The armory of Ironhold was less a shop and more a graveyard of failed campaigns.
Piles of dented breastplates, notched shields, and helmets with the leather straps rotted away filled the damp room. Stacks of pikes leaned against the walls like dead trees.
Kael placed his silver coin on the counter. "Sword."
The Quartermaster—a dwarf with a beard singed by years of forge-work—eyed the coin, then Kael.
He spat a glob of chewing tobacco onto the floor.
"Bin three," the dwarf grunted. "Don't take all day."
Bin three was filled with blades that had seen better centuries. Most were pitted with rust or chipped beyond repair. But Kael dug. He ignored the fancy hilts and the decorative pommels. He looked for balance. He looked for good steel hidden under the grime.
His hand closed around a simple arming sword. The leather grip was worn smooth, but the tang felt solid. He pulled it out.
The blade was grey, not shining. It had a fuller running down the center and a simple crossguard.
No jewels. No engravings.
Kael gave it a test swing. It cut the air with a low thrum.
"That one's haunted," the Quartermaster said, not looking up from his ledger.
"Good," Kael said. "Then it's got company."
He also bought a whetstone and a new belt. He left the armory feeling heavier, but for the first time, he felt *armed*. Not with a piece of scrap, but with a weapon.
***
The training yard was a mud pit behind the stables.
Karn was waiting. He sat on a barrel, whittling a piece of wood with a terrifyingly large dagger.
"You bought steel," Karn said without looking up. "Let's see if you bought talent."
"I survived the patrol," Kael said.
"Luck," Karn dismissed. He stood up. "Elric taught you how to fight knights. How to duel. How to be honorable."
Karn threw the wood chip at Kael's face. Kael flinched.
"Useless," Karn spat. "In the dark, honor is just a way to die faster. In the Vanguard, we don't duel.
We murder."
He tossed the dagger from his right hand to his left. "Close your eyes."
"What?"
"Close them. Or I take them out."
Kael closed his eyes. The sounds of the fortress amplified. The clang of a smith's hammer. The shout of a guard. The wind whistling through the cracks in the walls.
"Where am I?" Karn asked.
"In front of me," Kael said.
Whack.
A wooden practice sword slammed into Kael's ribs. He doubled over, gasping.
"Wrong," Karn's voice came from the left. "I moved when the smith hammered. You didn't listen."
"Again."
For two hours, Karn beat the lessons into him.
Listen to the breath, not the feet. Smell the sweat.**Feel the air displace.
By the end, Kael was covered in mud and bruises. But he had managed to block the last strike. Not with his eyes, but with a desperate, instinctive parry when he felt the air shift near his head.
"Better," Karn grunted. "You might be a Rat, but you have sharp teeth."
Jax watched from the fence, eating an apple. "Vane wants us ready at dawn. Full kit. We're taking wagons."
Kael wiped mud from his face. "Wagons? For a scout mission?"
"Not scout," Jax smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. "Excavation. We're bringing shovels."
***
That night, Kael couldn't sleep. He sat by the fire in the barracks, sharpening his new sword.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
The sound was soothing.
Horg was snoring. Karn was silent, sleeping with his eyes open—or maybe he was awake. You could never tell.
Kael looked at the blade. He had promised Elric he would rebuild his house. He had sworn on the ash. But right now, he wasn't a noble. He wasn't a lord.
He was a mercenary working for a crime lord, preparing to rob a crypt.
It's a means to an end, he told himself.
But as he looked at his reflection in the grey steel, the face staring back looked harder. Older.
The boy from Hollow Creek was dying. The Knight of Ash was being born. But between them, there was this... this *thing* he was becoming.
The Rat.
He sheathed the sword.
Dawn was coming. And with it, the Sunken Vale.