A rumbling beat met the wake of Erika's stride.
Guild members across many stages of their careers gathered, knowing what spectacle was bound to happen next.
Behind the guildhall, the ground dropped away in stepped terraces reinforced with timber and stone. The building sat at the highest point like an anchor, its plain walls overlooking the slope as if by design. Narrow platforms cut across the descent, wide enough to stand on or stack supplies when cleared, their edges scarred by years of use. A thin strip of grass traced the fall of the land, more accident than decoration, guiding runoff toward the open yard below.
At the bottom, the earth flattened into a wide practice ground hemmed in by simple rails. From above, the arrangement was unmistakable—every level angled toward the same open space, every path leading downward. It was a place built to concentrate attention, to turn elevation into authority, and to ensure that whatever happened below would be seen.
As the crowd trickled onto the platforms, the Song shifted.
Its presence compounded through the terraces, gathered and folded back upon itself like sound in an amphitheater. The further one descended, the denser it became—not louder in volume, but heavier in pressure. Each step downward carried more weight, more expectation, as if the space itself demanded acknowledgment.
Sawyer descended toward the center ground and felt it immediately.
Not resistance—direction.
The Song flowed past him in layered currents, brushing his awareness without finding purchase, its rhythm tightening as eyes followed his movement. Above him, the tiers filled and stilled, the murmurs fading into something restrained. Attention settled. The space held its breath.
This was not a place for performance.
It was a place for measurement.
Purposely crafted to test.
Erika stood at the center of the arena. In one motion she spun around to face the crowd, hands clasped behind her back.
She did not look toward Sawyer immediately.
That was deliberate.
She let him feel the room. Let the room measure him. Let the pressure of attention do what pressure always did—force a man to show what he was under it.
Then she turned her head, and her gaze landed on him like a blade's flat.
Erika paced toward the open street behind her, slow and measured. The rapier at her hip moved with her like it belonged there.
"Tradition," she continued, voice steady. "You all know it. For the sake of transparency, and because the guild does not grow soft behind paperwork—anyone present may volunteer for first contact."
A murmur ran along the benches. Some heads turned. Some shifted, as if bodies were already rehearsing.
"The assigned examiner still holds final assessment," Erika said. "But the hall may test the would-be rookie first. One volunteer. One bout. First blood, surrender, or clean throw. No killing."
She glanced toward Sawyer.
"No maiming," she added, and there was something in the way she said it that made the last word feel like it had weight.
Sawyer gave a small nod.
The room watched the nod like it might be a lie.
Erika folded her hands behind her back again. "Who volunteers?"
The silence after that question was not empty. It was full of calculation.
A few men looked at each other. A woman in leather rolled her shoulders as if she wanted to step in, then thought better of it. Two younger adventurers half-stood, caught Erika's gaze, and sat down again like their muscles had been scolded.
Then someone rose in the front tier.
Heavy. Slow. Certain.
The veteran who first drew steel earlier took up the mantle with a wide grin plastered along his face.
"I volunteer," he said.
A ripple passed through the benches. Recognition. Anticipation.
Erika's expression did not change. "Name."
"Garron," the veteran said. "Fourth marked Silver Holder."
Experienced and near the pinnacle of the high ranks. Where the most respected and decorated adventurers stand.
Silver-threaded, worn smooth at the edges, set deliberately rather than for display. Not ornamental. Earned.
A veteran's rank.
Not high enough to be ceremonial. Not low enough to be questioned.
"That puts him past regional clearance," a guildsman said quietly. "A peak Silver Holder."
"That's our Garron!" another shouted.
Among Sawyer's party, the reaction was sharper.
Agnes inhaled slowly. "That's… higher than I thought."
Kristaphs frowned, eyes tracking the insignia with new caution. "That wasn't his rank the last time I checked. Looks like good old Garron got himself promoted."
Faust swallowed. "He's… calm."
"He should be," Agnes replied. "Guy is almost a Gold Holder. Eight years and counting—even if he wasn't skilled, the sheer fact that he survived that long is a testament."
Aluna said nothing at first. Her gaze lingered on Garron's stance—the way his feet aligned, the way his balance never fully committed. She whispered to herself. Your movements against that Concierge. How do you fare against humans?
Bran—for once—was extremely invested in the outcome.
Sawyer watched Garron in silence.
Not the rank.Not the insignia.
The way he breathed.
Slow. Even. Timed to the space rather than the crowd.
Around them, the terraces settled fully now. The Song no longer swelled or pressed—it aligned. Like a blade drawn carefully from its sheath.
Whatever was about to happen would not be a spectacle.
It would be a statement.
Erika's gaze was unchanged. She fully expected such an outcome.
"State your weapon," Erika said.
Garron's fingers flexed on the sword hilt. "Steel."
Erika shook her head once. "Training blades."
Garron's jaw tightened. "I can control—"
"Training blades," Erika repeated, and the room accepted it like law.
Garron's nostrils flared, but he reached for the rack anyway. He chose a blunted longsword with the casual precision of someone selecting a tool.
Sawyer didn't move.
Erika's gaze slid back to him. "And you?"
Sawyer looked at the weapon racks.
There were swords and short blades and staves. A few axes with padded heads. Shields stacked like slabs.
He stepped toward the rack, reached out, and—
paused.
He could feel the room's expectation tugging him toward steel. Toward the shape of a man they understood.
Instead, he took a simple training arming sword. Blunt edge. Rounded tip. Light.
Not because it suited him.
Because it would offend them less when he did what he intended.
"No, shield?" Erika beckoned.
Sawyer responded with a nod.
Garron followed, boots sinking slightly into packed dirt. He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his grip, then lifted his training blade in a guard that made the air around him feel smaller.
Erika's voice came from above them. "Bow."
Garron inclined his head a fraction.Sawyer mirrored it.
"Begin."
The first exchange was almost nothing.
Garron stepped forward—a probing step, testing distance—and Sawyer stepped back at the same time, not retreating but sliding out of range like water. The veteran's blade cut a shallow arc through air that was suddenly empty.
Garron didn't overcommit. He reset, weight balanced.
Sawyer's stance was lower than most swordsmen in the room would choose with such long limbs. Knees bent, hips settled, torso forward just enough that he looked like he could spring in any direction.
Garron circled.
Sawyer circled with him, not matching like a mirror but keeping the same spacing, always the same line—never giving Garron the angle he wanted.
Garron's eyes narrowed.
He made a feint toward Sawyer's head—quick, sharp—and turned it into a cut toward the ribs.
Sawyer didn't block.
He stepped, a half-shift to the side that moved his torso away from the blade by an inch, and let the cut pass. His own blade stayed quiet, held in a neutral line.
The room made a sound like it didn't realize it was exhaling.
Garron reset again, jaw tightening.
He tested Sawyer's guard with two quick taps—edge to edge. Sawyer met them without effort, not in a clash but in a soft redirection, the kind that stole force instead of answering it.
The Song around the pit seemed to press in, as if the hall itself leaned closer.
Garron's eyes flicked, briefly, past Sawyer's blade to Sawyer's body.
To his shoulders.His hips.His breathing.
And then, to the space around him.
To the lack.
Garron's mouth curled slightly. "You are still not using it."
Sawyer said nothing.
"You walk in here," Garron continued, voice carrying, "and you don't even—"
He stopped himself. Swallowed the rest. But the room heard it anyway.
Aura.
He expected the shimmer. The pressure. The tell that said, Here is a man using the world the way it's meant to be used.
Sawyer gave him none of it.
Garron's knuckles whitened on the hilt.
He advanced again, faster this time, and the first real cut came—downward, heavy, a strike meant to force a block.
Sawyer met it with the flat of his blade, angled so the force slid off rather than through him.
He stepped in on the impact, closing distance where most would retreat.
Garron's eyes widened for half a heartbeat.
Sawyer's shoulder bumped his chest—not a shove, just contact. Space stolen.
Garron reacted on instinct, trying to widen his base, and Sawyer's foot hooked behind Garron's heel.
A sweep.
Not dramatic.Not theatrical.
Garron's center of gravity shifted an inch too far.
Sawyer's hand moved to Garron's forearm, controlling the sword arm, and his other hand slid to Garron's shoulder. He rotated his hips and pulled.
Garron hit the sand hard enough to make it jump.
The benches erupted—not into cheers, but into shocked noise. The sound people made when the world broke a rule they hadn't realized they relied on.
Sawyer didn't follow him down. He stepped back as Garron scrambled to rise, blade already coming up.
Garron's face was red. Not from exertion. From humiliation.
"That wasn't—" Garron started, then stopped, because he had no words for what it was except effective.
Erika's voice cut through. "Reset."
Garron didn't look at her. His eyes stayed on Sawyer.
"You think you're clever," he said.
Sawyer's expression didn't change.
Garron's breathing grew heavier, and Sawyer felt it—the shift from test to emotion. From craft to pride.
Garron lunged.
It was a committed strike, a forward drive meant to force Sawyer back and punish his patience.
Sawyer didn't back away.
He stepped inside.
The longsword's range died.
Garron tried to adjust, tried to bring the blade around in close quarters, but Sawyer's forearm was already against his wrist, pinning the weapon line. Sawyer's other hand grabbed Garron's training collar, yanked him forward, and—
They collided.
Garron's weight went where Sawyer wanted it.
Sawyer dropped his hips and turned, pulling Garron over his shoulder in a clean throw that looked almost gentle until Garron landed on the mat bordering the sand with a thud.
Garron's sword skittered away.
Before Garron could rise, Sawyer's blunt shortsword tapped the side of his neck.
Once.
A punctuated silence.
Erika's voice followed immediately. "Bout ends."
Garron lay there for a moment, chest heaving, eyes wide with the shock of being controlled.
Then he sat up slowly, as if sitting too fast might split his pride open.
He stared at Sawyer.
"You didn't use Aura," Garron said, and the accusation in his voice made it sound like a crime.
Sawyer met his gaze. Still silent.
The silence, in that moment, was louder than any admission.
Garron pushed himself to his feet, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful. He didn't retrieve his sword right away. He didn't bow.
He simply stepped out of the pit and walked back to the benches like a man leaving a room where he'd been made to look small.
The hall buzzed—low voices, half-formed conclusions, people recalculating what they thought they knew.
Erika waited until Garron had cleared the rope boundary. Then she looked down at Sawyer.
"Good," she said again, but this time it meant something different.
Sawyer lifted his training blade slightly, as if asking whether to put it away.
Erika's lips twitched—not quite a smile. "Keep it. For now."
She stepped down into the pit.
Erika the "Feather of Discord" has entered the fray.