Crow woke up. There was no one there.
It seems she didn't spend the night here... better for me.
He looked out the window and, as always, the sun did not appear; everything was cloudy with that cold weather, at least without light snow this time.
He picked up the Claymore, the Zweihänder, and the rest of his gear, then snagged the emblem from the table, and opened the Queen's bedroom door. A short walk down the hallway, and he smelled food.
The kitchen found him before he found it, the smell of something hot and burnt at the edges threading through two wrong turns and a corridor that seemed to exist purely to waste his time.
It ran long and low, the ceiling dark with old smoke, copper pots hanging overhead like sleeping things. A fire chewed at the far wall, not cheerful, just functional.
Sophia stood at the central block with her back to him, doing something methodical to a loaf of bread.
She didn't turn around.
"You... look like someone who s-slept badly..." she said.
He pulled a stool from under the block and sat. "Is there any coffee?"
She set a cup in front of him before he finished the sentence. Black. Still too hot. He drank it anyway.
She slid a plate toward him: bread, something cured, and an egg that had stopped being soft some time ago. He ate without complaint.
"You just made my work easier, not having to h-hunt you down to deliver your food."
Hunt me down? This brings back bad memories...
He was nearly through the plate when she spoke again, her voice still a little unsteady. "The yard is through the east arch." A pause, knife still moving. "In case you were planning to wander until you found it."
Crow looked at her profile.
She didn't look back.
The one who should be embarrassed is me… not her, after yesterday.
He finished the coffee, stood, and left the plate where it was.
The yard opened up behind the east arch exactly where she'd said. It was a wide, walled space, open to the flat grey sky, the stone floor worn smooth by the constant grind of boots. Training equipment lined the far wall, heavy racks, a row of sturdy striking posts, and open ground beyond for sparring.
Maybe I was wrong? No one is guarding me… the first plan is still viable.
He rolled his shoulders once.
Then he got to work.
After he spent some time training outdoors on the bars, completing his physical routine, and finishing once more with a session on the wooden dummies, a group of soldiers approached the area.
"You planning on staying out here all day? Hitting wood doesn't hit back. Why don't you head inside the facility and show us if you can actually fight, or if you're just as soft as you look?" asked a massive soldier clad in black armor.
Some other guys with him began to laugh. The laughter died instantly as a thin, fragile-looking soldier spoke up next,
"Enough. He's a guest of Her Majesty, not a training dummy for you to vent your frustrations on."
Then he looked to Crow and continued,
"Forgive them. They have more muscle than sense. I'm General Berthold, by the way. I've seen my share of 'favored' newcomers, but you... you look like you actually know which end of the sword to hold."
Crow wiped the sweat from his brow, his expression unreadable as he looked from the General to the massive soldier in black. A faint, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Relax, General. No offense taken," Crow said, his voice steady. "And he's right. Hitting wood is getting boring. A spar sounds like exactly what I need."
He turned his gaze back to the giant in armor, gesturing toward the open ground of the sparring ring with a tilt of his head.
"So, what do you say, big guy? You ready to find out how soft I am?"
The big soldier's laugh rolled out slow and satisfied, the kind that came from men who'd never lost a spar and had stopped expecting to.
He unclipped his helmet and dropped it to a subordinate without looking. Underneath: a shaved head, a jaw like a shovel, a nose that had been broken and reset badly at least twice. He rolled his neck until it cracked, then stepped into the open ground with the unhurried weight of something that had never needed to hurry.
"Name's Vorn," he said. "So you know what to call it when you wake up."
The others formed a loose ring. General Berthold clasped his hands behind his back and watched with the patient expression of a man who'd already written two possible outcomes and was waiting to see which page he'd need.
Crow stepped into the ring.
He left the Claymore racked. Left the Zweihänder too. Rolled his left sleeve up once, then stopped, reconsidered, rolled it back down.
Vorn noticed. "No sword?"
"Swords are... dangerous," he said, his voice casual.
Don't laugh… don't laugh.
The big man's eyes sharpened slightly, the first real attention he'd paid. Then he drew his own practice blade, a blunted longsword that still weighed enough to crack ribs through padding, and settled into his stance. Textbook. Solid. The stance of someone drilled until the position lived in muscle rather than memory.
Good foundation. Crow catalogued it and moved.
He came in fast and low, inside the sword's comfort range before Vorn could establish his swing arc. The big man adjusted, faster than he looked, credit where it was due, drove a short lateral cut aimed at Crow's shoulder. Crow rolled under it, felt the displaced air brush the back of his neck, and came up with an elbow driving hard into Vorn's ribs.
Not enough. The armor ate most of it.
Vorn shoved sideways, using mass the way a wall uses mass, and Crow let himself be pushed rather than brace, redirected the momentum, pivoted, put two steps of distance between them.
The watching soldiers had gone quiet.
Vorn came again, more careful this time, the earlier amusement gone, replaced by something more honest. He feinted high and cut low. Crow checked the blade with his forearm—took the sting of it across the bracer, and stepped inside, hip-checking Vorn's weight to one side, reaching for the wrist of the sword hand.
Vorn yanked free before the grip locked. Strong. Very strong.
They separated.
Both breathing harder now.
"Not soft," Vorn said. Not a compliment yet. More like a revised estimate.
Crow said nothing. He watched the big man's lead foot, the shoulder, the way the sword arm tensed two beats before the swing committed. Three exchanges and the pattern already sketched itself clear.
Berthold hadn't moved. His eyes tracked everything.
Crow shifted his weight forward.
Now.
Vorn came in perfectly drilled—weight settled, blade angled, the stance of a man drilled until the position stopped requiring thought. Solid. Predictable.
Crow didn't move.
Vorn's first swing came horizontal, testing range. Crow stepped into it—not away, into—intercepted the forearm before the blade developed speed, deflected it downward with his own, and let the momentum carry past. Vorn's follow-through pulled him a half-step wide.
Crow stepped back. Clean. Unbothered.
"Hm," he said.
Vorn's jaw tightened. He reset, came again with a feint high and a drive low—better, more committed—and Crow parried the real cut with a crossed guard, absorbed the force through bent knees rather than bracing against it, and redirected.
Ah. Drops his right shoulder a beat before he commits. Muscle memory. My bad for not ending this already.
He didn't end it yet.
Two more exchanges—block, redirect, disengage—each one efficient, each one making Vorn work twice as hard for half the result. The ring of soldiers had gone quiet in the way crowds go quiet when something stops being entertainment and starts being something else.
Vorn pressed harder. The practice blade came in a tight overhead arc, all that mass behind it.
Crow caught it.
Both hands, crossed guard, absorbing the full weight of the swing—the impact cracked through his forearms and he held, stone grinding under his boots, and for one suspended moment they strained against each other.
Then Crow twisted the bind, broke the angle, and drove his elbow straight into Vorn's nose.
The crack echoed off the yard walls.
Vorn's head snapped back. He staggered—one step, two—and Crow was already moving, closing before the big man's vision cleared, driving a short hook into the floating rib, feeling something flex under the armor plating. Vorn's breath punched out of him. Crow grabbed the back of his collar, used the stumble's momentum, and planted him face-first into the stone.
Not gently.
The yard held its breath.
Vorn lay there for a moment. Chest heaving. Blood threading down from his nose onto pale stone, spreading slow.
Crow straightened. Rolled his left shoulder once. His forearms ached from the catch, which he hadn't entirely planned.
Okay. That one I felt. Fair enough.
He looked down at Vorn.
Vorn looked up.
Crow held his gaze for exactly one beat—not gloating, not offering anything either—then turned and walked back toward the rack where his blades rested.
"...You fight dirty," Vorn managed, pushing himself onto one knee.
Crow glanced back over his shoulder.
"Mm." He picked up a cloth from the rack and wiped his forearm where the edge had caught him. "You started with soft as you look." A pause, almost thoughtful. "So."
He said it pleasantly. The way a man comments on the weather.
Vorn stared at the back of his head.
Berthold hadn't moved from his position. His gaze tracked Crow the way a man tracks something that's just revised his expectations without asking permission. He studied the forearms, the footwork, the complete absence of theatrics.
"Where did you train?" he asked.
"Here and there." Crow set the cloth down. "Mostly there."
Berthold absorbed that. His eyes moved briefly to the racked Claymore, then back. "You carry two large blades and just dismantled my best man with your hands."
"The blades are for different problems."
A beat of silence. Around the ring, nobody laughed anymore. One of the younger soldiers leaned toward another and whispered something that earned him a sharp elbow.
Berthold clasped his hands behind his back. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—less conversational, more deliberate.
"There's a challenge board running inside the facility. Combat ranking. Any confirmed rank unlocks mission eligibility, certain contracts the palace won't authorize without it." He tilted his head toward the interior arch. "I'd recommend entering."
Hm... Suspicious. Why offer me a deal this good now? But then again, I have more to gain from it.
Crow didn't look at him immediately. He glanced at the flat grey sky instead, that permanent, indifferent overcast, then back at Berthold's carefully neutral expression.
Sophia knew? Of course she did. The yard. The soldiers. The challenge board. Every step already arranged and waiting for me. Was this some scheme of Alice's? Or... coincidence?
"Is it running now?" Crow asked.
"It is."
Crow picked up the Claymore and Zweihänder from the rack. He slung them across his back, side by side, settling the familiar weight against his spine.
"Lead the way, General."
He walked toward the arch without waiting.
Behind him, Vorn climbed to his feet. Wiped his nose with the back of his gauntlet. Stared at Crow's back with an expression that sat somewhere between wounded pride and something grudgingly adjacent to respect.
He didn't say anything else.
Neither did Crow.
Inside, the noise hit first.
The facility swallowed him whole.
Inside, the ceiling vaulted high and dark, the stone walls sweating with the cold that lived permanently in this part of the palace. The noise came from everywhere at once, boots on stone, the sharp ring of blunted steel, shouted counts, bodies hitting the ground and getting back up.
Competition rings occupied the center, roped off, chalk lines marking the boundaries, and around one of them stood maybe forty soldiers in various stages of waiting, warming up, or watching the current pair trade blows inside.
Crow scanned the room once. Bracketed entries on a board near the far wall, names and tallies scratched in chalk. Numbers beside each name. A ranking system, simple enough.
Berthold stopped beside him.
"Your magical items," he said. "Weapons included, if they carry enchantments. Lockers along the side wall." He gestured toward a row of iron-doored cabinets lining the left. "Standard procedure. Ensures no participant carries an unfair advantage over another."
Crow looked at the board. Counted the names already entered. Counted the matches already completed.
"I'm walking in halfway through," he said.
"You are."
"That's not exactly fair to the ones who started from the first round." Crow said with a trace of annoyance.
A soldier nearby, leaning against the wall with arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm—spoke without being asked. Older face, scar bisecting one eyebrow, the particular ease of someone comfortable enough with his own rank to talk across a General without flinching.
"Last seven standings get promoted," he said flatly. "Doesn't matter when you entered. Doesn't matter how many you've fought." A pause. "This isn't a tournament. It's a war board. In the field, nobody tells you how many are coming after you drop the first one."
Crow considered that for a moment.
Fair enough.
He moved toward the lockers.
He was halfway through unbuckling the Zweihänder's carry strap when something shifted the air behind him—the particular displacement of someone moving into close range with deliberate intention. A hand landed on his shoulder. Heavy. Familiar in the way of men who use physical contact to establish something they can't say outright.
He didn't turn around.
"Newbie." The voice came low, almost pleasant. Almost. "Stay away from Sophia, yeah? I've known her a long time. You don't want that kind of confusion with me." A brief pause, fingers pressing slightly deeper into the shoulder. "Find someone else."
Crow set the Zweihänder inside the locker.
Then the Claymore, and the ring.
He closed the cabinet door. Turned the key once. Held the key in his palm for a moment, studying it with mild interest, as if it had said something worth considering.
Then he turned.
The man behind him stood maybe a head taller than average, thick through the neck, the red-and-black insignia of a senior ranking stitched on his collar. A face built for authority, strong jaw, steady eyes, the practiced composure of someone accustomed to being listened to. His hand had dropped from Crow's shoulder the moment he turned.
Crow looked at him with no particular expression.
Then he looked at the hand.
Then back at the face.
"Sophia," Crow said, his tone as neutral as the ceiling. "Yeah, you can have her. In fact, I'll even wish you luck."
The man's jaw shifted slightly.
She's crazy. You can have her... One less problem to deal with. Good luck, big guy… what a joke.
"Wait... are you serious? No protest?" The man's eyes narrowed, his voice dropping an octave. "Smart guy."
Crow walked back toward the rings. He left the big guy standing there alone.
Now, time for some friendly fights... I think.