Chapter 12

“Young Bocaj,” Sir Greyson asks, “would you mind sharing what Skills are you planning to use to acquire your Class?”

I wish I would know what he means. I know that Skills influence what Class you get, but I’m not exactly clear about what he’s saying.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Greyson?” I say, trying to put on my best poker face. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“What are you using as the foundation for your Class?”

For the first time, Felisia talks to me without an excessively displeased tone.

Foundation? What’s that?

“Your teacher didn’t tell you about this?” Sir Greyson frowns.

“He was a very eccentric old man,” I shrug. “He gave me one Gold Skill, and that was about it. He taught me about

all

the

Skills he knew, but he never really bothered telling me about anything else.”

“Experts can be quite peculiar about their ways,” Sir Greyson says diplomatically.

Especially when they don’t exist,

I think to myself.

“Anyway, he gave me Hell’s Sword,” I say.

Felisia and Sir Greyson look at each other.

“He must

really

trust his teachings, Young Bojac.”

“Huh?” I raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Your teacher gave you a Skill that is…”

“Cursed,” Felisia says plainly when Sir Greyson takes one too many beats to answer. “Hell’s Sword is a set Skill. The other Skills are relatively easy to find because they’re Silver Skills. However, no one in their right mind chooses a set Skill to start a Class.”

I infer that a set Skill means that it has the 1/5 number, meaning there’s a set of Skills revolving around Hell’s Sword

.

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“One Skill becomes the centerpiece for the Class. If you’re training one Skill more than the others, you get offered a stronger Class because the higher the level, the better the Class. But, to even

be offered

a Class based on a set, you need

all

the Skills in the set.”

“Ok?” I raise an eyebrow. “But they’re Silver Skill. They shouldn’t cost too much, right?”

“Wrong,” Felisia replies. “Not all Silver Skills cost Silver. Some are more expensive than Platinum Skills.”

“The young mistress is right. Silver Skills are often very expensive because the higher you level them before upgrading them to their Gold counterpart, the stronger the Gold version is going to be. Some Skills, in particular, are quite hard to find because their Dungeons are in remote lands or, simply, there are not enough Dungeons where the Skill Crystals for them can be acquired from monsters. Some nobles have built

empires

on a few Dungeons that spawn the Mana Pool Skill in its Silver, Gold, and Platinum versions. There are so few people that have trained Mana Pool properly that the True Diamond version is less expensive than the Gold one. It’s actually considered quite worthless.”

Oh wow, I had half an idea about some of this stuff, but I didn’t know it could get so intricate

.

“Wait, didn’t you say that Hell’s Sword is cursed or something?”

“Some Skills,” Sir Greyson explains, “have higher requirements to spawn a Class when you finally kill a monster. Mana Pool, for example, requires you to bring it to level 50 for the Mana Battery Class to appear.”

“Hell’s Sword is an infamous Skill among nobles,” Felisia sighs. “Many upstarts think they can master it. It’s powerful, yes, but it also burns more mana than most Skills at its rank and it has countless problems that no one, or very few, have ever figured out.”

“Being a set,

every

Skill has to reach the threshold for the Class to materialize,” Sir Greyson says. “Hell’s Sword threshold, despite no one being able to confirm it, should be the infamous—”

“Level 100,” Felisia interjects. “You need

the entire set

at level 100. You should probably abandon the Skill now that you’ve still got time. Your master may be knowledgeable, but hardly anyone ever manages to perfect a Skill before bringing it to the next rank.”

“And even if you managed one, you would need perfect knowledge of not just that one, but the

entire set

. I stand with the young mistress, Young Bocaj. You should give up on Hell’s Sword. Your master gave you an impossible task.”

I look between the two. Both have a serious expression on their face—

deadly

serious.

It wasn’t any master who gave me this,

I think to myself.

It was Orvick. The old man probably didn’t know about any of this. He just wanted his son to have a strong Skill. He must have heard that it was highly sought after and bought it for him. He didn’t know about the requirements or anything like that.

But I have the Grimoire. If there’s anyone who can do this, it’s me. And even with the Grimoire it’s going to be tough. But I would feel like I betrayed the old man if I didn’t give it my best. This is

his

Skill—I believe a piece of his spirit lives through me using it.

“Don’t worry, you two,” I wink at them. “My master just wants to test me. He taught me all I need to know.”

“Even if you do know about the Skills, Young Bocaj, you should reconsider. Even with perfect knowledge of them, you might not be able to put the theory into practice.”

Thankfully the Grimoire helps with that as well

.

“Sir Greyson—”

“We’re almost there!” I hear the driver’s voice from outside and it interrupts the conversation.

* * *

The coach jerks to a stop in front of Clearbay’s sea-gate. Felisia props the curtain with two fingers and peers out. Gray blocks of stone rise high, and salt wind slicks her cheeks.

Home again,

she thinks, though the wall feels bigger than she remembers. Inside the carriage the air is quite stale.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

“Stay close, my lady,” Sir Greyson says. His heavy boots hit the cobbles first. Sunlight bounces from his blue-steel armor. Guards in city livery lower pikes across the archway; they spot the knight’s crest and nod with routine respect.

Felisia waits until Greyson’s wide back shelters the path, then steps down, her soft travel boots landing without a sound.

Jacob—still calling himself

Bocaj

—jumps from the roof rack next. Mud flakes off his cloak in dark petals even after Greyson used Cleanse on him. A few traders snicker. A fish seller waves a gut-stained rag at him. Two cart boys elbow each other and laugh.

The gate captain strides forward. His mail shirt rattles.

“Papers,” he snaps. Greyson presents his bundle; the captain flicks a glance and waves him through. “Next.” Felisia keeps her hood low and hands over a silken case. He barely checks the seal, then turns on Jacob. “You. Name and purpose.”

Jacob lifts his chin. “Bocaj Duolc. Tutor to Lady Felisia Clearwater. I seek entry.”

The captain looks him up and down.

“No crest, no coin, no pass.” He jabs Jacob’s chest with two gloved fingers. “Back of the line, rag-cloak.”

A ripple of laughter rolls across the waiting crowd. Felisia’s hand twitches toward her rapier, but she stops herself.

Greyson had mentioned that there might have been some kind of trouble like this to Felisia. If Jacob was student to such a recluse, he might come from an unaccountable background.

Greyson told me not to protect him,

she reminds herself.

Let him solve his problems.

She watches Jacob’s face. Mud, sweat, stubborn calm.

Jacob steps sideways, ignoring the titters. He places his palm against the stone block beside the gate. His eyes narrow. Felisia leans closer, curious.

What does he see?

Jacob calls out, loud and clear.

“Captain, this section is failing. The rune chain here is cracked. If a wave strike comes, this stone will shear.”

The laughter dies. The captain scowls.

“You claim to read wards,

beggar

? Prove it.”

Jacob traces a hairline fissure.

“Tap here with iron. You’ll hear a dead note.”

The captain signals a junior guard. The youth presses an iron rod to the glyph.

Clonk.

The sound is flat, wrong. Dust trickles like sand through a sieve. The junior guard pales.

“Sir—he’s right.”

The captain’s jaw clenches. He barks, “Fetch the wall-mason.” Two sentries sprint inside. He turns back to Jacob, voice lower. “Who taught you this craft?”

“My master,” Jacob says simply.

Felisia bites her lip.

He never even flinches.

She feels a warm sting of respect—and of shame, remembering how she doubted him on the road.

The captain draws a breath. “You’ve done the city a favor… Just pay the toll.”

Jacob throws him a silver coin and the captain steps aside. “Enter.”

Now Felisia lowers her hood. Her turquoise braid slips free; silver clasps catch the sun. The captain’s eyes widen. He drops to one knee.

“Lady Clearwater—I did not recognize—”

Felisia’s voice is cool but steady.

“You judged my Tutor by dirt on his cloak. Next time look deeper.” She lets the rebuke hang, then gestures for Jacob to pass. The captain bows lower, promising repairs and a full inspection.

Inside the wall tunnel, lamps flicker above damp stone. Greyson allows the crowd to flow ahead, then falls in at Felisia’s left. Jacob walks on her right, silent. Footsteps echo. Water slaps pilings somewhere beyond the walkway.

Felisia exhales.

“You could have asked me to speak for you,” she says. She keeps her eyes forward so her cheeks don’t betray her. “Why stand there alone?”

Jacob shrugs under his filthy cloak.

“A Tutor who begs loses a student’s respect.” He wipes grit from his fingers. “Besides, he might appreciate that I helped out. No one wants faulty walls, right?”

His answer stings because it holds truth. Felisia touches the braid at her shoulder.

Father says pride is a fine cloak till the rain comes,

she thinks.

Maybe it’s raining now.

Aloud she says, “Clearbay has many walls. Show me every weakness you find.”

Jacob smiles—a small, tired curve. “And you’ll break them?”

“If the flaw is real,” she answers, matching his calm, “I will strike hard.”

Greyson chuckles behind them. “A fair bargain,” he says. His deep voice fills the tunnel. “The lady learns. The tutor teaches. The knight watches for falling stones.”

They exit the tunnel onto a wooden quay. Evening sun glows on canal water. Gulls wheel overhead, shrieking. Jacob turns in a slow circle, taking in warehouses, masts, and rope bridges. Felisia sees his shoulders sag—whether from relief or sheer exhaustion she can’t tell.

She clears her throat.

“You look half dead. First lesson starts tomorrow at dawn. Sir Greyson, find him a bath and accommodation.”

Jacob bows—an awkward dip, but sincere.

“A bath sounds righteous. Soap too, if the city can spare it.”

Greyson laughs again.

“Welcome to Clearbay, Bocaj. Dirt washes off. Skill remains.”

Felisia says nothing more, but as they cross the bridge toward her father’s villa she glances sideways at the young Tutor. He walks with a slight limp, cloak still dripping mud, yet his gaze stays sharp, searching every beam and bracket above the canal.

He really does look for flaws,

she thinks.

Maybe he will also…

Felisia shakes her head.

She honestly doesn’t know whether that thought frightens her or makes her hopeful.

For the first time since leaving the lagoon, she allows herself a real smile, though she keeps it turned toward the sunset so neither man sees.

Sir Greyson breaks the companionable quiet. “Milady, the steward will question the delay. How much do you wish to share?”

Felisia answers at once.

“Tell Father we took the southern cut and met poor roads. Nothing else.” She pauses, then lowers her voice. “Except the wall rune. He needs to hear that.”

“As you command,” Greyson says.

Jacob lifts an eyebrow.

“I’d prefer not to be labeled a beggar in the official tale.”

Felisia gives him a sideways look. “Earn a cleaner cloak and we’ll discuss your title.”

“Bath first, title second,” Jacob agrees. “And this cloak was a gift from… my master.”

They reach a side gate that leads directly into the inner city—an arch where carved dolphins support a weather-beaten lintel.

A house guard spots Felisia and swings the gate open.

“Welcome home, milady.”

Felisia steps through but gestures for Jacob to precede her. He obeys, yet she hears him whisper.

“Thank you,” as he passes.

Small courtesy,

she thinks,

but it matters.

Later, after Sir Greyson had brought Jacob toward the bath house and reported to the steward, Felisia stands alone on the veranda that overlooks the inner harbor.

Soft lamps rim the waterline.

Her sisters’ towers glow on distant piers—little beacons of rivalry.

The trial of succession, the Sky Hunt, is only weeks away.

Her stomach knots.

She remembers Greyson’s warning in the carriage.

If you refuse every teacher, you hand this city to your sisters.

She also remembers Jacob’s fingers guiding her wrist by the lagoon, the way her rapier had bitten wood after one tiny change.

Five levels in a heartbeat,

she thinks.

No Tutor has done that for me before.

She looks down at her right hand, flexes her fingers, imagines water magic coiling sharper and faster. She whispers, “Show me the cracks…”

For the first time that day the knot in her stomach loosens.

Tide water shifts below, slapping the pilings in a slow, steady rhythm, like breath before battle.

Felisia breathes with it and lets the night settle over her shoulders like a lighter cloak than pride has ever been.