Akuma’s spear flew at Osric, slicing his cheek open in one fluid motion.
“What the hell?” Osric said, his half-eaten breakfast dropping to the floor.
More laughter ensued, and Osric scoffed, picking fruit and boiled eggs off the floor. He absently toyed with the silver ring wrapped around his finger, the mark of a Jure, or also known as a member of the Phantom Guild. Osric had joined the guild with his best friend, Akuma, a few months after his mother’s death.
Which was eight years ago to this very day, his seventeenth birthday, also his mother’s death day. He had decided to become an assassin after her passing to get it off his mind, but he still felt no different.
Akuma slid onto the bench next to him, the old wood creaking in protest. The morning light from the window caught his gold eyes, making them glow against his dark skin. “Oh, come on!” Akuma slapped the bench. “I can’t be that heavy.” He turned to Osric. “I’m not that heavy, am I? Ric?”
“I’m going to go train in the yard.” Osric said, standing abruptly. “And how am I supposed to know how much you weigh, you idiot?”
The cut on his cheek stung, but he didn’t bother wiping away the blood. Let it bleed. Let it remind him of the day. Of her.
* * *
From an outsiders perspective, the yard looked just that, a cut field of grass with the occasional weed poking up. But to a trained eye, it was much, much more.
Osric stepped onto the yard, the only one out there as the sun peeked over the horizon. He closed his eyes, listening. He slid to the side. In an instant, a massive spike shot up where he had been standing just milliseconds before.
“Activate level seven,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline already coursing through his veins.
The ground beneath his feet shook, ancient runes flaring to life in a jagged pattern across the field. The Phantom Guild’s training yard was one of the few places in Olka where magic was permitted to flow freely, hidden from the prying eyes of the king’s top soldiers, the Moons.
A low growl rumbled from his left. Osric didn’t turn to look. Instead, he launched himself into a back flip as a shadow beast—a construct of solid darkness—lunged for his throat. Its claws scraped the air where his neck had been.
“Too slow,” Osric taunted, drawing his black twin swords from his back in an x.
The beast snarled, joined by two more materializing from the edges of the yard. They circled him, eyes gleaming with artificial hunger. The training constructs weren’t real creatures, but the pain they could inflict certainly was.
Osric took a deep breath, centering himself. This day. This cursed day that took everything from him. He welcomed the fury building in his chest.
The first beast charged. Osric waited until the last possible moment before sliding beneath it, blades slicing upward through its shadowy belly. The construct howled, dissolving into wisps of dark smoke—only to reform seconds later, the magic of the yard ensuring the challenge remained.
The second and third attacked in unison. Osric spun, swords extended, creating a whirlwind of steel. One beast caught a stab to the eye, the other receiving a deep gash across its flank. But a claw found its mark, tearing through his sleeve and drawing blood from his forearm.
“Not enough,” Osric snarled. “Activate level nine.”
The runes pulsed brighter, a dangerous shade of crimson. The air itself seemed to thicken as three more shadow beasts materialized, larger than the first batch. Behind them, a towering construct in the shape of a man wielding a massive great sword stepped forward.
“Level nine is not recommended for solo training,” came the automated warning from the yard’s enchantment.
Osric ignored it, dropping into a fighting stance. “Come on, then.”
The shadow knight swung its blade in a devastating arc. Osric ducked, the sword passing so close he felt the chill of its magic against his scalp. He countered with a flurry of strikes, his swords finding little purchase against the knight’s armored form.
Two beasts pounced from behind. Osric sensed rather than saw them, dropping to a crouch at the last second. The creatures collided mid-air, tangling in a mass of claws and shadow. He used the moment to spring toward the knight, driving both swords into the gap between helmet and breastplate.
The construct staggered, but didn’t fall. Its massive hand shot out, catching Osric by the throat and lifting him off the ground. The cold of its grip burned like ice against his skin.
Osric didn’t struggle. Instead, he pulled a hidden throwing knife from his belt and jammed it into the knight’s visor.
The grip loosened. He dropped to the ground, rolling away as the knight blindly swung its sword, taking out two of its own shadow beasts in the process.
“Activate level ten,” Osric gasped, blood from his open wounds dripping onto the grass below.
The runes shifted from crimson to a deep, ominous purple. The ground trembled.
“Level ten requires authorization from a Guild Captain,” the yard protested.
“Override: Jure blood,” Osric snapped, pressing his bleeding palm against the nearest rune.
The yard fell silent for a heartbeat. Then the earth split open.
A massive serpentine form erupted from the crack, scales black as midnight and eyes burning like twin suns. A shadow drake—the most challenging construct the yard could produce.
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Osric felt a grim smile spread across his face. This. This was what he needed today.
The drake roared, the sound reverberating through his bones. It lunged, jaws wide enough to swallow him whole. Osric dove to the side, but not quickly enough to avoid the lash of its tail. The blow caught him in the ribs, sending him sprawling across the yard.
Pain exploded in his side. Broken ribs, maybe. He pushed himself to his feet anyway, spitting blood onto the grass.
The remaining shadow beasts closed in while the drake circled overhead. The knight had reformed, its sword now wreathed in dark flames.
Osric laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “Is that all?”
He moved like water, like shadow itself—the training that he had beaten into himself since the moment he turned twenty taking over. His steel flashed in the early morning light, finding vulnerable points, severing magical connections. One beast fell, then another. The knight’s head rolled from its shoulders after a particularly daring leap and strike.
But the drake remained, and Osric was tiring. Blood ran from a dozen small wounds, and his lungs burned with each breath. The creature dove, fangs and talons extended.
Osric threw himself forward instead of away, sliding beneath the drake’s belly and driving both swords upward with all his remaining strength. The construct screamed, a sound that threatened to shatter his eardrums, before crashing into the ground where he had stood moments before.
It thrashed, tail demolishing one of the yard’s stone markers, wings beating furiously and tearing up chunks of earth. Osric pressed his advantage, climbing onto its back and driving his blades into the base of its skull.
The drake bucked once, twice—then dissolved into tendrils of shadow beneath him. Osric fell hard onto the torn earth, his weapons clattering beside him.
He lay there, chest heaving, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. The yard was unrecognizable—gouged earth, shattered stone markers, smoking runes. His mother would have been appalled at the destruction. The thought sent a fresh wave of pain through him that had nothing to do with his injuries.
“Well, you’ve been working hard, Osric.” A familiar voice, sharp as a steel edge, echoed around the yard. “I’m quite impressed.”
Osric rose to his feet, wiping the grime and sweat off of his forehead, dirtying his loose-fitting training tunic, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Captain.” Osric said, pressing a hand to his heart as a sort of salute. “I had a lot on my mind.”
The captain, a tall, burly, clean-shaven man stepped closer. “I can tell. It’s not every day that the yard gets demolished.” He took a breath, as if considering what to say next. “But I do notice something, Osric. Our training yard always manages to get destroyed the same day, every year. I wonder why that is?”
“Captain… I…”
The Captain’s weathered face softened as he surveyed the destruction. “Never mind that. Walk with me, Osric.”
It wasn’t a request. Osric left his swords in the grass and followed the older man to the edge of the yard, where a stone bench sat beneath an ancient oak. The Captain lowered himself onto it with a grunt, patting the space beside him.
Osric remained standing. “If this is about the yard, I’ll take extra duties to pay for the damages.”
“Sit.” The Captain’s voice was gentle but firm. “This isn’t about the yard.”
Reluctantly, Osric sat, wincing as his battered ribs protested. They sat in silence for a moment, watching as the training yard slowly began to heal itself, the torn earth knitting back together, the broken stone markers reforming.
“Eight years,” the Captain finally said. “Eshea would be proud of who you’ve become.”
Osric’s jaw tightened at the mention of his mother’s name. Few in the Guild ever spoke it. “You didn’t know her well enough to say that.”
The Captain didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he pulled a small flask from his belt and offered it to Osric. “I knew her better than most. Before she left… everything behind.”
Osric took the flask but didn’t drink, the words “everything behind” hanging in the air between them. He felt the familiar itch between his shoulder blades—the phantom pain his mother had always warned him about. Never in public, she’d whispered. Never where they can see.
“Is that why you recruited me? Because of her?”
“I recruited you because you were a lanky seventeen-year-old with uncanny reflexes and a talent for finding weak points.” The Captain’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “The rest… is complicated.”
Osric had heard rumors over the years—whispers about his mother and where she’d come from before joining the Guild. He’d never asked the Captain directly. Some truths were dangerous to speak aloud in Elspeth.
“I didn’t come find you to reminisce,” the Captain continued. “There’s a job. Something that requires your particular… perspective.”
“I’m listening.”
“A theft at the Olka Spectacular. Something valuable was taken this morning.”
Osric raised an eyebrow. “Since when does the Guild concern itself with petty thievery?”
“Since the client is the royal court.”
Osric’s fingers tightened around the flask, the only outward sign of his reaction. “The royal court,” he repeated, voice carefully controlled. “Since when does the Guild work for the crown?”
“Since the price was right.” The Captain met his gaze steadily. “It’s a bevrodraach, Osric.”
The flask nearly slipped from his fingers. Bevrodraachs were rare enough to be considered mythical by most. His mother had told him stories about them when he was young—massive silver-scaled creatures with healing powers and an affinity to see the unseen.
“They’re cousins to you, in a way,” she had whispered one night. “Creatures of the sky, though they chose a different path.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“The Spectacular’s showman claims so. The crown is offering five hundred gold for its return.”
“And our cut?”
“Three hundred.”
Osric handed the flask back without drinking. “Who’s taking the job?”
“You are.” The Captain fixed him with a knowing look. “Along with Akuma.”
“Why me?” Osric asked, though he already knew.
The Captain didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a long drink from the flask. “You know what the king does with creatures he captures.”
It wasn’t a question. They both knew the royal menagerie was just a prettier word for a slaughterhouse. The young king’s hatred for all things magical, all things different, was well-known throughout Elspeth.
“So you’re giving me this job because…?”
“Because I trust you to do what’s right.” The Captain’s voice dropped. “Your mother would want you to.”
Osric stood abruptly, his body screaming in protest. “Don’t presume to know what she would want.”
“I know she didn’t raise you to hand over innocent creatures to the butcher.” The Captain’s eyes hardened. “And I know today of all days, you might be looking for a way to honor her memory.”
The words hit like a physical blow. Osric turned away, staring at the destroyed training yard. “When do we leave?”
“Within the hour. Clean yourself up.” The Captain rose, placing a heavy hand on Osric’s shoulder. “And Osric—whatever you decide, be careful. The king doesn’t take kindly to those who interfere with his… collections.”
As the Captain walked away, Osric absently twisted the silver ring on his finger—the only thing his mother had left him besides her warnings and a legacy he could never acknowledge. The ring caught the morning light, gleaming like scales.
A bevrodraach in Olka. The king’s men in pursuit.
And him, caught in the middle. Again.