The token sat heavy in Rodrigo's pocket, jostling against Franca's locket with each step.
Blissford. Havenport.
Two paths, both unclear. He'd fought for survival before, carved his way through war. This felt different. Bigger and heavier.
Inside the dorm, Tobi flopped onto his cot, staff clattering beside him. "I need sleep. Wolves, recruiters, all of it's too much."
Lira settled onto her bunk, uncoiling her whip to inspect it. "Get used to it. Trials don't stop."
Rodrigo sat on his own cot, machete propped against the frame. He pulled out the token, turning it over in his hands. The Blissford crest glinted under the dim light of an Essence lantern. Refined training. A past tied to his blade. The recruiter's words echoed at him, stirring curiosity he didn't want to admit.
He set the token aside and rubbed his chest, where the heat still lingered. Strength Essence had powered him through the wolves. But the recruiter saw more. Something about fire woven into him. Maybe Blissford could sharpen it, turn rough into lethal.
Or maybe it was a trap. He'd seen smooth talkers before, men who promised glory and delivered graves. His squad back home had trusted him, followed him to their end. He wouldn't jump blind again.
Lira's voice cut through his thoughts. "You're thinking hard over there, old man."
"Just weighing options, kid," he said, leaning back. "You ever hear of Blissford pulling people mid-trial?"
She nodded. "Sometimes. They poach talent. Havenport hates it, but they can't stop it. Eclipse looked ready to punch something."
Rodrigo pictured her tense stance, the unspoken fury. "She didn't step in. Why?"
"Rules, probably," Lira said. "Guilds play their games. We're the pieces."
Tobi rolled over, propping his head on his hand. "What's the token for?"
"Entry, I'd guess," Rodrigo replied. "A way in if I take it."
"You won't, right?" Tobi asked. "We just got good out there."
Rodrigo smirked. "Not running off yet. We've got work here."
Lira met his gaze, a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Good. I'd hate to break in a new squadmate."
He laughed, short and rough. "Same."
Sleep came slow that night. The dorm's quiet hum couldn't drown out his mind. The machete rested close, its etchings a dull glow.
He touched the locket, Franca's face steadying him. "What's the play, Ma?" he muttered. Havenport was gritty, real. Blissford was a gamble, a lure dangled by a stranger.
—
The heat in his chest flared restlessly and insistently. He couldn't lie still. A clock hung above the dorm door, and its hands were barely visible in the dimness. He squinted, making out the time.
Twelve forty.
Perfect. Middle of the night, and his body buzzed like hell. Back home, when sleep dodged him, he'd work it out of his system. No reason to change that now.
He slipped off the cot, easing the door open. It creaked faintly, but Tobi's loud snores masked the sound. The hall beyond stretched empty, silent as a tomb. Rodrigo padded down the stairs, boots soft on stone, until he reached the courtyard.
"Peaceful," he muttered. No voices, no clash of steel. Just the breeze whispering through the open space. He tugged off his shirt, tossing it aside, and dropped into his routine. Fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, thirty kilometers of running. The courtyard was tighter than the fields he'd trained in, so he'd lap it a hundred times to burn off the edge.
"One. Two." He started counting push-ups first, and his arms pumped against the cool dirt. The machete stayed tucked in his pant pocket, unnoticed at first. By ten, its presence registered.
"Eight. Nine. Ten." A red pulse flickered from the blade, heat seeping through the leather, warming but not scorching. He pressed on, unfazed. Fatigue stayed distant; his arms wouldn't falter until fifty, when numbness crept in.
But unseen, Mistress Eclipse lingered at the courtyard's edge. The door's creak had roused her earlier, and curiosity drew her here. She stood without her staff, arms folded, a faint smirk playing on her lips as she watched him count.
"Nineteen. Twenty." The breeze shifted, carrying a new weight. Rodrigo paused mid-push, senses sharpening. "Who's out there?"
Eclipse's smirk widened, her eyes glinting with interest. She'd been there for less than a minute, yet he'd caught the change. "Sharp instincts, Rodrigo. Well done."
He held his plank, glancing over his shoulder at her, then dropped his gaze back to the ground. "Twenty-one. Twenty-two."
"I saw the recruiter," she said, stepping closer to lean against a wooden post. "Blissford's got their eye on you. Planning to take the offer?"
Rodrigo let out a dry laugh. "I don't know. Can't just stay here forever."
"Then go," she replied, her tone firm but not sharp. "Blissford's great. It's a rare shot for an Infuser. I see what you could become."
He stopped, pushing himself upright to face her. Dust clung to his palms. "I've been here just for three days—"
"You'd grow faster there in three days," she cut in, closing the distance. She pressed a pair of sleek glasses into his hand. "Take these. They measure Essence in Candellas, showing how much anyone in your sight carries."
Candellas. The unit for tracking Essence strength across its three forms. Rodrigo turned the glasses over, their frames cool against his skin. Time to gauge what he was working with.
He slipped them on, the world sharpening through the lenses. A faint orange glow outlined Eclipse, pulsing steadily. Numbers flickered beside her: 3500 Candellas. Solid, controlled power.
"What's mine?" he asked, voice low.
"Look down," she said.
He tilted his head, catching his reflection in a puddle near the bench. A rougher glow framed him, red and jagged, reading 340 Candellas. Ten times less of hers, but wild and untamed.
"Pretty raw," Eclipse noted. "Strength Essence dominates you. It's why your swings hit hard but scatter. Blissford could polish that. Or you stay, and we grind it out here."
Rodrigo pulled the glasses off, tucking them into his pocket with the token. "Three days, and I'm already a prize?"
"You're a spark," she said. "Where you kindle it matters. Havenport's tough, but slow. Blissford's elite, fast, but you pick your forge."
He crossed his arms, the heat in his chest stirring at her words. "And if I stay?"
"We'll push you," she replied. "You'll bleed for it, but you'll grow. It's your call."
Silence settled between them, broken only by the wind. Rodrigo glanced at the dorm, then back to her. "I'll sleep on it."
"Don't sleep too long," she said, turning away. "Opportunities like Blissford don't wait. If I don't see you at the dorm by morning, I'll give them and Lira an excuse." Her footsteps faded into the night.
He stood alone, the courtyard stretching empty around him. The machete pulsed again, a faint reminder at his side. He resumed his workout, dropping for more push-ups. "Twenty-three. Twenty-four."
The rhythm steadied him, each count a tether to his old life. War had taught him endurance, not choices like this. Blissford promised speed, secrets about his blade. Havenport offered grit, a squad he was starting to trust.
"Forty-nine. Fifty." His arms buzzed, and he switched to sit-ups. The token, and the glasses shifted in his pocket. The heat burned hotter, urging him forward.
"One. Two." He started, and his eyes gazed at the stars above. He'd never really seen stars in the sky before. He was used to the smog of battlefields, covering the sky with gray clouds and rain. So he smiled, appreciating this new view that he wanted to see with his mother.
After he'd finished the fiftieth sit-up, he stood, stretching, and started his laps. The courtyard whipped by, a hundred loops ahead. Each stride thumped the dirt, echoing the choice in his skull. Stay or go. Build or chase.
By the seventieth lap, sweat coated his skin, breath sharp in his lungs. The machete's pulse matched his heartbeat, steady and strong. He slowed at the hundredth, chest heaving, and dropped onto the bench.
The glasses glinted in his pocket. He put them on, checking his reflection. 345 Candellas now, a small jump. Work fueled it, even now.
He stared at the stars, and Franca's locket was cool against his chest. "What's it gonna be, Ma?" he murmured. Havenport was solid, but slow. Blissford pulled like a current, swift and unknown.
So he stood there for a silencing moment.
…
…
The heat in his chest decided it. Strength had carried him this far, but he needed more. He grabbed his shirt, slipping it on, and retrieved the machete. The token felt heavier as he pulled it out, its crest a quiet call.
He moved fast, boots silent on the stone as he slipped back into the dorm. Lira and Tobi slept on, unaware of his departure. He gathered his few belongings, the glasses and token secure, and paused by the door. "Keep them sharp, Lira. You too, Tobi," he whispered to the room.
The hall was a shadow as he left, courtyard fading behind him. Havenport's gates was just ahead, unguarded in the night. He stepped through, the token in hand, heat flaring with each stride.