Paragon of Destruction

"Wait in line until it’s your turn," the mercenary said. "They’ll give you a badge once you’re sorted." Without waiting for an answer he left, seeming glad to be rid of Arran.

Arran looked at the man as he walked off, then shifted his attention to the line in front of him. From what he could tell, there were at least a hundred people ahead of him, waiting before a tent the size of a small house.

Briefly, he considered leaving right then. Yet although he now knew that Stoneheart’s army was real, he had only gotten a short look at the camp, and he hadn’t learned even a single thing about Stoneheart himself.

He sighed in annoyance, then got in line. Perhaps the recruiters would be willing to tell him more about the army and its leader.

As he waited, he studied the people who were waiting with him. Most seemed to be farmers and villagers, much like the people he had grown up with in Riverbend. Just from looking at them, he knew that few would know anything about mages beyond tall tales told at the village tavern.

Once more, he felt anger rising within him. With just a few gold, these men and women were being lured into making a choice that they had no way of understanding, and that would likely cost them their lives.

Yet angry though he was, right now, there was little he could do about it. So instead, he waited impatiently for his turn to be let into the large tent.

The wait was shorter than he had feared, and a little over half an hour later he stepped inside.

The interior of the tent was sparse but spacious, and at its center stood a table with a man and a woman sitting behind it, both bearing scars that suggested they had survived more than just a few battles.

"Name," the woman said in a weary voice, not even bothering to raise her eyes from the papers in front of her.

"Ghostblade," Arran answered.

Hearing the name, she looked up immediately. "You’re a fighter?"

Arran nodded.

"Then we’ll have to test you," she said. "If you’re skilled enough, you can get double pay. More, if you’re good."

"I don’t think that will be necessary," a voice sounded from the back of the tent. A moment later, a large figure emerged from the shadows.

As the figure stepped into the light, Arran could see it was a giant of a man. Seven feet tall if not more, he had shoulders like boulders and a bull-like neck. His dark hair was cut short, and a black beard adorned his angular face.

Arran realized this had to be Stoneheart, and at once, any idle thoughts he had of saving the recruits by killing the man disappeared.

Although Stoneheart was at least a head taller than Arran and so thickly muscled he could have passed for a bear, that wasn’t what worried Arran.

Rather, it was the way he moved — smooth and controlled, yet with power exuding from even his smallest gestures.

At once, Arran knew that Stoneheart was a hideously strong Body Refiner. Definitely more powerful than Darkfire, and most likely stronger than Arran, too.

That alone would make him a foe worthy of respect, but from the Shadowflame novices Arran had encountered previously, he knew that Stoneheart’s control of magic would easily exceed his own.

He held back a sigh, understanding that he was outmatched. In a fair fight, he would have little chance of surviving against Stoneheart, much less defeating him.

Luckily, however, it seemed the man currently had little interest in fighting Arran.

"I’ve been expecting you," the giant said in an unexpectedly friendly voice.

"Stoneheart?" Arran asked, just to be sure.

"It’s Lord Stone—," the woman began to correct him, but Stoneheart silenced her with a sharp gesture.

"Friends can call me Stoneheart," he said, causing the woman to cast a curious look at Arran.

Stoneheart reached out to Arran. "Come, take a walk with me. There are things we should discuss."

Arran was puzzled by this turn of events, but given the situation, there was little he could do but follow Stoneheart out of the tent.

"I take it you aren’t here to join my army," Stoneheart said as they exited the tent.

"I was having a look," Arran replied. "When someone told me a novice was gathering an army, I couldn’t help but be curious."

"You shouldn’t trust her," Stoneheart said. "Pretty though her lips may be, every other word they produce is a lie."

"Her?" Arran asked, confused. The novice who had told him about Stoneheart wasn’t female, nor did Arran think he had particularly pretty lips.

"I know she talked to you at one of the Governor’s gatherings," Stoneheart said. "But whatever she said about me, you can assume it to be little more than half-truths and whole lies."

Arran remained silent. Amaya had not so much as mentioned Stoneheart when they met, but it seemed Stoneheart believed otherwise.

"Now that I’ve seen you myself, I can see why she approached you," Stoneheart continued. "I wondered why she would be interested in someone just for winning a few rounds in the arena, but finding this strong a Body Refiner is rare, even in Hillfort."

Arran understood that just like he had immediately recognized Stoneheart as a powerful Body Refiner, Stoneheart had no trouble recognizing Arran’s strength, either.

"Rare enough that you resort to recruiting farmers, instead?" Arran asked, turning his gaze at the camp.

"You don’t approve?" Stoneheart asked, some curiosity in his eyes.

"Look at them," Arran said. "They’re too weak to be of any use in a fight. Leading them across the border is like sending children into battle."

"Many of them will die," Stoneheart agreed. "But for a worthy cause."

"Deciding who the next Patriarch will be is worth so many lives?"

Stoneheart sighed, then shook his head. "It seems there’s much she failed to tell you."

"Like what?"

"You didn’t think the Elders of the Sixth Valley would allow such numbers of recruits to join just for some squabbles over the Patriarch’s successor, did you?" There was a hint of mockery in Stoneheart’s tone, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

Arran frowned. Up until now, that was exactly what he had thought. "What’s the real reason, then?"

Stoneheart’s expression grew serious. "War is coming," he said. "The lands beyond the border have always been dangerous, but there always was a certain order to the violence — warlords rose and fell, but none dared challenge the Empire. Yet in the past decades, the region has grown restless and chaotic, and new powers are arising that threaten the border itself."

Arran took some moments to consider Stoneheart’s words. If they were true, joining the Shadowflame Society might be even more dangerous than he had expected.

"How do the recruits fit into all of this?" he finally asked.

"The current struggles cull the weak, leaving the strong to join the Society," Stoneheart answered. "Many of those who survive will never make it beyond the initiate stage, but even so, their sheer numbers will strengthen the Society."

"And that’s worth the lives of the others?" Although Stoneheart’s explanation made sense, Arran was far from convinced.

"If the border falls, far more than just them will die," Stoneheart replied.

To this, Arran had no answer. If what Stoneheart said was true — something he was by no means certain of — then the matter was more complicated than he had thought.

Even if his opinion wasn’t exactly swayed, he realized with some frustration that he simply knew too little about the situation to cast judgment.

"But you can worry about those things later," Stoneheart said. "For now, your attention should be on the tournament. With your strength, you should do well, but there will be more competition than you might expect."

Arran left a short while later, politely rejecting Stoneheart’s offer to spend the night at the camp. He had learned all he could about Stoneheart and his army, and in the morning, he would start searching for other novices, to see what they would tell him.

It was well into the evening when Arran reached the city, and close to midnight by the time he reached the Governor’s palace.

He had only barely returned to his room in the guest quarters when he heard a knock on the door. When he opened it, he was surprised to see the Governor’s steward.

"Young master Ghostblade," the man said, polite as always. "I received a letter for you."

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