Peter’s bare feet slapped the stone floor as he completed yet another lap. His uncovered chest glistened with sweat as he panted, pushing himself harder and faster. The Bedorvan glimmered on his slick arm, never at risk of slipping off, as if it knew how to stay just tight enough never to budge.

  He passed around the perimeter of the knight’s tomb, with desks and tables pushed to the center around the exercise equipment. Only Isabella shared the space, punching a hanging leather sandbag, face slick with perspiration. Peter tried his best to ignore her. Of all the knights, she and he put more than twice as much time into training as all the others put together.

  He skidded to a stop at the heavy bar with two ball weights welded to the sides. He grabbed it, calluses sore on his hands. He grunted as he deadlifted. No technique, just determination. It rose, a heavier weight than he’d been able to hoist the day before. He set it down, trembling under two more reps.

  A static pain jolted his back, some minor muscle tearing. He dropped the weight, panting as he rubbed his back, then it was fine. He snatched it and repeated the process for six more repetitions.

  Dropping the weight, he sprinted another lap. His muscles ached and lungs burned despite his great condition. If someone stabbed him or smashed his hand with a hammer, he’d be fine in moments, but muscles tearing from exercise—he was still sore from yesterday’s workouts.

  His eyes lingered on his gunbelt as he passed. Of course, there was one way to heal his body. All it would take is a single shell. If he died, his body would be fine, microabrasions in his muscles would mend, nice and tight. More than that, his energy would reset, enabling him to launch into a new round, fully recovered.

  Why did Isabella have to be here? She would confront him if he tried. He had a new rule from both Julian and Tobias—no resetting out of convenience. How absurd. How was he supposed to face Rahashel? He was broken; he needed to utilize every exploit, pursue every hack that could give him an edge.

  His lungs burned, acidic and hot. He glanced at Isabella, irritated at her presence, and slid to a stop.

  The staff sergeant was no longer simply training, but slammed into the bag, teeth barred in fury, grunts of rage escaping her as she abandoned her form.

  Peter was well acquainted with the abuses a body could endure—she was going to hurt herself.

  “Sergeant!” he called, starting forward.

  Isabella didn’t hear him; her toned arms and shoulders, bare in her athletic shift, snapped out like a train’s coupling rod.

  Then she had a knife. Peter didn’t catch where it came from. She screamed, slamming it down hard into the bag.

  “Staff Sergeant Vandersteen!” he barked, and she doubled over, shoulders heaving.

  She glared at him, hands tightening on her knees.

  “You’re going to—are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m so damn small,” she gasped, eyes burning angrily.

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  She stood, sweat soaking through her clothes. “Van Dijk, Owan, Tobias, and even you—you all hit this bag so much harder than I do, and I’m the one who spends the most time boxing.”

  Peter blinked in surprise at the heat in her voice. “Obviously,” he said, regretting the word the second it left his lips. “Err, um, I mean we’re—” he did not say men, “Bigger.”

  Isabella whirled on him, and his gaze was inexplicably drawn to the knife in the punching bag.

  “You know who else is bigger?” she demanded. “Every single enemy I have faced—ever. Why don’t I sit back and wait for Rahashel to reveal his corps of petite ghouls? Then I’d have a fair fight.”

  Peter treaded carefully, regarding the staff sergeant like a cobra. “You know who else was small?” he asked. “Norah, and she was the toughest soldier I knew.”

  “And how’d that end for her?” Isabella demanded.

  Peter flinched, recalling the face of his fallen trainer, after being murdered by the mad ghoul king Adrichem. “Don’t talk about her like that,” Peter said, standing taller. “She was the bravest soldier I knew.”

  Isabella blinked, her insensitivity breaking her from her rage. “No—yes, you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that.” She laced her fingers behind her head, opening her lungs for more air. “I’m sorry. Everyone's just so wound tight. Waiting for Rahashel, for Libshee. This flood of refugees—It’s like we see a giant hammer above us, but we’re powerless to do anything but wait for it to fall.”

  “Tell me about it,” Peter agreed, sitting back on a bench. “I’m supposed to prepare to fight Rahashel, but even Anubis would beat the spall out of me right now. So all I can do is train, but I know that will never be enough.”

  Isabella nodded and started unwrapping her fists. “We all cope with the stress in different ways. Iris likes to make light of heavy situations.”

  Peter groaned in anticipation of the inevitable lecture.

  “She’s mad at you—at least she thinks she is. I think she’s worried.”

  “She should be,” Peter said. “She’s just so … childish!”

  Isabella frowned. “She’s seventeen, or she was; in many ways, she still is. So are you, Peter.”

  “Not anymore,” Peter disagreed. “I take this seriously. I’m ready to answer any call to arms. This isn’t a game; I understand that.”

  Her hand wraps dropped to the tomb floor. “I don’t understand your relationship. I thought you were friends, but every day you look more like siblings. Earlier, you were willing to risk it all to save her. Even defy the Lord Commandant. Now it’s like you can’t stand being around her.”

  “What? No, of course we’re friends, it’s like—” Peter sighed. “Growing up, she followed me everywhere. She came to my defense about everything, not in a caring way, but almost possessively. I tolerated her because—” He searched for the words.

  “It was your fault she got hurt,” Isabella surmised. “You felt bad.”

  “Yeah,” Peter agreed. “And now that her leg’s better, I don’t feel so—” he tried a few words in his mind. “Indebted.”

  Isabella whistled, folding her arms. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a friendship founded on guilt.”

  That grated on him. “Guilt? No, I’ve paid my due. I risked everything to save her, and if she’s going to throw it all away because this damn war is so funny, maybe she deserves what’s coming!”

  He hadn’t heard the rising edge in his voice.

  “Okay, mister grumpy!” Isabella said, raising a fist. “I’d beat some sense into you if I wouldn’t leach myself to death doing so.” Her eyes softened. “Your eyes are bloodshot pits. When’s the last time you slept?”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “No, it’s not, rechgasket. You’ve been short-tempered all month.”

  “I was killed in Tedrith,” Peter said. “I reset then.”

  “And you haven’t slept since? Peter, that was two days ago!”

  Peter shrugged, the weight of exhaustion hitting him as his heart slowed.

  “And when did you sleep before that?”

  Peter did the math. “Eight days ago.”

  Isabella’s jaw dropped. “You haven’t slept in ten days. How were you even walking?” A storm clouded her face as she put it together. “You reset again, didn’t you?”

  Peter grimaced apologetically. Reset—such a nice way of saying ‘kill yourself.’ “Only once!”

  “Peter, I swear—Listen up, idiot. You need sleep—not just for your body, but for your mind, too. These resets are hurting you. Maybe not physically, but you're withering away mentally.”

  “We don’t have time for sleep,” Peter said, jabbing a finger at her. “I don’t have that time, and neither do you. The only difference is that you have to sleep. I don’t.”

  The doors to the knight's tomb swung open, and Chief Warrant Officer Kulafu Mendoza’s eyes scanned the room, falling on the pair. He strode forward, twin scimitars shifting on his belt. The Dinnian’s olive skin took on a warm tinge in the white lamplight. His long black hair was pulled back in a bun, and a wispy mustache and patchy beard grew out on his face.

  Peter rose, adopting some semblance of attention.

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  Kulafu stopped before him, scrutinizing him. “I’ve come to evaluate you. To determine whether I’m going to listen to the Commandant and train you,” he said simply.

  “Um, yes—sir.”

  Kulafu glanced at Isabella only briefly. “Why did you ask for me? You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know what I’ve heard.”

  “Which is?”

  “You arrived at the battle of Jullek, Peter said, taking a breath. “Offered your swords to Van Graif without question. You went toe-to-toe with elder liches. Kept pace with Van Graif himself. As far as I’m aware, you and the Lord Commandant are the only two in our whole army good enough to face liches without court or house weapons. Simply put, you’re the best humanity has to offer. I need that.”

  Kulafu nodded, apparently accepting the reasoning. “I apologise for not making myself available earlier. I’ve been scanning the refugees for some—particular faces.”

  He folded his arms and stroked his chin. “I am a swordsman, true, but not much more. How do you expect me to train you if I can’t draw near?”

  Peter was prepared for this. “I know it’s not perfect, but you’ll have to show me the technique and drill me from a distance. We won’t be able to spar, but I can find my reps on the battlefield.”

  “Being able to fail without consequences will have its advantages.” He leaned forward. “I was trained in swordsmanship since before I could walk as a child. My masters were harsh, tolerating only perfection. The lash of a switch was my constant companion. Could you tolerate such abuse, Van Suer?”

  Peter blinked. “My last trainer just shot me in the head if I slowed down.”

  Kulafu just stared, then a snort burst from him, morphing into an amused laugh. “Very well, Van Suer. Tell me about your abilities.”

  “Right.” Peter held up his forearm showing the armband with pulsing purple court glyphs. “So long as I wear the bedorvan, I can’t die.” He reconsidered. “Well, maybe I can, but it’s very temporary, and I come back revitalized.

  “Convenient,” Kulafu said. “I, of course, know about your leech radius. Between these two things, I might argue you require no training. Just walk toward your enemy and wait for them to fall.”

  “That works well enough for lower-level ghouls, but liches have ways to get past it.”

  Kulafu scanned Peter, assessing his build and posture. “You also heal?”

  “Not precisely,” Peter said. “Doctor Aarts thinks it’s less regeneration and more of a time glitch. My body refuses to remain damaged. Wounds vanish; they don’t heal. Here’s the thing: they heal perfectly, so I’ve been using this cycle to speed my recovery after my workout.”

  “I see,” Kulafu said as he stretched his neck. “Staff Sergeant Vandersteen, would you give us the room? I’d prefer to conduct this next portion of the evaluation in private.”

  Isabella started. “Sure,” she plucked her uniform blouse from the ground and headed for the door.

  Kulafu watched her until the door closed, then shifted his attention back to Peter. “I’m sorry, Van Suer, but I’m not a teacher; I’m not going to help you just because Van Graif agreed.”

  “What?” Peter stiffened. “I need you! I need the best! I’m a broken court and a poor fighter; if I can even fix one of those things, maybe I’ll have a chance.”

  Kulafu clasped his hands behind his back and strode into the training area, glancing from weights to a rack of climbing bars to the punching bag. “An old friend of mine once taught me that things freely given hold no value, but things earned can be priceless. You think I should just give you my skills, my time, my care? Why?”

  He grabbed Isabella's dagger and pulled it from the punching bag. He slashed the bottom of the sack, and sand began to pour out, like an hourglass.

  Peter’s thoughts sped, his heart suddenly fluttering. What a cryptic question, another test. “I haven’t earned it,” Peter said. “Tell me how!”

  Kulafu whipped around his arm, snapping out.

  Peter barely caught the gleam of steel before he staggered back. He looked down dumbly at the blade embedded in his naked chest. No pain, yet, just the dread panic of failing organs.

  “Turn my hair white, Van Suer. Before the sand drains from the bag. That’s how you earn my attention.”

  Peter grinned, wiping sweat from his eyes, then he grabbed the handle and jerked.

  The knife stayed, wedged deep, and with the shift in pressure, the pain started.

  Peter bellowed, inhaling sharply before wrenching the knife free. His gaze snapped up at Kulafu, but the Dinnian was gone.

  Sand poured from the bag, a mound growing on the floor. Panic shot through his veins. Where was he? Peter checked the weights, then dropped to a knee and stooped to peek under the tables near the entrance. Nothing.

  He focused on the punching bag, rapidly deflating. It was big enough to hide the Dinnian.

  Peter strode forward, stepping around it—empty space.

  A faint blur rippled in the air in front of him, pulling down into him, something on the edge of his leach field triggering the time siphon. His gaze drifted up.

  Kulafu perched on a horizontal rack of climbing bars, eyes glinting in the gaslight.

  Peter leaped, grabbing the bars, and the leech light flared only briefly.

  Kulafu leaped from the rig, twisting through the air before hitting the ground in a seamless roll. He bolted, and Peter cried in outrage before rushing after him. He had managed to snatch a little time, but Kulafu’s hair remained jet black.

  Kulafu darted around a weight rack, juking Peter before running for the office tables toward the door.

  Peter cursed, reorienting before bolting after him.

  The warrant officer’s arm snapped back twice, and Peter shielded his face with his arm. Two steel spikes embedded themselves in his bicep, and he surged ahead, ignoring the points of fire.

  He risked a glance back at the bag, which was a quarter empty.

  Rolling over a wooden table, Kulafu caught its edge, flipping it up long ways, like a door in the air.

  Peter slammed into it, a faint leech flare flowing into him from either side. He seized the table, determined to throw it aside. He was bigger than his opponent.

  A scimitar blade spat through the timber, embedding itself three inches into his chest.

  Peter howled and shoved the table away, ripping himself from the blade. Kulafu rolled around him, losing a few years as he passed and rebounded for the gymnasium. Peter shot after him, his chest wound vanishing moments later.

  His hope surged as he noticed traces of grey in Kulafu’s hair. That hope vanished as Kulafu drew a handful of black glass tiles with glowing court glyphs from his pocket. Purple vapors syphoned into him, and his hair darkened again.

  Kulafu slid under a bench, coming up and deftly caught a bar on the rig and flowing up the side. His boots clicked the monkey bars over Peter before he leaped onto the punching bag stand, his weight shaking a fresh burst of sand free.

  Kulafu dropped from the bag before weaving around a stack of weights.

  Peter clenched his teeth. It was like the man weighed nothing. Peter skidded to a stop, suddenly attuned to the reality that he would never catch the man, and Kulafu knew it.

  Time to adapt. Peter spun, rushing to the punching. He thrust his hand into the trickling stream of sand before quickly shoving the handful into his pocket.

  He gathered the bottom of the punching bag, grunting under its half-full weight as he twisted the hole shut.

  Kulafu turned, finally noticing Peter’s change in tactics.

  “Not bad logic,” he remarked casually. “If you can’t come to me, make me come to you.” He pulled up his uniform’s blouse, revealing a chain wrapped multiple times around his core.

  Peter grunted under his burden as his opponent unwound the metal links. A heavy short knife came out next, clipping into place on one end of the line. The blade whooshed through the air as Kulafy got it spinning. “Think I don’t have options with reach?”

  Peter grunted as he shifted the bag, the movement allowing several handfuls of sand to drop free. His eye caught the spinning blade.

  This was going to hurt—a lot. That was okay—hopefully. He could take it—right?

  The chain looped around, and Kulafu’s elbow broke the arc before launching the blade right at the bag.

  Peter bellowed as he rolled, shielding the bag with his body.

  The knife punched deep into his back, and he screamed.

  Kulafu jerked it free. “There’s no need to endure this. Accept that you haven’t earned my mentorship, and we can both leave.” He almost sounded sorry.

  “I can take it!” Peter shouted back.

  The blade whooshed again, circles building speed.

  It came down again and again. The second blow opened Peter’s back from his shoulder to his hip. He gasped as he sank to a knee in the sand pile, his hold on the bottom dropping. Fresh sand fountained to the floor, burying the wet red droplets that dripped from his bag.

  The wound vanished, and Peter scrambled to shut the hole.

  Before he could fully recover, the blade arched down again, opening a long vertical gap on the side. Sand hissed as the bag rapidly deflated.

  “Ataggan’s ash!” Peter cursed as he jerked the bottom up, twisting the bag to get the second hole up, denying gravity’s pull. Less than twenty percent of the sand remained.

  Steel flashed, and the top of the bag dropped free from the stand, cleanly sliced. Peter cried in dismay as the majority of the remaining sand dumped out.

  He snatched the leather back, gathering it and pulling it tight to his abdomen. He felt a little weight within. Small pockets of sand caught within the leather’s folds.

  He glared over his shoulder at Kulafu. “There isn’t much left, but this isn’t over!”

  Kulafu sighed, looping the wooshing blade up and catching it at the joint. “Van Suer, drop the bag. I don’t want to hurt you. I could flog you perpetually, maybe you could resist for a while, but eventually you’d yield, and there’s no telling what type of psychological trauma you’d carry from that.”

  “I’ve endured a Druk for almost an hour; your knife tickles!” he snapped. That last part was a lie. The blade did not, in fact, tickle, and he trembled at the prospect of facing its lash again.

  “If you want to prove a real point, come take it from me yourself.” Trace grains trickled from his leather mass, and he hinged it tight, as if it were a child hanging over a precipice.

  Kulafu considered, then sighed. He drew more black tiles from his pocket, syphoning decades from them. He melted, going from a warrior in his middle ages to a gangly teen. Peter blinked in surprise. He seemed a different person entirely.

  “Very well, then, let’s end this.” It was his voice, but whiny, and it cracked.

  “I’m ready.”

  Teenage Kulafu sprinted at Peter, leaping directly into his leech field. The syphon exploded, quickly aging the youth. In a moment, he was in his twenties, then his thirties.

  Kulafu snatched the bag, and Peter constricted around it.

  Kulafu was in his forties, with grey peppering his bun.

  Peter’s vision flashed as his world rocked under three blows, and the bag came free, flopping to the ground. Kulafu’s hair had shifted to all grey, but still not white.

  “It’s over!” the warrant officer barked, voice deeper as he leaped back, but Peter followed, snatching his arm.

  “Fool, end exercise!” Kulafu bellowed before his hook knocked Peter out.

  Peter sat up to find Kulafu breathing heavily. His skin sagged in places, spotted with age, but most importantly, his hair had gone white as bleached bone.

  “Idiot!” Kulafu growled. “You were out of time. You lose.”

  “I thought the drill ended when the last of the sand hit the ground,” Peter said.

  “That’s right,” Kulafu huffed. “I had the bag. If you don’t have the presence of mind to control yourself, then you can never be my student.”

  “When the last of the sand hit the ground. Those were your terms.” Peter reached into his pocket, coming out with a fistful of granules slipping through his fingers. He dusted his hand. “Now it’s the end of the exercise. Look at that chief, your hair’s white.”

  Kulafu blinked, then smirked. “Well played.”

  “When do we start?” Peter asked.

  “We just did. This wasn’t a tryout; it was your first lesson. It seems you already understand well. Strength is as rose petals; cunning, the thorns they hide.”

  Is the “no convenience resets” rule smart, or stupid in an extinction war?