“Well that went pretty fucking badly,” muttered Grant. He floated in the water, staring up at his pruned fingers and the white ceiling, not sure why he’d gone to the baths. Didn’t really remember walking there much either. Maybe it was because they were one of the few places Lira couldn’t follow him, not as though she’d want to.

  The memory of her rejection came back up, with it a fresh wave of shame. He clenched his eyes shut, mouthing her words. ‘I don’t want your stupid dagger.’

  You’re such a fool.

  The voice. Never invited, always right on time.

  Don’t you see?

  Grant didn’t reply. It just had to say its piece, and then it would go back to sleep, waiting for the next time he fucked his life up.

  Here, let me make it easy to understand. Nobles go in, gain riches and power, survive, and birth children who do the same. Your father went in and disappeared without a trace. What does this mean will happen to you?

  “Such great insight!” he shouted to the empty room. “So how about you tell me something I don’t know?”

  I can’t tell you what you don’t know because I’m you.

  “Oh. Good point.”

  Grant stood up and waded toward the steps, wringing the water from his hair. Stewing alone in his regrets was a miserable waste of time. Time that should have been spent talking to Lira. The heat had done nothing but put all kinds of thoughts in his head too, not a single one of them useful.

  The water dripped off his body, and in seconds, he was dry. Grant set his jaw. Tomorrow he would see Lira at breakfast. When he’d tried to give her the dagger, he had not given her feelings a shred of thought. In his mind, the offer was a gesture of romance and self-sacrifice. She was supposed to thank him and accept it so he could walk through the Portal feeling like he had done something right for once.

  He scoffed. As though Lira would take away his only advantage to help herself.

  For all his concern over her, he didn’t even realize the gift had nothing to do with her. It was a dumb thing to do, throwing himself onto an empty funeral pyre. If he went through the Portal with nothing and died, there would be nothing left. No real consequence to his life, maybe but for a note in a history book of the man shunned by the Goddess. If he went through with a priceless weapon and died, it would be like letting down Mr. Nerelot.

  He took a deep breath and sighed. It was too late to undo the mess his pride and stupidity had made, but he could still clean it up. It was no use beating himself up any more.

  Grant changed into a fresh uniform, enjoying the feeling of clean clothes against his skin. He didn’t know how he would go back to wearing the same thing for days at a time. Campaigners could buy basically any mundane Item off the Store, from clothing to food, but he wasn’t in a position to waste Points.

  As Grant pulled his second boot up, the doors to the changing room slid open with a groan. It was past midnight, and most would be asleep.

  Who is going to be taking a bath at this hour? Was there another rejected proposal of love somewhere else tonight?

  He looked over his shoulder, hoping to see a friendly face.

  Col stared back, swaying to the side. Drunk, Grant would guess, even without the bottle in his hand. Behind him stood his crew. Time froze as their eyes met, mouths ajar with disbelief.

  The sailor smiled broadly. “My, what good fortune!" he slurred, staggering forward. "First the Goddess blesses me with 52,000 Points, and now the chance I’ve waited a whole month for?”

  The doors closed with a click, and an enormous man moved in front of them, crossing his scarred arms over his chest. Grant looked around, desperate for a solution. Someone like Roland might be able to fight four men off. Ayers could do it too, if he kept his back to a wall and his patience there with it. The two of them may even find some fun in the whole matter. But even then, with a single bad step on the slick tiles, they’d swarm over them.

  Grant didn’t have the thick arms and shoulders made for throwing punches or the heavy hands made for cracking jaws. A more pathetic approach was in order. With a step back, he put his palms up. “Col, I’m sorry.” His voice trembled, rising into a girlish pitch. He let it. “Wh—whatever happened back at the orphanage, whatever happened on the wagon, we can talk this over. There’s no need for any of this.”

  Col’s smile grew, and he took a step forward.

  “I beg you. You were at the Reading Ceremony, weren’t you? You know I got 487 Points. In less than two days, I’m a dead man anyway.” His back rustled against the wall as he wriggled into it.

  The sailor stopped about two yards from Grant. A crew member circled to Grant’s left, and one to his right. The men leered down at Grant like a skulk of foxes might stare at a mouse.

  “This ain’t about you dying,” said Col, shaking his head. “I’m not a savage. But you got to understand that when you wrong a man, you take your licks.” He wiped his nose and scowled, probably remembering the feeling of Dan’s palm on the back of his head, the pain of his face being cracked against a stone wall, the humiliation of dropping to the ground in a bloody heap. “Now’s the time.”

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  Grant Resummoned his dagger and swiped it forward. The three men stumbled back, shouting and cursing, and Grant waved it wildly in the air, looking for an opening. His swings were clumsy and poorly aimed, and he probably had a better chance of cutting himself open than landing a clean strike on any of them.

  The man on his left stepped in to grab him, giving off a throaty growl. Grant turned his body to defend against the attack, but the man pulled back at the last second. A feint?

  He was too late. The man behind him took the opening and snatched Grant’s right arm, twisting it behind his back. Grant cried out in pain as the jolt ran up his shoulder. He tried to pull free, but the man was too strong and had too much leverage.

  With nowhere to go, he was wide open for Col to slide forward and punch him in the stomach. It crashed into the spot right below his navel, and he folded over, blowing out a mist of spit. He tried to suck in another breath, but the other sailor grabbed his left arm, and they pinned him against the wall.

  “No…” he wheezed, kicking weakly at Col. His legs refused to cooperate, and his intestines throbbed with every movement. The sailor rolled his shoulders, then began pummeling him from the bottom of his torso, working his way up.

  With a dull thud, Grant’s ribs bruised, and his breaths became heavy.

  A fist found his throat, and his pained cries became muted.

  He tried to fight back, but he could do little more than squirm. Everything was a smear, and all he knew was pain. He tried to call out for help, but all that came out was a sharp rasp. The men tightened their grip on his armpits.

  Something cracked against his jaw, and he felt it detach. Blood erupted from his nose when an elbow connected with it, and with another, his right eye was swollen shut. His arms and legs went slack, and fingers tingled as they lost all sensation. Col had either stopped his assault or Grant’s brain had shut off, but the sharp pains of new attacks ceased, leaving only lingering full-body agony.

  The two men let him drop to the floor in a pitiful ball.

  “You see now?” He heard the words over the ringing in his ears, smelled the liquor on Col’s breath. “Without Dan, you’re nothing. Just a worm, wriggle, wriggle, wriggling around. And in two days, there’ll be nothing left of you.” He dropped his voice to a hiss. “Maybe that girl you’ve been talking to, looking at all bright-eyed will come where she belongs.”

  He felt the rage boiling up. “No,” he wanted to say, but his throat croaked. Blood and spit sloshed around in his mouth. Col was crouching right in front of him, right over his limp arm.

  Grant closed his eyes, let the anger take him. Threatening him was one thing. Going after Lira was another. He could drive Siphoning Fang into Col's thigh. Aim for the big vein, where Captain Alaric had taught him. The man would bleed out in seconds. But the Evenonian military was already furious at Grant. They'd hang him for it and thank him for the excuse, no questions there. Grant took a deep breath, squeezed Siphoning Fang tight, and drove the back of the hilt up, scoring a clean hit on Col's fruits.

  They wouldn't hang him for that.

  Col screamed and grabbed himself between the legs, pitching forward toward Grant. Grant whipped his neck up as fast as he could, aiming his forehead at the sailor's nose. It audibly crunched, and Grant burst out laughing, drooling blood as he watched Col crumple to his side, clutching his face and gagging on the pain.

  "My fucking nuts!" Col shrieked, and Grant spluttered another laugh, sending a lance of pain through his cracked ribs.

  Another sailor walked up and kicked Grant in the stomach while two more pulled Col away. Grant curled up, motionless other than his soft laughter. Every breath came in ragged, like he was sucking it through a damp cloth. Only one of his attacks had landed. He could still hear Col sobbing, on the verge of blubbering. He may have earned himself another kick, but it was worth it.

  Big, strong fingers wrapped around Grant's hand, then ripped Siphoning Fang from his grip.

  “Nice toy he has here.” The voice was deep. “Think I’m going to take it with me. Come on, Col. We need to get out of here before someone else shows up."

  Col groaned as the other men pulled him to his feet and stood shakily at Grant's head. Grant covered his face, waiting for a kick, a punch, or a mouthful of spit from the sailor.

  "I'd kill you now," Col wheezed, then coughed, grabbing his side. "But it'd just cause problems later. I'm sure whatever there is beyond the Portal will make it more painful."

  Feet plodded across the floor, and the sound of the men's voices grew distant. Grant watched the man who'd stolen Siphoning Fang. The blade would reject him. He could Dismiss it from where he was, Resummon it back any time.

  He didn't.

  Moments later, the same man began to scream, then shrieked with agony, then sobbed and wailed. The other men yelled, but his voice drowned out their words. Grant had seen fistfights, wrestling matches, cat fights and even a pig getting stuck. He had heard the cries of a wife whose husband died guarding the Iorian border against the Gracians. He had watched a boy from the orphanage jump off a roof, heard the bone snap, and then his howls.

  The sound the man made was nothing like any of them.

  Grant watched the sailor stabbing wildly at himself, covered in blood and gore as Col and the two other men kept their distance. The dagger was flailing in his right hand, every thrust pointed at his torso, and the man tried to hold himself back with his left.

  “Henry! Henry!”

  “Put it down!”

  “Just drop it!”

  Frantic cries echoed in the baths, a chorus of weeping, splashing, pleading and wordless shouts. Col tried to sweep in and pin the arm down, but the dagger changed direction, its slash missing the sailor by inches.

  It will reject any other owner.

  Col lumbered to Grant and kneeled, wincing. He grabbed him by the shoulders. “Make it stop!” he shouted in his face, rocking him. It aggravated his wounds and made his head pound, his limp upper body flopping back and forward, drool running down his numb chin. The sailor’s eyes were wet and grip strong, panic tinging his voice. “Just make it stop!” he begged.

  The man flailed, clutching at his arm like he was holding back a feral dog. Grant almost wanted to let him stab himself to death. Thought about it, and not just for a second. But at that moment, he felt an unexpected shred of pity for Col. Fear for his friend was the most human emotion the man had ever shown him.

  He swallowed, and the sick taste of blood flowed down his throat. “Dismiss,” Grant rasped, more wheeze than word. He could’ve just given the command mentally, but he wanted Col to know that he had shown his friend mercy. The dagger disappeared, and the man gasped. His left forearm and torso were covered in deep, gushing wounds. He moaned quietly and shook with terror as his crewmates rushed in to stop the bleeding. Splashes of crimson coated every surface, and the air stank of metal.

  The last thing Grant saw before everything went black was Col and his crew hurrying the man out, torn shreds of clothing wrapped around his wounds.