Whatever imagined feeling I projected onto the beast didn't matter. I barely felt the impact of its body as it struck my sword, its body impaled, sliding down the blade, hissing and smoldering from the energy in the weapon. The fiend's death throes were quick, its struggles quickly grew weaker until it finally lay still.

I lay there, still unable to move or rise, the creature's corpse cooking on the sword. It sizzled and popped, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. The fiend's body began to fall apart, pieces of it sloughing down the blade and landing in grotesque lumps beside me. My heart pounded. I had passed this little test, but the manner of my victory was humiliating. Then panic surged through me as I realized I still couldn't get up. I was trapped on my back in the awkward suit like an upturned tortoise.

Suddenly, the face of the priest filled my vision. The man regarded me with an entirely unconcealed contempt. His eyes bore into mine. I felt momentary anger at this. I might not be a noble, but by many measures I was the son of a man much more important to the city. My rage melted quickly as I realized what an embarrassment I had just made of myself.

Mario, the High Priest, stood beside the first man. He leaned over me. His hands fluttered at something under my chin, and the helm and chest split open with a hiss.

The cool air rushed in. Being in the suit was not hot or stifling. There was even a strange awareness of the feelings of its surface when you wore it. But feeling the actual air on my skin was a relief. I felt a rush of freshness against my sweaty skin, like a balm soothing my frazzled nerves. Slowly, I rose from the suit, leaving its shell on the ground beneath me. My muscles ached, and my movements were stiff, but I was free from the constricting shell.

Mario’s gaze never left me. Look looked at me with unreserved distain. I sullied him by just being here.

"Pathetic," he said. "You have much to learn, Tiberius. If you’ll last long enough to learn anything, that is."

Mario sighed. He looked disgusted, as though he were soiled by simply being near me.

"Get up," he ordered. "There’s no time for you to wallow. Others would have their chance to make a less humiliating display."

I could hear low giggles. I turned, seeing the others bunched together in the stands above. They were clustered together, whispering in each other's ears. They mockery was low, but quite intentionally loud enough for me to be aware of it.

These were my classmates, my competitors for the suit. But of course, I was different from them, and that difference only served to heighten what they all shared together. I rose and stumbled away from the suit.

Lord Baltizaar stood not far from them, looking down at me sternly, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Bishop Ra watched me with completely unveiled distaste.

Baltizaar said, "A pass is a pass for now, no matter how ungainly. You will see the next test."

The bishop snapped his head toward the giggling youths and barked, "Lauren, now girl, your turn. You can hardly do worse unless you find a way to get yourself killed."

My cheeks burned. This was not how I had imagined this going. I climbed the steps of the arena to the stands. As I passed Baltizaar and Ra, I held my head low in shame and deference. But a strong hand took my shoulder, holding me for a moment. It turned my body and I lifted my head. I met Baltizaar's cold, steely gaze. Unlike the priests, he gave me the immediate impression that he was really seeing me.

"Everyone has to start somewhere," he said. "You have a lot to learn, and you better do it fast."

I nodded my head. "Yes, my lord."

He turned back to the arena floor. I trudged on, trying to interpret the meaning of his gesture. Did he not resent me like the others?

As I moved towards the contestants, my head turned to watch Lauren as she peeled herself away from them. She had the features of a highborn: a long, slender nose, the bearing of good breeding and good rearing. But the most important thing to my young, hormone-glazed eyes, was that she was a knockout. All the girls were, but Lauren was a blonde dream doll come to life.

She moved with easy grace, gliding past me, not bothering to meet my eyes as she went to the steps for her turn with a monster.

I felt a pang of jealousy and inadequacy. Lauren had everything I lacked: grace, confidence, and the natural poise of someone born to this life. As she prepared for her test, the others watched in sudden silence. They were eager to see what she could do. Unlike me, they saw her as real competition. I was ignored as I joined the cluster of youths, their attention was wholly focused on her.

I stood near the other ten. We were all on the cusp of true adulthood. The youngest was Emilia, a dark-haired petite creature. She wore her ambition like a badge. She was far from a favorite, but she seemed to let that fact set a fire under her.

Lance was the oldest. He was a tall, strapping specimen, haughty and self-assured. His confidence was not unearned; he was probably the favorite to win the Sword. And he was an asshole.

They were all of noble families, their parents were Lords, Barons, Earls. They were of families that had ruled Boston since the Tower first boiled its way out of the ground when the city was founded.

I was not. This irked them. That a merchant's son, a commoner, worse, a traders son, could possibly become the next Sword was an insult to their blood. The simple fact that I had a place in The Choosing seemed to be an offense. I don’t believe they really thought it was possible for me to win. I had done nothing in the arena to dissuade them of this idea.

Lance looked at me, his voice superior, as he opened his mouth to speak.

"What level did it give you, shopkeep?" he said.

Lance had been clumsy enough in his own attempts in the suit, but he had at least hit his fiend with the blade on the fourth try, cleaving it in half. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

"Nine," I lied. "It said I was level nine."

Lance's face folded into an expression of cruel amusement. He turned to the others. Loudly, he said, "The shopkeeper says he was a nine!"

The others laughed and looked on me with cruel, disdainful eyes. Katya, the foreigner, stood a little back from the others. She didn’t laugh or point, but her dark eyes still regarded me with distaste.

I gritted my teeth and held my tongue. "Shopkeeper" was just one of the nicknames they used for me. It took a lot not to snap back at them. My father was a trader, a man who had built a fabulous empire, with caravans moving across the continent. He funded expeditions to the frozen north beyond the shield-veil and to the scorching south through the Wierding Wall. He could have bought the castles of every one of these idiots' fathers. That was, in no small part, why I was here.

I turned from them, my cheeks burning. I watched Lauren. She stood with her noble poise as the priest and Mario lifted the suit behind her. It melted and shifted to accommodate her smaller, curvier form.The suit enveloped her, flowed around her, adapting to her form. She, too, was awkward as she moved, but she showed far more control than I felt I had displayed. In fact, she might have been more attuned than even Lance had been. The chittering and mocking of the others faded into the background as I focused on her. She was everything I wasn't. She was confident, noble, and seemingly destined for greatness.

Boston had struggled in its campaigns in recent decades. The city shivered with the possibility of harsher times to come. The nobles had less and less to support themselves with each year. My father had money, though. He had so much of it. I wasn’t privy to the means he had employed, but his money had talked my way in here. This was my chance to make my family famous, to win honor, to win a title.I cast a glance at the others. They were such assholes. Yes, they were noble. Yes, they had skills and the best training a lord of the land could buy. But their cruelty and bigotry spoke louder.

I wondered if I would really want to join them in anything, even social rank.