Magic exists in this world, though it flows unevenly through the veins of the living. Some are born with only a faint spark, enough to light a candle with a whisper or coax a stubborn lock open on a cold morning. Others carry a moderate gift, sufficient to heal shallow cuts, bend small flames, or call a brief gust to scatter dust from a room. Then there are the rare few whose power surges so fiercely that common folk whisper of gods walking among men. These individuals command storms with a gesture, raise barriers of pure light, or summon creatures from the ether to do their bidding. Their names become legends, their deeds carved into stone and song.

  Gerik was not one of them. He came into the world ordinary in that regard, no inner fire, no latent hum beneath his skin. To learn magic meant finding a master sage willing to teach, and such instruction demanded coin beyond the reach of most. Years of apprenticeship, rare herbs, forbidden tomes, and the constant risk of the sage simply deciding the student unworthy. Gerik had never pursued it. He preferred steel, the weight of a blade in his hand, the certainty of muscle and intent. Iron never lied. Magic, in his experience, always carried hidden costs.

  Soul stones were the true currency of power. They were not mere gems to be hoarded for wealth. Each blue stone pulsed with raw energy, a concentrated wellspring that could amplify a spell tenfold, fuel a summoning circle for days, or sustain enchantments that would otherwise fade in hours. The more stones a mage amassed, the greater the feats they could achieve. A single stone might sharpen a sword's edge to unnatural keenness. A handful could raise a wall of thorns from barren earth. A chest full might let a summoner call forth a legion of lesser demons and hold them in the mortal plane for a week. But power like that came with a price. Those born without any magical affinity who dared touch raw, unrefined soul stones invited the soul stone curse. It began as a faint blue tint under the nails, then spread to the veins, turning skin translucent and cold. Flesh withered, bones grew brittle, and the mind frayed until the victim became a hollow shell, alive only in the technical sense. No cure existed. The Emperor knew this well. His collectors stripped villages bare because the stones fed his own dark arts, and because fear of the curse kept most people from hoarding them openly. Many families still gathered what they could, hiding small caches in cellars or under floorboards, praying the monthly visits would pass them by. The schedule was erratic. Sometimes the collectors arrived on the first of the month. Sometimes they waited until the moon waxed full again. No pattern could be trusted.

  Gerik had scraped together perhaps a dozen small stones over the years, buried in a tin beneath the hearth. Not enough to tempt fate, not enough to buy real protection. He had hoped the collectors would skip Thornvale this month. They had already taken their toll in blood. Perhaps that would satisfy them for a while.

  He walked the muddy lane that led from the cemetery back toward the village square. At twenty-six he stood a handspan over most men, broad across the shoulders from years of hauling game and dragging bodies. His hair was dark brown, cropped short and uneven as though cut with a knife in poor light. A thin scar ran from the outer corner of his left eye down to the cheekbone, pale against tanned skin weathered by sun and wind. His jaw was square, shadowed with three days of stubble he had not bothered to scrape away. Eyes the color of wet slate held no warmth today. He wore the same patched leather jerkin from the day Remia died, the front still stiff with dried blood that no amount of scrubbing had fully removed. His boots were heavy, caked with cemetery mud. The dagger rested at his belt, hilt worn smooth from countless draws.

  As he rounded the corner into the square, a new banner caught the weak afternoon light. It hung from the upper balcony of the old grain exchange, crimson cloth embroidered with silver thread. The words were large enough to read from across the cobblestones.

  THORNVALE GRAND TOURNAMENT

  THREE DAYS HENCE

  PRIZE FOR VICTOR: 10,000 SILVER + MYSTERIOUS WEAPON OF ANCIENT MAKE

  SECOND PLACE: HONORED POSITION IN LORD PESTILENCE'S PRIVATE ARMY

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Gerik stopped. The wind tugged at the banner, making the silver letters shimmer. Ten thousand silver would buy a new house, stock the larder for years, hire guards, perhaps even bribe a collector to look the other way next month. The mysterious weapon meant little to him. Steel was steel. But the second prize made his pulse quicken. Lord Pestilence. One of the Emperor's three knights. Her private army would mean steady pay, access to imperial armories, and most importantly proximity. Close enough to learn routines, watch movements, discover weaknesses. Close enough to strike when the moment came.

  He crossed the square in long strides and pushed through the door of the exchange. Inside, a clerk sat behind a rough table, quill scratching across parchment. Two other hopefuls waited in line, one a lanky youth with a chipped sword, the other a stocky woman in mail that looked borrowed.

  "Name," the clerk said without looking up when Gerik reached the table.

  "Gerik."

  "Age and rank?"

  "Twenty-six. Freelance bounty hunter. No guild rank."

  The clerk glanced at him then, eyes narrowing at the bloodstained jerkin. "Entry fee is fifty silver."

  Gerik counted out the coins from a small pouch at his belt. The clerk took them, scribbled his name on the list, and handed him a wooden token stamped with the number seventeen.

  "Tournament grounds open at dawn three days from now. Bring your own weapons. No poisons, no curses. Fights are to yield or incapacitation. Death disqualifies the killer."

  Gerik nodded once and left.

  Three days gave him time to prepare. He walked to the market row where smiths and traders set up stalls under patched awnings. The air smelled of hot iron, oiled leather, and the faint rot of overripe fruit. He stopped first at a weaponsmith's stall. The man behind the counter was missing two fingers on his left hand, a common enough sight among those who worked the forge.

  "Need a short sword," Gerik said. "Something balanced. Not too heavy."

  The smith laid out three blades. The first was fine steel, etched with faint runes along the fuller, edge gleaming like moonlight. The second was serviceable but plain. The third showed rust spots near the tang and a slight warp in the blade.

  Gerik lifted the fine one first. It felt good in his hand, light yet sturdy. He tested the balance with a slow swing. Perfect.

  "Price?" he asked.

  "Four hundred silver."

  Gerik set it down. He lifted the plain one next. Acceptable weight, no obvious flaws.

  "And this?"

  "One hundred and twenty."

  The rusted one he did not bother touching. "I'll take the plain."

  The smith shrugged and wrapped it in oiled cloth. Gerik paid with the last of his tournament entry savings, leaving his pouch noticeably lighter. He moved on to a charm-seller next. The woman there sold minor wards: iron rings etched with protective sigils, leather cords braided with dried herbs, small pouches of salt and bone dust.

  "Anything for luck in a fight?" he asked.

  She offered a thin copper bracelet set with a single cloudy quartz bead. "Wards off minor cuts. Won't stop a good thrust, but it might turn a glancing blow. Eighty silver."

  He hesitated. The bracelet felt cheap, the quartz dull. But he had nothing else. He bought it and slipped it onto his left wrist. The metal was cold against his skin.

  At an armorer's stall he found a reinforced leather vest. It had seen better days, stitching frayed along the seams, one shoulder guard cracked. Still better than the jerkin he wore now.

  "Seventy silver," the armorer said.

  Gerik paid without haggling. He walked away with the new purchases bundled under his arm, the weight of them a small comfort against the emptiness in his chest.

  Back at the house he set the bundles on the table and turned to the damage. The collectors had not been gentle. They had kicked in the door, splintered the frame, overturned the table, smashed two chairs. The hearthstones were cracked where a chimera had stepped too heavily. He started with the door, planing the broken edge smooth with a borrowed drawknife, then fitting a new crossbar he had salvaged from an old fence post. Hammer blows rang out in the quiet afternoon. He worked methodically, measuring twice, cutting once. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill. When the door hung straight again he stepped back, tested the latch. It closed with a satisfying click.

  Next he righted the table, nailed the legs back into place where they had splintered. He swept the broken crockery into a pile, carried it outside, and dumped it in the refuse pit. The chairs would need new spindles. He could carve them tomorrow.

  He paused in the center of the room, hammer still in hand. Dust motes drifted through the slanted light from the window. The space felt too large now, too empty. Remia's shawl still hung on the peg by the hearth. Her herb jars lined the shelf above the stove, labels faded but familiar. He set the hammer down and crossed to the shelf. His fingers brushed the glass of one jar, the one that held dried chamomile. She had always brewed it when he came home bruised.

  "Remia," he said aloud, voice rough in the silence. "Just you watch."

  The words hung there. He stood motionless for a long minute, eyes fixed on the jar. Then he turned back to the work, picked up the hammer again, and drove another nail into the chair leg with steady, deliberate force.