Undaunted by Mister Hallem’s ghastly scar on his equally hideous face, Khazmine met the officer’s stare with a cold, icy glare of her own. She sensed at once that Mister Hallem’s tone betrayed a deep-seated loathing for the half-breed, even if he pretended to be approachable outside the gates of the Solanai camp. Aranthus, too, could detect falsehood in Hallem’s manners, and so clung even tighter to Khazmine’s neck with skinny arms that trembled faintly.

“No such thing, Mister Hallem,” Khazmine replied with more curtness to her voice than she’d intended. The outcast hugged little Pavo closer to her body and readied herself to beat a hasty retreat as soon as possible. “I’m taking my little brothers home, that’s all.”

“Are you sassing me, half-breed?” Hallem asked, his façade faltering, as if searching for an excuse to find fault with the young fetch-and-carry.

“Not at all, mister,” Khazmine bowed her head in deference to him. It was better to scrape and beg forgiveness than to have herself or the boys endure a beating at the hands of this insufferable brute. “We don’t look alike, but I assure you that—”

“Oh, I believe your mother or father’s responsible for more of these bloody useless wastrels,” Hallem sneered as his false manners crumbled, which caused poor Aranthus to shiver against Khazmine out of sheer terror. “Children don’t belong in camp any more than you do, mutt.”

“Yes, sir,” Khazmine said as she ducked away from the churlish grump. It wasn’t a permanent solution but kowtowing to Hallem’s comments at least bought the outcast time enough to secure the boys before she was due back at the barracks.

Khazmine darted up to her shabby little rented room in Cheapside and left Aranthus and Pavocinis with her last handful of fawns for them to watch over. “Stay here and don’t move, I mean it. I’ll fetch a healer for Pavo after I’m done with my shift, but only if you stay here and be good, okay?”

“Who was that man, Lady Kiss-Me?” Aranthus asked as the outcast laid Pavo on her bed. “Why was he so angry?”

“He’s part of the reason I need you to stay here, all right?” Khazmine raised her arms to gently press Aranthus’s to his sides. Her expression tensed again and plucked at lingering fears that welled up inside the tiny Outsider. “Some mercenaries are mean — don’t forget that. Aside from me, most people on this side of town won’t treat you or Pavo very well, understand? So please don’t leave this room until I come back.”

Aranthus managed a wordless nod as Khazmine ruffled his scraggly white hair before departing. The outcast only had a few minutes to race back to camp, and was forced to boost her speed with one of the tricks Lieutenant Mevralls had shown her the day before. Another flash from the midtown sun clock broadcast the hour just in time for Khazmine to rush through the outer gate to the barracks. The gate master was kind enough to warn Khazmine of Mister Hallem’s interest in her arrival, but unable to predict where he’d gotten to.

Still catching her breath from her most recent run, Khazmine slinked off to the commissary in hopes of getting a bite to eat before the officers expected her for training.

There’s still time, Khazmine thought as she snaked around the armorer’s to avoid being seen. From this position, the outcast spotted Lieutenant Mevralls wrapping up training with a squadron of initiates in the central clearing. She could also see Major Barshaw giving a report to a middle-aged soldier with a long, black beard as they traipsed towards the upper deck of the command center. Khazmine bid her time until the coast was clear before bolting for the commissary.

It was at that very moment that her luck ran out.

“There you are!” Quin Scurving exclaimed with a bracing pat on the back for the outcast. The stinging slap jostled Khazmine and pitched her forward, but wasn’t enough of an aggressive display to get him reprimanded by officers nearby. “Mister Hallem’s been looking for you.”

Sh*t. There goes my mid-day meal. Khazmine scowled back at the obnoxious Quin, but he ignored her discomfort and tightened his meaty grip on her shoulder.

Khazmine rolled her arm back to dislodge the offensive grasp of Mr. Scurving and frowned as the stocky oaf led them to the place she’d hoped to avoid meeting Hallem at again. The ugly brute was exactly where the outcast expected him to be; loitering in the training circle and admiring the new improvements to the Challenger’s Rack. He was fiddling around with one of the four ironwood blades still nestled in the red tube when Quin announced their arrival.

“Ah, bring her here,” Hallem grinned broadly as the object of his disdain made her way into the circle. His cruel, bent fingertips danced over each sword’s heavy pommel as Hallem practically itched to select a suitable implement for his revenge. “You’re probably not aware of it, but there’ve been quite a few rumors about you circulating around the camp. Quin here and I wanted to see if there’s any truth to them.”

“Rumors?”

“About your meteoric rise in skill,” Hallem explained with a grandiose gesture to match. “I told him it wasn’t possible. We argued for ages until we had an idea. How about another spar, just to test it?”

“I don’t know, sir…” Khazmine narrowed her eyes at him.

“What’s there to be afraid of?” Hallem asked. “Quin here will set the parameters, and I’ll even sweeten the pot. I’ll offer you a fair shake at a bump in rank, how’s that sound?”

This olive branch was a tempting target. Khazmine had discovered during her training that victors in battles sanctioned by the Challenger’s Rack were qualified to receive a bump in rank, even if they hadn’t yet passed “Initiation.” A rise in rank also meant a rise in pay, assuming she could win, which there was no guarantee that she could at this point.

It's a trick and you know it. Khazmine gritted her teeth behind pinched lips. Only this time, he’s brought a witness to assure the officers that I consented to it properly. Even if I say ‘no,’ it’s their word against mine…

“It's just that,” Khazmine replied and tilted her head to one side to search for more potential witnesses, “last time was pretty rough on me. And you have much more experience than some nobody from the slums.”

“Not at all,” Hallem lied with a musical lilt to his voice. His fingers clasped around the heaviest of the ironwood swords in the rack, just as Khazmine had hoped they would. “How about we set a time limit? That’d keep it fair, yes?”

Would you listen to him crow… Khazmine’s eye twitched again at Hallem’s arrogant, slackened stance and insincere banter. A few initiates and several soldiers started to mosey around the training circle to see what fresh foolishness had gathered there during mid-day meal.

Khazmine pursed her lips at the options before her and assessed whether it was even possible to win. In the end, the faintest hint of a smile settled where a frown had been. Why not give the ol’ bugger a spar? If nothing else, then just to wipe that smug smile off his face…

“Just a quick spar then, sir,” Khazmine insisted as she swaggered toward the Challenger’s Rack. “I’d say no more than ten minutes, as it looks like rain. Any special rules, sir?”

“Anything goes,” Hallem grinned at having convinced the foolish half-breed to consent to another spar. That way, there’d be no Major Barshaw to interrupt them this time. He’d paint the whole training circle with Khazmine’s bloody carcass.

“Uh, sir? Are you sure about that?” Quin tugged at his collar and paused from setting the sparring parameters on the Challenger’s Rack programing panel.

“Oh, Absolutely.” Hallem wrenched the heavy ironwood blade out of the rack as red lights announced a new challenger to the arena. His free hand motioned for Khazmine to select her own weapon from the rack next, so that the timer could begin. Quin watched with trepidation as Hallem took his starting position in the center of the circle, giving him a tactical advantage. “Go ahead, pick one.”

Khazmine spared one last look at Hallem as an unarmed combatant before a fiendish smirk crossed her lips. Quin backed away from the rack as she approached, but instead of taking one of the swords from the top, Khazmine bent low and tugged at some strange disc adhered to the bottom of the rack.

The metal disc retracted in Khazmine’s grasp like an armored viper, leaving a coiled reddish-brown leather weapon in her hand. Its hand grip pulsed with the same red light as one of the ironwood swords’ hilt jewels, indicating that it was an approved weapon. Khazmine had selected something terribly familiar, which one of the observing soldiers recognized first.

“That’s Major Barshaw’s!” a craggy voice called out from the crowd.

Sure enough, that got the mob talking. Several initiates fanned out to rally more spectators, and hopefully some ranking officers. With luck, word would reach Khazmine’s teachers, and they could at least watch her improved skills, even if they couldn’t intervene on her behalf.

Mister Hallem stood dumbstruck at this disgusting trash handling the major’s prized possession. He didn’t have time to wonder how it had gotten there, or who had registered it as an approved weapon for the training circle. Hallem’s concentration broke when more observers gathered and bright flashes of light announced that a timed match was about to begin.

Khazmine shot a quick glance to the skies above to estimate how much time she had to stall before the rain decided to change the dynamics of the match. Mistaking her curiosity for fear, Mister Hallem sprinted headlong at the outcast in hopes of drawing the first decisive strike. A ferocious swing of his ironwood blade cleaved nothing but air as Khazmine artfully ducked away from his attack. The breeze from the passing blade was the only relief she could expect to cool her from the oppressive humidity in the training circle.

She’d managed to evade his swipe just in time, or else Hallem would have caved in Khazmine’s shoulder with a vertical slash of his heavy sword. Such a weighty weapon was taxing to use, and should have slowed him down, but the bloodthirsty brute had a trick up his sleeve—ether-boosted strides. Lieutenant Mevralls had shown Khazmine how to perfect the demanding technique only yesterday and had encouraged her to practice as often as possible to improve her endurance. Now was her chance.

‘Anything goes’ indeed, you bloody sleaze, Khazmine thought as she flinched at another near hit from Mister Hallem. She had to hold his interest and allow Hallem to think that she was struggling with his unprecedented speed, while not frustrating him enough to employ some dirtier trick.

Ether-boosting in any capacity required focus, concentration, and effort to maintain, which was why it was primarily used for short sprints over prolonged runs. Khazmine had counted on her opponent leaning heavily into sustaining his boosts, but there was a risk that Hallem could make this match even harder on the outcast. The entire dynamic could shift in his favor if Hallem made use of higher-level techniques, like his shroud of “darkness.”

Khazmine shivered in the training circle, partly from the thought of facing Hallem’s shroud and partly from the drizzle of rain that dampened the training circle and everyone around it. A fearful yelp or two from the outcast fueled Hallem’s mounting exhilaration at backing the half-breed into a proverbial corner. In his mind, this method would surely tire Khazmine out soon, and he could deliver a harsh blow once she was exhausted.

Even better if all those onlookers could watch it happen. Hallem thought as he ran his pointed tongue over his lips and readied for another assault. Once they see me crush this lousy half-breed, then I’ll regain the officers’ esteem…

He was so focused on a decisive, “honest” victory that Hallem had failed to notice the worsening position he was in. Constant, heavy sword swings and demanding ether boosts had sapped his strength, and beads of sweat mingled with the torrent of raindrops that soaked the arena, turning it into a muddy battleground.

Visibility dropped, evasive capabilities stymied, and the saturated earth stuck to heavy boots, but Hallem was eager to press on and earn his place after crushing Barshaw’s precious protégé. Anything that stalled his speed would cripple Khazmine, and he could taste triumph that was only a single strike away. His heart raced with the flooded feelings of imminent victory as Mister Hallem redoubled his efforts to charge the half-breed with all his might.

You can’t run away now, little girl.

A crack of thunder blasted in Hallem’s ears, forcing the soldier to slide into the mucky ground. It was too loud to have been from an actual thunder strike, and Hallem knew for a fact that this whelp couldn’t “storm,” so…

The taste of fresh blood tickled his tongue and a biting sting ran the length of his face as Mister Hallem realized what Khazmine had done. Hatred festered within him as the ferocious brawler turned purple with rage.