man stands perfectly still, staring into the shadows.

  A hand materializes, offering a satchel engraved with a crescent moon crossed by a flying raven.

  “If I do this—my family will be safe?” he asks, almost pleading.

  “Do your job,” the shadows reply, cold and flat.

  He takes the satchel. The hand vanishes as quickly as it appeared, leaving him alone, clutching the bag—its seams shimmering crimson red.

  ***

  Formalities complete, Hein and I found ourselves jointly commanding twenty soldiers. The weight of it settled on my shoulders even with the burden shared. Our mission: carve out a forward operating base on a continent crawling with monstrosities. But we had no choice—these glory-seekers craved renown, and the nobles demanded blood. Strangely, marching off to face the unknown, perhaps to be sacrificed, didn’t feel so bad. It even thrilled me.

  ’I was born for this world—and before I drew my last breath, they’d pay every debt they owed.’

  While I lingered at the training grounds, turning the future over in my mind—wearing, apparently, a lunatic grin—Hein elbowed me.

  “Hey—why are you smiling like that? It’s creepy.”

  I blinked. I’d been picturing the horrors ahead, not because I wanted to die, but because in a fight I felt truly alive. The numbness lifted, replaced by a rush as sweet as fresh-drawn honey. It flooded me so completely that—

  ’Wait… I am creepy.’

  I coughed, embarrassed, and wiped the grin off my face.

  “I wasn’t, and I’m not.”

  I locked eyes with him, willing him to move on.

  “Yeah, sure—you definitely weren’t grinning like a lunatic,” he muttered. “Anyway, we still have to sort out training and the paperwork, so—”

  “I’ll run the drills,” I cut in. “You do the admin.”

  “No, we split it fifty-fifty,” he began—only to find he was talking to empty air. I was already gone, leaving the faintest after-image behind. ’Better to move before he ropes me into forms and ledgers.’

  After leaving Administrator Hein in the dust, I ordered the twenty recruits to form a single line.

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  “Form up—single line!”

  They snapped into place, eyes bright with anticipation for next week’s departure.

  ’Is that how I look? Probably worse.’

  “Now break into groups of four—keep the combat-utility mix balanced.”

  I picked this drill even though we’d likely operate as one unit; four-on-one would push me harder than sparring them one at a time. Besides, the lore seared into me said the second dream of Aspiration’s Folly was all about imagination. I’d sketched out the basics—charging the stone, threading mana through muscle—but I needed higher-stakes fights to drive it further.

  Over the next eight days the camp became a blur of sweat, bruises, and splintered practice blades. Drills began four-on-one, then six, eight, twelve, until I finally dropped all twenty recruits in a single bout. They cheered even as they fell; beating me wasn’t the point—pushing farther than yesterday was. My progress toward the second dream felt just as sharp; at this pace another month, six weeks at most, and I’d crack it wide open.

  Between bouts, we threw up lean-tos, dug fighting pits, and lashed palisades from deadwood. ’New body, old memories from peaceful days—no shame in learning basics alongside them.’ Hein, meanwhile, met me at dawn for the private duels he insisted on, matched every stroke, then vanished beneath a mountain of requisition forms. I edged out each win, of course. ’He isn’t going easy—I’m simply that good,’ I told myself, while he hid a tired smile behind the next ledger stack.

  Personalities surfaced quickly. Havel, a hulking engineer, laughed off cracked ribs as “good seasoning.” Mira, the medic, practiced healing spells on stitched rags until her fingers shook. Little Ren kept every blade honed to a mirror edge and spoke only when spoken to—and even then in whispers. Eight days earlier they were strangers; now they had the shape of a unit.

  On the sixth evening, while checking the cargo manifest—Hein’s idea of making me do “a little admin”—I noticed a satchel stamped with a raven crossing a crescent moon, logged as a personal item. I left it alone, yet the crest felt unsettlingly familiar.

  The night before we were due to board the train—our last evening on this continent—we decided to celebrate. We threw a braai: a rough-around-the-edges barbecue heavy on smoke and bravado. Lamb chops, pork ribs, rib-eye steaks—if it once walked, we grilled it—and beer: practically a pond’s worth. I was all in on the festivities until Hein slipped away and left me the bill as payback. One week of pay—gone. ’What’s money worth when you’re on your way to hell anyway?’ I shrugged, let it go, and we partied like there was no tomorrow.

  Tomorrow arrived with a vengeance: pounding heads, dry mouths, and a mountain of work to prep for the two-day train ride to the port. We tackled it all hungover, counting crates and signing forms while the world spun.

  The train ride itself was a blur of rattling wheels, lukewarm coffee, and half-hearted card games—steel rolling over steel until we coasted into Port Kier.

  Port Kier buzzed louder than the capital’s grand avenues, though only a hundred thousand people lived here compared to the capital’s millions. Being far from the front likely spared it the usual tension. The main boulevard teemed with open-air stalls and shouting merchants; smoked fish, bright fabrics, and brass trinkets fought for attention while children darted between crates. Salt and sun-baked sand tinged every breath. ’Hard to believe war even exists when a place smells like this,’ I thought, stepping off the platform and into the crush.

  We eased our way through the crowds, hauling crates of gear and supplies. The townsfolk were unfailingly polite—smiles, quick steps aside, not a grumble in earshot. At last we reached the docks, where the ship’s captain, Brono, waited.

  Brono looked every inch the archetypal seaman—weathered skin, salt-stiff beard—yet carried the same easy warmth that seemed baked into Port Kier. I figured he’d been born here. Beside him stood a man whose very presence pulsed with mana. The signature felt identical to that lunatic attack-mage from the trenches, and before I knew it my shoulders had tightened.

  Brono noticed. “Whoa, easy there, Wishslayer,” he said with a chuckle. “Didn’t realize you had it in for mages—but I suppose the nickname fits.” He clapped the mage’s shoulder. “This colleague was sent by the Union to keep the ship safe—expensive protection, so he’s staying aboard while you lot head inland.”

  ’Nobody told us about a guardian mage,’ I thought, ’but having one guarding the vessel while we hunt fuel can’t hurt.’

  The mage, silent as if we didn’t exist, slipped back up the gangway the moment Brono finished speaking. I frowned at his aloofness—’Whatever, plenty to do.’

  Hein and I barked orders while Brono’s crew lent muscle. Crates thumped onto slatted decks, ropes hissed through iron rings, and before long all twenty recruits were aboard.

  We stood mid-deck on the massive iron beast, mana crystals humming in its belly. The horn blared—a sharp, metallic bellow nothing like a steamship’s mournful blast.

  A crowd had gathered on the dock: friendly waves, polite cheers, a city wishing us luck. ’Maybe I’ll retire here someday,’ I thought, watching Port Kier slip astern. ’First I need to survive hell.’