Kale stepped into the training room, his nerves still jangling from the chaotic introduction to Harrow’s Reach. The place smelled of sweat, leather, and blood. In the middle of the room stood a tall, grizzled man sharpening a blade, his face marked with scars that told stories of battles Kale wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

  “I’m here for training,” Kale said, trying to sound confident. “Varrick sent me.”

  The man barely looked up from his blade, his eyes flicking briefly over Kale before he went back to his work. “Varrick, huh?” he said, his voice low and unimpressed. “So, you’re the one. Figured you’d look... tougher.” He sheathed the blade, giving Kale another long look. “Daryn’s the name.”

  Kale shifted awkwardly. “So, do we start training now or...?”

  Daryn gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Training? We’ve got no time for that.” He stepped closer, grabbing Kale by the arm. “You’re in luck. We’ve got a no-show for the next fight. The people are waiting.”

  Before Kale could protest, Daryn started dragging him toward a set of stone stairs that led down into the arena. “Wait—what do you mean, fight?”

  Daryn pushed him forward with a hard shove. “You can start by showing me what you can do. Right now.”

  Kale stumbled toward the doorway, panic rising in his chest. “But I’m not ready for—”

  “Ready or not, the crowd’s hungry,” Daryn said. “And by the way... this fight? It’s to the death.” He winked, his face utterly calm as he gave Kale one last shove through the entryway.

  Kale squinted as he stepped into the blinding light, heart thudding like a drum. The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, distant, muffled. He felt swallowed by the noise, by the sheer weight of it, like he was drowning before the fight even began. The ring stretched before him, dirt soaked in the blood of others who'd stood where he now stood. High walls hemmed him in, making escape a pretty fantasy. The gates slammed shut behind him. No turning back.

  “The fresh meat steps in!” the announcer's voice thundered. The crowd’s answer was a mix of boos and bloodthirsty cheers, a rising, seething, tide of violence. “No name yet, let’s see if he lasts long enough to earn one!”

  No name. Like a dog, thrown into a pit to see if it’ll bite or die whimpering. He felt exposed without Liliana’s biting humor at his side, her sarcastic barbs a distant comfort now. Here it was just him, and the arena, and the killing to come.

  "And facing him," the announcer continued, drawing out the moment, letting the tension build like storm clouds gathering overhead. "Rendor the Mangler! Four consecutive wins, and still thirsty!"

  A deep metallic groan cut through the sound of the crowd as the opposing gate swung open. Rendor emerged, a brutal patchwork of scars and hardened muscle, every inch of him speaking of violence endured and delivered. His shoulders, bulging and uneven, were strapped with leather that seemed more like trophies from the dead than armor. His grin—if you could call that jagged mess a grin—flashed sharp teeth, like a wolf smelling fear. Spiked bones jutted from his back, gnarled and uneven, as twisted the man himself.

  The blade he carried was no better. It was grotesque, rusted, pitted, and caked with layers of old blood and neglect. He moved with a feral intensity, his laugh low and guttural.

  Kale’s pulse quickened, his heart thundering in his chest like it was trying to escape his ribcage. Each beat pounded in his ears, a deafening drum that drowned out the noise of the crowd. Cold sweat ran down his back. His opponent was monstrous, more beast than man, a living nightmare pulled from the darkest corners of a fevered imagination.

  He wanted to run, he wanted to escape, but there was no escape now. His mouth was dry, and the figure across from him seemed to grow larger with every passing second. The ground felt unsteady beneath his feet, the world spinning as panic threatened to overwhelm him.

  He forced himself to stay upright. You can do this, Kale. You have to do this, he thought, trying to steady himself.

  "Fresh meat," Rendor snarled, eyes gleaming with a predator’s joy. "You’ll die here, boy. Quick and messy."

  The gong sounded, and Rendor charged.

  The crowd roared, an ocean of noise. Kale barely managed to jerk to the side as the Mangler’s blade came down, missing his throat by inches. The gust of its passing sent a shiver through him. Rendor was fast, too fast for his size, and he circled Kale like a predator toying with wounded prey, laughing, always laughing.

  Kale slashed with his dagger, aiming for Rendor’s side, but it was like trying to fight the wind. Rendor’s backhand came out of nowhere, sending Kale's blade flying, the shock of it rattling up his arm. He stumbled, barely keeping his footing.

  "Pathetic," Rendor spat with cruel delight. “Too slow, little boy. Too weak.”

  Kale didn’t have time to breathe before the beast was on him again, dirt kicking up around them. He dodged, barely, breath coming in harsh gasps. It was a game for Rendor. He wasn’t just trying to win, he was savoring the hunt.

  Suddenly, Rendor shifted tactics. With a savage snarl, he scooped up a fistful of dirt and flung it toward Kale’s face. The grains hit with stinging accuracy, burning his eyes, blurring his vision. Kale cursed under his breath, instinctively raising his arm to shield himself. His balance wavered, and in that single moment of hesitation, Rendor crashed into him. Kale cried out, stumbling backward, trying to wipe the dirt away. His vision blurred, and he felt the ground shift beneath him as Rendor closed the gap once again, slamming into him with a force that knocked him to the ground.

  Rendor was on him in a second, all weight and crushing pressure, pinning him down like a butcher pinning a hog for slaughter. The jagged blade hovered at Kale’s throat, the rusted edge cold, biting into his skin.

  “See? You’re nothing,” Rendor laughed. He pressed the blade down, slow, deliberate. “I’ll make it quick.”

  Kale’s mind spun, heart hammering against his ribs. Pinned. Helpless. His dagger lay useless in the dirt beside him, out of reach. This was it, then. This was how it ended.

  No.

  Something clicked. Deep inside him, like a door slamming open.

  Fluid Edge.

  His mind latched onto the blade, not his own, but Rendor’s. The jagged, rusted metal. He felt it, as if it were part of him, malleable, waiting to be bent. Rendor’s grin faltered as the blade in his hand began to shift. The jagged steel rippled, like liquid under Kale’s will.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “What the—” Rendor’s confusion barely registered before the blade twisted, curving back on itself. Kale gritted his teeth, wrenching the weapon’s edge toward its owner.

  Rendor’s eyes went wide with shock as the tip of his own blade found his throat. For a moment, they locked eyes—Kale, gasping and desperate, Rendor, stunned with disbelief. Then the blade sank deeper. Blood gushed from the wound in hot, pulsing streams, spilling into Kale’s face, in his eyes, as Rendor’s mouth opened in a soundless gasp. His body jerked once, twice, before collapsing on top of Kale.

  Kale lay there for a moment, dazed and breathless, Rendor’s lifeless body pinning him to the ground. The crowd, which had been roaring moments before, was now silent, caught off guard by the sudden turn of events.

  With trembling hands, Kale pushed Rendor’s body off him, gasping for breath as he staggered to his feet. His vision swam, his muscles aching, but he had done it. He had survived.

  Then, as if waking from a trance, the crowd erupted into deafening cheers.

  Up in the stands, Daryn watched. He leaned over to one of his colleagues. "Guess the kid’s got some fight in him after all."

  ***

  As the crowd's cheers died down, Kale was led out of the arena by a couple of guards. His legs felt weak, and every step seemed to drag as the adrenaline began to fade. Daryn appeared at his side, patting him on the back with a rough chuckle. "Well, kid, you didn’t die. That’s something."

  Varrick approached with a slow clap. "Impressive, very impressive—or as they say here, Harrow reached. I must admit, I wasn’t sure if you’d survive that one. But here you are, alive and well. You’ve earned yourself a little something."

  He tossed a small leather pouch at Kale, who caught it awkwardly. The clink of coins inside was unmistakable.

  Kale glanced down at the pouch, then back at Varrick. "What’s this for?"

  Varrick's grin widened. "Consider it your earnings from the fight. You brought quite the show. The crowd loves a good underdog story. Speaking of which, what do we call you?"

  Kale hesitated, still reeling from the fight. "Kale," he finally said.

  "Kale," Varrick repeated, his grin unwavering. "Well, Kale, you did well out there. I’d say you’ve earned a bit of training. You start tomorrow."

  "Training?" Kale raised an eyebrow, recalling the blood-soaked arena. "Not more fights like what just happened?"

  Varrick let out a chuckle, his grin sly. "That? Just a small misunderstanding, I assure you. But it worked out for everyone, didn’t it?" He nodded toward the pouch of coins in Kale’s hand. "You’ve got a bit of coin for your troubles. And if you do well in training, there’s more where that came from."

  Kale stared at him, still not fully trusting the man. There was something about Varrick’s grin that felt off, like everything was part of a bigger game he wasn’t privy to.

  Varrick’s gaze lingered briefly on Liliana, his smile widening as he turned back to Kale. "You’ve had a long day. I can offer you both a place to sleep for the night," he said, his voice smooth and inviting. "Comfortable, safe. You look like you could use it."

  Kale’s stomach twisted. Something about the offer made him uneasy, the sharpness in Varrick’s eyes not matching the kindness of his words. Kale forced a smile, shaking his head. "Thanks, but we’ve already made other arrangements."

  Liliana floated silently beside him, her expression unreadable, though Kale could feel her shared discomfort. Varrick’s smile remained, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He didn’t press, but the offer hung in the air like a subtle threat.

  Varrick nodded, still grinning. "Of course. Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. Tomorrow, then."

  With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Kale and Liliana to process everything.

  As they left the arena, Liliana’s voice broke the silence. "You did well back there. I’m impressed. Didn’t think you’d manage to pull off the whole blade-shifting thing, especially not in a fight like that."

  Kale looked at her, still trying to process what had just happened. "I didn’t think I’d be able to do that either. It just... happened."

  Liliana gave him a small, rare smile. "Very bladeweaver of you."

  Kale huffed a laugh, but his exhaustion weighed down any sense of pride. Together, they found their way to a nearby inn. The room wasn’t much—barely a step up from sleeping outside—but it was enough. Kale sat heavily on the edge of the bed, pulling out the small pouch of coins Varrick had given him.

  Liliana floated over, her eyes scanning the coins. "Enough for a couple of nights, maybe more if we stretch it. You could even buy yourself some new clothes. Those ones are barely holding on."

  Kale glanced down at his tattered, bloodstained clothes. "Yeah, maybe." His voice was flat, the exhaustion starting to pull him under. His legs felt like lead, his arms heavy and weak. Everything was hitting him all at once: the fight, the kill, the uncertainty of this new world.

  He hadn’t had a proper rest since being summoned into that damned dungeon. From the moment he’d appeared, it felt like everyone had conspired to see him dead. Except for Liliana, but she didn’t seem to like him very much either. Every corner he turned, every shadow he stepped through, it was the same—someone or something waiting to kill him. He was tired, confused, and worn thin in ways he hadn’t thought possible.

  And now he’d killed people. He didn’t even know how to process that. The faces of his enemies blurred together in his memory, but they were still there, haunting him in flashes of blood and dying breaths, staring at him as the life left their eyes. Back home his life had been quiet, peaceful. No fighting, no killing. Would he ever find that peace again? Or was this his life now? Always looking over his shoulder, always waiting for the next fight, the next attack, the next person trying to take his life.

  He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. It was overwhelming, and he suddenly felt the weight of it all pressing down on him. Will I have to fight for my life again tomorrow? The thought chilled him. He didn’t know if he could handle much more, but there was no choice. There never seemed to be a choice anymore.

  Liliana watched him for a moment, then spoke softly, surprising him with a touch of empathy. "Rest. You’re going to need it."

  Kale didn’t argue. He lay down and stared at the ceiling, his mind buzzing with thoughts he couldn’t fully grasp. The world felt strange and heavy, but for now, all he could do was close his eyes and try to sleep.

  ***

  They ventured to a nearby market, where Kale found a simple but well-made outfit, a dark tunic, sturdy pants, and a fresh pair of boots. After cleaning himself up and putting on the new clothes, Kale felt a small spark of confidence. He checked his reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall of the market stall.

  The fit was good. The tunic sat comfortably across his shoulders, the boots felt solid beneath his feet, and most importantly, he didn’t look like a man who had lost an argument with a pack of very determined wolves.

  He still looked a little rough. Clean clothes obviously couldn’t hide the cuts on his face, but at least now people wouldn’t assume he was here to haunt their family estate. Maybe he even looked like someone who could be trusted with a reasonable task instead of immediately being handed a bowl of soup and a pitying glance.

  Not bad. Not bad at all, he thought.

  As he turned back, he caught Liliana’s gaze lingering on him for just a moment too long. Her eyes traced over him before quickly darting away, a flicker of something—admiration?—crossing her face. Kale raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a teasing grin.

  Liliana scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Don’t get any ideas." But there was a hint of something else in her voice, something that made Kale grin.

  "Right," Kale said, adjusting the sleeves of his tunic. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

  "Let’s not get carried away. You’re still you."

  “You know, your poker face could use some work.”

  “Keep dreaming, Kale. Some mountains can’t be climbed.”

  “Who said anything about climbing mountains?” Kale asked.

  Liliana blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you mocking me, or are you just naturally this dense?”

  Kale shrugged.

  Liliana scoffed. “Unbelievable.”

  As they approached Daryn’s training grounds, the familiar clang of steel and the grunts of sparring fighters filled the air. Kale felt a knot of tension settle in his stomach, but he straightened his shoulders, trying to shake off the exhaustion from the past few days.

  Daryn was already waiting for them, leaning against a post, arms crossed, tracking Kale’s approach. "That thing you pulled with Rendor’s blade. Neat little trick. Never seen that before."

  Kale scratched the back of his neck. "Uh... thanks?"

  Daryn pushed off the post, stepping forward. "Don’t thank me yet. That’s one trick. You’re going to need a bag of them if you want to survive in this place." His gaze shifted briefly to Liliana. "You keeping him alive, or is he doing that all by himself?"

  "All me, of course."

  Kale rolled his eyes. "I’m pretty sure I had something to do with it too."

  Daryn grunted, unimpressed. "Well, you better learn fast. Tricks are fine, but skill is better." He tossed a training sword at Kale’s feet. "Now it’s my turn to show you some moves."

  Kale picked it up, feeling its unfamiliar weight in his hand. He glanced at Liliana, who was hovering nearby with her usual half-amused, half-bored expression. "Ready to take notes?" she said.

  "Always."

  Daryn circled him, eyes assessing every movement. "First lesson, kid. Don’t die."