Dean stood frozen on the spot for a moment as the guards moved towards him. Their golden cloaks made it unmistakable that these were officers of the city watch. A local guardsman who worked on commission from the bailiff might be persuaded or paid off with a drink or two, but the Watch itself was a different matter.

  “Hold on,” said the Proctor. His voice was calm, almost casual. But Dean could sense the aura in him swell. The lead guard paused, hesitating when he saw the gold badge on the Adventurer’s chest.

  “This is Watch business, Adventurer,” he growled, his deep voice echoing in his helmet. “Step aside.”

  The Proctor squared his shoulders and, for the first time, his age seemed to disappear. He was tall and broad across the shoulders, and despite the extra weight he carried around his back and midriff, he seemed athletic.

  “Since when does the city Watch interfere with civil matters involving the academy?” he asked, tilting his head. “I understand the Magistrate has a grievance against young Dean here. That grievance can be filed with the correct Academy authorities. An arrest is highly unnecessary.”

  The Magistrate shot Dean an angry glare, but he seemed reluctant to irritate the Proctor further. Dean could only hope that would be enough to keep him out of the stocks. His sister had a low tolerance for his shenanigans, and he couldn’t afford to get kicked out.

  “Sorry to disturb you sir, but this… this vagabond has ignored instructions and broken campus protocol. It is my solemn duty to protect the safety of all within the academy walls. Rules cannot be ignored, and when they are broken, there are consequences. If we allow ourselves to make exceptions-“

  “Which rules have been broken?” Interrupted the proctor smoothly.

  “Unlawful entrance to the Academy, trespassing, and violation of duty,” said the man, his shark-like smile returning. “That is more than enough to warrant an arrest.”

  The Proctor shook his head slowly.

  “Unlawful entrance, maybe, but there was no trespassing or violation. You see, Dean here is one of my registrants. I was testing the extent of his knowledge and skill before I decided to grant him a pass. He will, of course, be expected to attend both exams in the upcoming month.”

  The Magistrate blinked in surprise, his eyes sliding from Dean to the proctor.

  “He… what?”

  “Dean Thompson is a prospective Adventurer. He will be testing to receive his iron badge. Is that unclear to you, counselor?”

  The Man’s jaw worked for a moment as he tried to comprehend this new information. The lead guard looked doubtful, even going as far as to drop his hand from his weapon.

  “Is this true?” he asked the Magistrate. “We were led to believe there had been a break-in.”

  “But he did break in!” snapped the Magistrate. “He was seen using a ladder to scale the oak tree and bypass the wards.” The man’s oily smile returned. “And I’m afraid that violation of Academy rules constitutes immediate dismissal from the registrant list.”

  Dean’s heart sank. If he had been seen, then chances were the jig was up. Frustration boiled in him as he realized how close he’d come. He opened his mouth, wondering if he could reason with the man, but the triumphant look in the counselor’s eyes let him know it would be a pointless endeavor.

  The Proctor, however, seemed unconcerned.

  “Are you quite certain, counselor?” he asked, tapping his finger on his chin. “I don’t mean to doubt you, but Dean here was let in through the front gate. I saw him myself.”

  Dean glanced at the proctor, confused. If he’d been seen on the ladder, then what was the point of lying on his behalf? It would only get discovered later.

  “Enough,” said the lead guard. “There is an easy way to verify this. Magistrate, what was the tree you claimed you saw this boy scale?”

  The Magistrate pointed. “It was that one. I saw him to prop a ladder against the trunk and climb all the way to the point where the branches were thickest.”

  The guards moved off towards the gate, and Dean had no choice but to follow, his heart sinking further. He tried to catch the Proctor’s eye to apologize, but the man wasn’t looking at him.

  “Here we are,” said the Magistrate, gesturing triumphantly. “I don’t know what he told you sir, but I can assure you he wasn’t an authorized guest. Perhaps he should be brought up on charges of impersonation.”

  There was a pause, and the Proctor stared at the tree. Then the man cleared his throat.

  “What exactly am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Dean followed his gaze and froze. The ladder was gone, as was the flattened grass around the base of the tree and the spot where his boot had scuffed the bark. In fact, the tree itself was bare.

  The only person as shocked as he was seemed to be the Magistrate.

  “I… don’t understand,” he hissed, stomping around the tree. “It was here, I was sure it was. I just saw it not ten minutes ago. He… he must have removed it!”

  The Proctor let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “Dean was with me for the past ten minutes, undergoing tests. I’m sorry to say counselor, I think you are mistaken.”

  “But I SAW him,” snapped the Magistrate, now almost shouting with rage. He thrust a finger at Dean, his grey cap slightly askew.

  “Proctor, I’m telling you I saw him myself!”

  The lead guard shook his head and stuck out a hand to the proctor, who shook it firmly.

  “My apologies for the confusion, sir. It seems the counselor was mistaken. My men and I will be off then, we have more important matters to attend to.”

  “Of course, of course,” said the Proctor graciously, as the men of the watch strode away, disappearing around the corner. As soon as they had disappeared, the Proctor turned, his polite smile sliding away to be replaced by something cold.

  “Now,” he said, his voice icy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a poor display of manners from a man of your station. I have put up with your simpering, your offhanded comments, and your demands since I arrived here, counselor, but I find myself fast approaching my limit. I believe you owe Mr. Thompson here an apology both for your accusation and poor conduct.”

  The magistrate seemed alarmed.

  “Forgive me Sir, I meant no-“

  “Direct your apologies at the injured party,” growled the Proctor, nodding at Dean. “Your antics might have cost him the opportunity to become an Adventuerer – a slight that any family of means would have surely disputed in a court of law. Now I don’t believe Mr. Thompson has taken any offense, have you?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at Dean.

  Seeing the game he was playing, Dean suppressed a smile and instead shook his head. Baron nodded.

  “There, no offense was taken. I suppose in this case a formal apology should suffice. Unless, of course, my letter to the Emperor’s First Counselor needs to include my dissatisfaction with the Academy’s conduct?”

  Those words had an immediate effect. The look of confused annoyance vanished from the Magistrate's face, replaced by a flash of fear. The man hastily clasped his hands before him, bowing deeply towards the proctor and Dean.

  “Of course that won’t be necessary,” he said, licking his lips. “The error was mine.” He faced Dean, who allowed a small, smug smile. A vein pulsed in the Magistrate’s brow.

  “I apologize for the misunderstanding, Mr. Thompson. I wasn’t aware that you were already a registrant. I take responsibility for my lapse in judgment and hope you won’t hold it against the Academy.”

  It was said through gritted teeth, and Dean took a moment to tap his chin, considering. This only seemed to enrage the man more, but after a look from the Proctor, Dean finally took the high road.

  “Apology accepted,” he said. “I’m sure it was only a misunderstanding. Any man of your age could have mistaken me for someone else at a distance.”

  The counselor’s eyes bulged, and Dean watched the internal war within him as he struggled to keep his temper in check. The Proctor, by comparison, seemed to be trying to hold back a smile.

  “Very well,” he said. “If all parties are satisfied, then I think we can consider the matter closed, no?”

  “Of course,” muttered the Magistrate. “I bid you good day.” And with that, he stormed off towards the main building, purple robes of office flapping behind him.

  “I think,” said the Proctor as he watched the man go. “That you overdid it there. Counselor Vawn may be an irritating man, but he isn’t without some influence in the Academy. Making an enemy of him may come back to bite you.”

  Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Maybe. But I find if you let others bully you, they’re more likely to make it a habit.”

  A laugh cut through the air, and Dean whirled. He had heard that sound before, less than an hour ago on the main road. Sure enough, there she was.

  She was on foot this time and had forgone her riding leathers for more comfortable clothing. Her long red curls tumbled over her shoulders, free of their leather tie. Her arms were folded across her chest as she leaned against the wall.

  “You,” Dean breathed. There was a sheen of aura surrounding her – a sign that she had just performed magic. Dean glanced back at the oak tree and saw the air shimmer around the trunk. Moments later, his borrowed ladder reappeared.

  She’s an illusionist, he realized with awe. The young woman didn’t respond. Instead, she glanced past him at the man standing at his side.

  “Hello, Uncle,” she said. “Still getting into trouble since leaving the Guild, I see.”

  Dean goggled at him.

  “The two of you are related?” he asked, staring between them. “But that’s..” he had been going to say that was impossible, but realized at the last second that it might be considered rude. Still, the girl was fair, with high cheekbones and a soft golden glow to her skin. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that she was high-born. The Proctor, on the other hand, was rather average. His skin was heavily sun-tanned, his wrinkled face half covered in a close-cropped grey beard. His face was round rather than angular, and his clothes seemed plain.

  The illusionist chuckled.

  “Gods no, Baron and my father are just old pals. The two of them used to run together back when the Guild was still new. I just call him Uncle, because I’ve known him all my life.”

  “I see.” Dean hesitated. “Thanks,” he said, gesturing to the ladder. “Without your help, I might have ended up in the stocks.”

  The woman’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Dean was it?” she asked. “That’s twice I’ve seen you piss off someone above your station in the same day. Do you enjoy making life harder for yourself?”

  Dean shrugged.

  “I’m not in the habit of letting others push me around.”

  “Even your betters?”

  Dean met her gaze.

  “I have no betters. I’m a guy, just like everyone else. Circumstances of birth don’t make someone superior to another. It’s what we choose to do with this life that sets us apart.” He reached into his pocket, fingers closing around something hard. The coin… his only proof that what he’d endured and the deal he’d made had been real.

  The woman’s smile faded and was replaced by a look of grudging respect.

  “I can see why Baron’s likes you,” she said. “You’re lucky you know. Back in the days he ran with my father, he would have been more likely to smite you with lightning than he would to hear you out.”

  The Proctor sighed. “How is that scoundrel these days? Last time I heard from Wayland, he had gotten himself into trouble with one of the Emperor’s newly appointed consulars.”

  Wayland… Dean’s eyes widened. He had heard that name before on countless occasions in reference to…

  “Wayland?” he asked. “As in Wayland Cross? The head of the Lion’s Mane Guild?”

  The woman smirked.

  “That would be my father, yes.”

  Dean’s mind was whirling. She was the daughter of a Guild Master, and it was no low-level Guild Either. The Lion’s Mane was a newer Guild, but their reputation for brutal efficiency was well known. As far as he knew, they had strongholds in two cities and were several hundred strong. Making them one of the more powerful of the mid-ranking guilds. Wayland’s crew had been famous, and if the proctor had run with them..

  “You’re Baron Forsa,” he blurted as the memories caught up with him. “The Pyromancer that they call the eight hands.”

  The Proctor was refilling his pipe, packing the leaf carefully. After a moment, he held out a finger, and Dean saw a flash of orange flame flicker for an instant.

  “Something like that.”

  “Poor kid is starstruck,” laughed the girl. Pushing off the wall, she walked towards them, pausing in front of Dean.

  “I hear you’re going to be taking the exams. Good luck. The written exam might be straightforward, but the physical is… well.. we’re not allowed to say. Not everyone makes it, you know. Injuries aren’t uncommon, and these days, the Guilds can’t always afford to step in if something goes wrong. I’m not trying to discourage you; I doubt I could anyway. But I will warn you: Adventuring isn’t for the weak.”

  She gave him one last look before she sauntered off towards the main building. Dean watched her go, only tearing his eyes away when he caught Baron looking at him.

  “Don’t be fooled by her looks,” he growled. “As much as I love her, she’s grown to be dangerous, just like her father. Get involved with her, and she might just kill you.”

  He took a puff on his pipe, and Dean shrugged.

  “Not a bad way to die.”

  Baron’s laugh turned into a heavy cough, and he ended up wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.

  “A man after my own heart. Well, you’d better get out of here if you don’t want any more trouble. I’d suggest laying low until the written exam, though. Who knows what the Magistrate may try to pull when I’m gone.”

  Dean nodded and turned for the gate. He hesitated a moment, knowing what he wanted to ask but not sure how to do so. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “Will you be my sponsor?” he asked. Baron’s eyebrows shot up, and he grinned.

  “Me? Gods no, I left that work behind years ago. No, your best bet at finding a sponsor would be to go to one of the lower city training halls. Not the nicest facilities, I’ll grant you, and you may have to share the space with more uh… dubious characters. But chances are if you can prove yourself you might be able to draw the attention of one of the minor guilds.”

  Dean nodded and turned away. He’d expected the response, but he’d hoped he might be able to convince the proctor. A man like Baron Forsa had a legend under his belt and a reputation. Being represented by a Gold Rank Adventurer would have certainly given him a reputation. Still, he knew the old man was right. If he wanted to do things right, then his reputation was something he was going to have to earn.

  “Oh, and Dean,”

  He turned to see Baron smiling at him.

  “When you’ve earned your iron badge… come pay me a visit sometime.”

  ***

  Dean carried the ladder back through the streets, letting his feet take him to the alleyway where he knew the boy waited. The sun was high in the sky, signaling midday. Dean was in such a good mood after his recent success that he almost didn’t notice that something was wrong. He halted in the mouth of the alleyway, straining his ears. He could hear the sound of voices, but not any he recognized. They were rougher, and judging by the sound of them, their owners were on the verge of violence.

  “Listen, kid, I’m not going to ask you again,” growled one of the voices. “The owner of that knife – what did he look like?”

  A sniffle came a moment later, and Dean’s heart sank as he heard the frightened response.

  “I’m tellin’ ya I don’t know anything. I don’t remember what he looked like other than that he was plain looking and uh… young. But not very young.”

  “Plain looking?” the response was agitated. “Do you take me for a fool, boy? Maybe you think protecting this friend of yours is worth your teeth, but I can assure you that you’ll feel differently once I let Crowley here have a go at you.”

  Dean moved forward, careful to stick to the shadows as he rounded the corner. In front of him were three figures. One was the boy he had borrowed the ladder from. His hat was gone, and he was backed against the wall as two larger men towered over him. Not men, Dean realized. Boys. They were his age, maybe seventeen or eighteen, but they had the rough look Dean had come to expect from ruffians who ran in the upper city.

  Their clothes were nicer, not the rags one might see below. But their scuffed knuckles and the baton one carried over his shoulder told another story. Upper City gangsters… and they were looking for him.

  “I’m not lyin!” squeaked the boy, cowering against the wall as the bigger of the two stepped forward. Dean cursed inwardly, knowing what had to be done. Seven years ago, before the attack on the city and everything that followed, he would have run. He’d been good at running back then – it was why he’d survived. But during that time as a militia soldier, things had changed.

  He had learned to stand up for himself and others – learned to face down threats much larger and more dangerous than him. That was the nature of the world when you were just an average soldier. No combat class, no essence consumption. Only you, your base stats, and your grit. That was when a man came to know who he really was.

  Dean pushed off the wall, stepping from the shadows. The thugs didn’t notice his approach at first, intent as they were on their prey. The boy’s eyes slid over the shoulder of his attacker and widened. Dean pressed a finger to his lips. Then, without hesitating, he dropped into a stance and slammed his fist into the nearest boy's stomach.

  The thug let out a grunt, his body folding comically as Dean’s blow hit home.

  “What the-“ muttered the other, turning to goggle at his companion. His mouth was still slightly open when Dean’s fist hit him. It was a good punch, with the form that he had learned from his time brawling in taverns and campfire circles. But he had overestimated his current strength.

  With his base stats so low and without the years of body conditioning from rigorous training, his strikes weren’t nearly as strong as they once were. The thug's head barely moved, and Dean’s follow-up blow simply bounced off the thug's jaw. Dean danced back, his hand stinging as the thugs turned to face him. The gangster with the baton had recovered, and the look in his eye was murderous.

  “Now look at that,” he growled as he bounced the heavy wooden baton off his palm.

  “Question the mice and the rats come out to play.”

  “Get out of here!” shouted the paint boy. “They’ll only hurt you. It..it ain’t worth it.”

  Dean ignored him, straightening to his full height as he assessed his attackers. They were older, likely with years of fighting under their belts. Their base stats would be higher, especially strength. But what Dean currently lacked in strength, he could make up for in agility. The key was to strike fast and avoid getting cornered.

  “You were looking for me,” he said, cracking his neck. “Well, now you’ve found me.”

  One of the thugs laughed.

  “Look at him, too big for his britches. Well, street rat, you should know your kind doesn’t belong here in the Upper City. This is our territory, and we don’t suffer trash from the sewer running around in our alleyways. Consider it… Bad for business.”

  Dean took a step back. Then another. This only seemed to embolden the two. Cracking vicious smiles they advanced on him, taking his retreat for weakness. Dean waited until he could count the individual hairs on the chin of the oldest.

  “That right,” said the thug with the baton. “Vermin like you always-“

  Dean’s boot heel hit the wall behind him, and he smiled. The thug’s eyebrows furrowed when he saw the expression, but by then it was too late to react. The second thug was already moving, his fist cocked back and a look of glee on his face. That glee quickly died as Dean dodged to the side, and the boy’s fist slammed straight into the stone wall. Bone crunched and Dean’s smile only widened.

  “Rookie mistake,” he growled before driving his knee into the thug's stomach as hard as he could. This time, the blow had an impact. The thug hit his knees, gagging, and moments later, there was a wet splatter as he vomited across the cobblestones. Dean didn’t have time to savor his victory. The second thug had already lunged at him, his clumsy hands snagging in Dean’s shirt.

  “Bastard,” he snarled. “You’re going to regret that.” The baton whistled through the air, and Dean knew if it hit him, he’d lose this fight in a matter of seconds. The thug's grip was tight, too tight to break. That left him only one option. Dean bent forward, lifting his arms and allowing the thug's grip on his shirt to pull it off and over his head. The gangster let out a comical hoot of surprise before Dean’s kick to the knee sent him stumbling. Ripping the Baton out of his hand, Dean bore down on his would-be attackers. His punches may not do much damage right now, but with a weapon in his hand, the playing field was evened.

  The thug snarled, making another grab at him, but Dean was faster. He sidestepped, slamming the butt of the weapon into the boy’s nose. The thug crumpled like wet laundry off the line.

  Dean stepped over him and stalked towards his companion. The man was still on his knees, cradling his hand. The limb was clearly broken, the angry red swelling turning quickly to purple.

  Not the brightest bastards I’ve ever faced, but it’s not like I’m complaining.

  “You,” Dean said as he approached. “Why were you looking for me? What do you want?”

  The thug looked around at him and, seeing him clutching the baton, Dean could see the fear in his eyes. They may be gangsters, but they were young, likely barely on the payroll of some local upper-class gang. While they had experience delivering beatings, Dean seriously doubted they were used to taking them.

  “Look, you got the wrong idea,” he stuttered, scrambling to his feet and taking a step back. “We were just following orders, it wasn’t personal.”

  Following orders?

  Dean scowled.

  “Whose orders?” But with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he thought he knew. The boy blanched, his eyes darting around the alleyway as if half expecting someone to emerge from the shadows. There was real fear in his eyes, and that look told Dean everything he needed to know.

  “I’m not telling you,” said the boy, shaking his head. His gaze darted to the baton now gripped in Dean’s hand, and he licked his lips. “Listen, I can’t tell you. If he finds out I’m good as dead.”

  Dean stalked forward, raising the baton. The thug raised his good fist as if he was considering fighting. At least he wasn’t a coward. But bravery wouldn’t spare him from Dean’s wrath.

  “Your friend is knocked out cold and he had the easy way out. I don’t take kindly to threats, especially from your kind.” He put an emphasis on the word the same way the thugs had. “You may rule Upper City, but being thugs in the city proper doesn’t make you hard. See this?”

  Dean lifted his shirt, tapping at the small pink scar across his ribs.

  “Ever been stabbed before? I have, and the other guy’s body is floating somewhere by the docks. So, unless you want to find out how many holes you can bleed through, you'd better start talking.”

  He was bluffing, of course. The scar on his ribs had come from an unfortunate kick from a cow's hoof when he was twelve, but what the thug didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Alright alright,” the boy said, flinching when Dean raised the baton again.

  “I’ll tell you, just…” he licked his lips nervously. “His name is Warrick.”

  Dean’s blood ran cold in his veins. Warrick. He knew that name… and knew it well. Warrick was only five years older than Dean, and they had grown up on the same streets. Only, the other boy had always had a mean streak. Warrick had been a bully from an early age, terrorizing the younger kids of the school and always escaping the consequences. His father had been a corrupt member of the city watch with deep ties to Lower City Crime.

  Dean had found himself at the mercy of him and his old crew more than once as a kid. At least until Warrick had disappeared.

  “Warrick was born in the slums,” he said. “You mean to tell me he now runs with an Upper City gang? Why the hell would they listen to someone like him?”

  The thug grimaced.

  “He’s a blue blood,” he said. “became a gold cloak of the city watch and got promoted to Lieutenant just a few months ago.” He liked his lips nervously. “He’s the one that came to us. Said he wanted us to start cleaning up the streets for him, you know. Keeping the peace.”

  Dean’s eyes darkened.

  “Some peace.”

  If Warrick had landed himself a position of authority in the watch then it could only mean one thing. There was corruption in the city of Haven and there was no telling just how deep it ran.

  If the Watch is partially corrupt, then is that one of the things that led to the downfall of the city?

  Dean’s stomach twisted. It was something he’d have to investigate, but getting there would take time. He lowered the baton and gave the would-be thug his coldest stare.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he said. “If you’re not gone in the next minute, I’ll break this baton on your kneecaps and see how well you crawl.”

  The thug hurried to comply, grabbing at his friend's arm and slinging it over his shoulder. Dean watched as the boy struggled with his weight, nearly red in the face as he hauled his unconscious companion out of the alleyway.

  “Are you sure it was a good idea to let them go? They’ll tell him about you, and the City Watch will be swarming this place before long.”

  Dean glanced around and saw the boy standing at his side. He’d retrieved his hat, and aside from a bloody nose and scraped knee, he seemed mostly unharmed.

  “I doubt he’ll tell the watch. Warrick wouldn’t miss the opportunity to deal out a beating himself, especially if he thinks he’s been slighted.”

  “You know him?” the boys eyes were round. Dean shrugged. “Knew him, once. But that was years ago.”

  More like seven years ago but I can’t exactly say so.

  Dean rubbed his face, then froze when a thought occurred to him.

  “Do you still have my knife?”

  The boy nodded and pulled the knife from his waistband.

  “They wanted to see it,” he confessed. “Said it looked familiar or somethin’, I dunno. Thems type are trouble.”

  Dean grunted in agreement as he tucked the knife back in the sheath at his belt. It slid home easily, feeling as familiar as it always had. Then he backtracked down the alley for the ladder. Warrick would pose a problem, especially if he had a vendetta against Dean. The thugs would likely report to him and Dean knew he couldn’t stay anonymous forever. Still, it was a problem he’d have to focus on later. Dean turned to go.

  “Wait,” said the kid. He looked sheepish as he adjusted his hat.

  “Thanks,” he said after a moment. Then he blushed and shrugged. “It was cool, I mean, is all.”

  Dean nodded.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “What will you do now?”

  Dean was already striding for the mouth of the alleyway, mind whirling as he considered his options. He had just over a week before his written exam, and roughly thirty days until he’d be expected to run a tiered dungeon. There was no time to waste.

  “I’m going to do the only thing I know how,” he threw over his shoulder. “I’m going to grind.”