The following morning arrived with the same relentless, grey hostility that defined every dawn in the Marquessate. The sun was a rumour, hidden behind a veil of thick, leaden clouds that promised nothing but snow and misery.
Brandt navigated the stone arteries of the keep, his small boots echoing against the cold granite. He moved with a stiff, guarded gait, cradling his left arm against his chest, careful not to agitate the screaming, bruised cage of his ribs.
The damage from Falk's parry had bloomed overnight into a tapestry of ugly, mottled purple and black, while the centre of his sternum throbbed with a dull, suffocating ache. Every step sent a sickening shockwave through his battered frame.
He had already eaten.
Breakfast had been a chaotic affair with the twins, who seemed to have recovered their boundless energy overnight, their high-pitched chatter bouncing off the stone walls like shrapnel. Falk had been absent from the head of the table.
It was a minor deviation—the Master-at-Arms often took his meals with the garrison or in the war room—but Brandt noted it regardless.
He reached the heavy oak door of the infirmary and pushed it open with his good shoulder, gritting his teeth against the spike of pain.
The heat hit him instantly. It was a dry, suffocating wave, distinct from the damp warmth of the kitchens.
Maester Vorin was exactly where Brandt expected him to be.
The old man was hunched over a cluttered workbench in the far corner, bathed in the flickering orange glow of the hearth. He looked like a fixture of the room, as ancient and weathered as the stone walls, his frailty masked by the intense, bird-like focus of his posture.
He was grinding something in a heavy stone mortar, the rhythmic scritch-scratch-scritch the only sound in the quiet room.
Brandt opened his mouth to announce his presence, to play the role of the polite, injured child.
"I am old, Brandt. Not deaf."
The voice was dry and soft, like the rustling of parchment. Vorin didn't turn around. He kept grinding, his gnarled, arthritic hands moving with a surprising, tireless strength.
Brandt chuckled, a short, dry sound, and walked deeper into the room, the heat seeping into his chilled bones.
"Good morning, Maester."
He approached the bench, leaning against a sturdy table to take the weight off his feet. He watched the old man work. Vorin was pulverising dried leaves into a fine, viridian powder, then measuring it out with meticulous care onto a small brass scale.
Brandt watched him, his mind whirring with curiosity. He knew what Vorin was—a deviant capable of channelling Light magic to knit torn flesh and purge sickness from the blood.
In a world defined by brutal, physical trauma, Vorin was a walking miracle.
And yet, here he was, crushing dried plants like a common village apothecary.
"Why the herbs, Maester?" Brandt asked, gesturing to the clutter with his good hand. "Why the poultices and the tinctures? You wield Light magic. Can't you just heal everything with a thought? Why get your hands dirty?"
Vorin paused. He held a pinch of the green dust up to the firelight, inspecting the grain with a critical eye. He lowered his hand and finally turned to look at the boy.
His eyes were grey and kind, surrounded by a web of deep wrinkles, but there was a shadow of pragmatic weariness in them that Brandt recognised all too well.
"Because magic is not water, child," Vorin said softly. "It is not a river that flows forever. Mana is a finite resource. It drains the spirit and the body."
He gestured to the rows of glass jars lining the shelves, filled with suspended organs, roots, and cloudy fluids.
"These... these are simple. They are reliable. They do not tire me. If I used my gift for every scrape, every cough, every aching joint in this keep... I would be dead in a week."
The old man sighed, a wheezing sound that rattled in his chest.
"I save the miracles for when death is scratching at the door. For everything else... there is the earth. Besides..."
He looked at Brandt with a sad, gentle smile.
"I won't be here forever. The people need to know how to survive without miracles. They need to know how to mend themselves when the light goes out."
Brandt stared at him. The logic was cold, sound, and entirely sensible. It resonated with his own view of the world. Relying on a single point of failure—a single man—was a recipe for disaster.
But something in Vorin's tone... a note of wistful finality... pricked his interest.
"Why are you here, then?" Brandt asked, his voice losing some of its childish pitch. "A man with your gift... you are rarer than diamonds. You could be in the capital. You could be serving the King. You could be rich beyond measure."
Vorin's expression shifted. The kindness remained, but a veil of melancholy descended over his features. He looked past Brandt, staring at the stone wall as if seeing a different time, a different life.
"Another time, perhaps," Vorin murmured, his voice barely audible. "We all have our cages, Brandt. Some are made of iron. Some are made of duty. Some... are made of regret."
He shook his head, physically dispelling the memory. He focused back on the boy, his eyes dropping to Brandt's left arm. The sleeve of his tunic was tight against the swollen flesh beneath.
"Falk's work?"
Brandt nodded. He winced as he rolled up the sleeve, revealing the ugly, mottled bruising that covered his forearm where the vibration of the parry had shattered the capillaries. The skin was tight and hot to the touch.
"I asked for it," Brandt said simply.
Vorin sighed, a sound of profound, grandfatherly exasperation.
"Warriors," he muttered, shaking his head. "Always in such a hurry to break the only body the Old Gods gave them. Foolishness. Absolute foolishness."
He placed his hands over the injury.
Brandt watched with intense, predatory fascination. This was it—the other side of the coin.
He felt the shift in the air. It wasn't the inward, crushing pressure of his own Augmentation. It was a warmth—a gathering.
A dull, warm light began to coagulate around Vorin's gnarled fingers. It wasn't blinding. It wasn't holy or divine. It looked like the glow of embers through ash.
The light seeped into Brandt's skin.
It didn't tingle. It felt like sinking into a hot bath after a week of freezing in the snow. It felt like the tension of a knotted muscle finally releasing.
The relief was instant and profound.
The throb of the bruise vanished. The stiffness in his elbow dissolved. The heat penetrated deep, knitting the micro-tears in his muscles, flushing out the metabolic waste, resetting the biological clock of the injury.
Vorin pulled his hands back. The light faded.
Brandt flexed his arm. It was perfect. Better than perfect. It felt fresh, energised, ready for violence.
'A factory reset,' he thought, a dark thrill running through him.
Brandt pulled his sleeve down.
"Thank you, Maester," he said, his voice low. "If today goes according to plan... I suspect I'll be seeing you a lot more often."
Vorin let out a short, sharp breath, cursing under his breath about damned Rimescar blood and stubborn fools, but there was no real anger in it.
Brandt turned and left the infirmary, the smell of dried sage lingering on his clothes like a second skin.
He walked out into the cold morning air, heading toward the training grounds. His mind was already racing ahead, dissecting the logistics of the coming weeks.
He had two slots. Two tutors. Falk had given him a limit, but he intended to stretch that limit until it snapped. He needed to maximise his return on investment.
Falk had suggested footwork. That was sound advice. But footwork was useless if you couldn't kill the thing you were dancing around.
'The sword,' he decided. 'It has to be the sword.'
It was the most common weapon in the kingdom. It was versatile. It was lethal. If he mastered the sword, he would never be unarmed as long as there was a dead guard nearby.
He needed a teacher.
He mentally selected his first tutor. Regretfully.
'Balg.'
The image of the man rose in his mind. Monstrous. Filthy. A drunken, greedy, undisciplined slab of muscle and vice. Balg was everything a soldier shouldn't be. He was a liability in a formation. He was an anomaly in the disciplined ranks of Rimescar, kept only because he was a siege engine in human skin.
Brandt remembered the way Balg swung his massive iron slab of a sword—not with technique, but with the unstoppable momentum of an avalanche.
Brandt needed to know how to fight monsters. Balg didn't fight like a man. He fought like a beast. He fought with overwhelming, unfair, blunt trauma.
'I need to know how that engine works,' Brandt thought.
That was one slot filled. He needed a counter-balance.
He selected the second tutor.
'Kael.'
The young guard who had helped pull him from the well. Kael was the antithesis of Balg. He was agile, talented, and charming. He moved with a fluid grace that suggested a high degree of mana control and balance.
He fit Falk's suggestion for footwork perfectly.
Plus, Brandt owed him a debt. In this world, debts were dangerous things. It was better to pay them quickly, to turn a saviour into an employee.
Brandt analysed the leverage he would need.
Balg was motivated by base desires. Coin. Drink. Vice. He was a mercenary soul. He could be bought.
Kael was different. He was motivated by glory, by reputation... and by women. Brandt had seen the way the young guard preened when the scullery maids walked by.
'Both are purchasable,' he concluded, his thoughts cold and transactional. 'One with coin. The other with influence.'
He arrived at the training grounds.
The yard was a pit of hard-packed, frozen earth, alive with the violence of the morning drill. Twenty or thirty men were moving in unison, their breath pluming in the frigid air like the exhaust of overworked engines.
The sound of steel clashing against steel rang out, a harsh, rhythmic music of concussive force.
The air smelled of old sweat, oiled leather, and the metallic tang of cold iron.
Brandt stopped at the edge of the yard, pulling his cloak tighter against the biting wind. He scanned the crowd, his eyes dissecting the forms, looking for his targets.
He spotted Falk standing apart, observing the drill with his usual stoic intensity. The Master-at-Arms looked like a statue of judgment carved from the mountain itself, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his gaze missing nothing.
Brandt waited. He didn't interrupt. He stood silently at the periphery, letting the cold seep into his boots, demonstrating the patience Falk valued.
After a long minute, Falk turned his head. He didn't wave. He just tilted his chin.
Brandt walked over, the frozen earth crunching beneath his boots.
Falk looked down at him, his blue eyes immediately flicking to the boy's left arm. He noted the lack of stiffness, the ease of movement where there should have been agony.
"Vorin healed you."
It was a statement, not a question.
"I followed your orders," Brandt replied calmly.
Falk grunted, a cloud of steam escaping his lips.
"Good. You listened. But remember this, Brandt. Vorin stays in the Keep."
The Master-at-Arms leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, serious rumble.
"If you succeed... if you earn your place on the hunt in two months... there are no glowing hands out there to wipe away your mistakes. A broken bone stays broken. A torn muscle ends the hunt. Pain is a teacher, boy. When you erase it too quickly, you risk forgetting the lesson."
Brandt met the man's gaze, acknowledging the warning but not apologising for his efficiency—survival utilised every asset available.
"I've made my choice," Brandt said.
Falk straightened, crossing his massive arms again.
"Who?"
Brandt took a breath, the cold air filling his lungs.
"Balg. And Kael."
Falk's eyebrows shot up, a rare crack in his stone facade. He stared at Brandt, genuinely surprised, his gaze shifting to the far end of the yard, where the giant lurked.
"Kael, I understand," Falk said slowly, turning back to the boy. "He is quick. He has potential. He fights with his head as much as his sword. But Balg?"
The Master-at-Arms spat on the frozen ground, a gesture of pure, unadulterated disgust.
"The man is a pig. He is a drunkard and a brawler. He has no technique. He wins because he is bigger than the other man, not because he is better. He is a blunt instrument who barely remembers which end of the sword to hold."
Brandt's expression didn't waver.
"Because he has effectiveness," he countered. "He is the strongest man in the garrison. I need to know how to deal with monsters, Falk. Balg fights like one."
He gestured to the training dummy Balg had destroyed the previous week, a shattered pile of wood and straw that still lay in the snow.
"Technique is useless if your opponent simply walks through your guard and breaks your spine. I need to understand brute force. I need to know its limits, and I need to know how to wield it."
Falk considered this, his eyes narrowing. He saw the logic, brutal and pragmatic as it was.
"And Kael?" Falk asked.
"For the footwork," Brandt replied. "He moves like water. He understands distance and timing. If Balg is the hammer, Kael is the needle. I want both."
Falk nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"A dangerous mix. Balg might break you by accident before you learn a thing. Kael will demand perfection you cannot yet provide. But... it is your choice."
He turned back to the drill, his gaze sweeping over his men.
"I will inform them. Your schedule begins tomorrow. Do not be late."
Brandt watched Falk walk away, his heavy cloak billowing in the wind. He felt a flicker of anticipation mixed with a cold, leaden dread. He had just signed up to be beaten by a giant and drilled by a prodigy.
He scanned the yard one last time, looking for his new employees.
He spotted Balg in the distance. The giant was leaning against the outer wall, far away from the main formation, in a shadow that seemed too small to contain him. He was taking a swig from a battered, dented flask, ignoring the shouts directed at him.
'That is going to be a headache,' he thought, watching the giant belch and wipe his mouth with a forearm as thick as a tree trunk. 'But a useful one.'
His gaze shifted.
He found Kael sparring with another guard near the centre of the ring. The contrast was jarring.
The young knight was moving with fluid, effortless grace. He deflected heavy blows with minimal movement, his feet dancing across the slick, frozen ground. He wasn't just fighting; he was performing.
He was smiling, enjoying the adoration of the younger recruits watching him, his movements crisp and aesthetically perfect.
The Beast and the Prince.
Brandt turned and headed back toward the keep, the cold biting at his face.
He had a lot of preparation to do. He needed to visit the treasury—or at least his own small coffers—to find enough coin to sate the giant's thirst. And he needed to craft the right words, the right mix of flattery and promise, to ensnare the knight.
The game had begun.