The mercenary guild's coin purse landed on the counter with a heavy thud. The woman behind it—Mara, as Cassin had learned—eyed him with something between amusement and reluctant respect.
"Deserters dealt with," she said, pushing the purse toward him. "Five heads, five payments. You're either very good or very stupid."
Cassin tucked the coins into his belt without counting them. "Does it matter?"
Mara snorted. "Not to me." She leaned forward, elbows on the counter. "But it might to the others. They're curious about you."
He didn't have to look to feel the weight of gazes from the tables behind him. The guild's usual crowd—hard-eyed men and women with scars and stories—had been watching him since he'd walked in with his bloodstained burlap bundle.
"Let them be curious," Cassin said.
Mara smirked. "Kid, in this line of work, curiosity leads to questions. And questions lead to testing the new blood." She nodded toward a corner table where three mercenaries sat, their weapons conspicuously displayed. "They've been asking where you came from. Who trained you."
Cassin's fingers twitched near his dagger. "Nowhere. No one."
"Bullshit." Mara's voice dropped. "No one moves like you do without training. That wasn't just luck in the marshes."
Cassin didn't answer. He had learned long ago that silence was sharper than any blade.
Mara studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you're sticking around, you'll need more than just bounty work to make a name for yourself."
Cassin had no intention of making a name. But he needed information. And these people had it.
He turned toward the crowded tavern, his gaze landing on the mercenaries watching him. Without a word, he walked to their table and sat.
The largest of the three—a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar across his nose—raised an eyebrow. "Got a death wish, kid?"
"No," Cassin said. "Answers."
The table went still. The scarred man chuckled. "Bold. I like that." He took a swig of ale. "What do you want to know?"
"Shards."
The word landed like a stone in still water. The mercenaries exchanged glances.
"Shards?" The woman beside Scar snorted. "That's what you're after? Not coin, not work—just stories about fancy rocks?"
Cassin didn't blink. "How many are there?"
Scar shrugged. "No one knows. Rare, but not that rare. Maybe one in every few thousand people's got one. Most are low-tier—Dormant, Awakened. The big ones, the Sovereign or Transcendent types?" He whistled. "Those are legends."
The third mercenary, a wiry man with a missing ear, leaned in. "Why the interest? You got one?"
Cassin's expression didn't change. "No."
(It wasn't entirely a lie. The Shard had him, not the other way around.)
Missing Ear grinned. "Sure, sure. Well, if you're looking to learn more, the academies are your best bet. Cyrus Sword Order's got a whole library on Shard lore. Dawn Academy too, though they're more about the exousia side of things."
"Exousia?"
"Energy stuff. Soul rings, all that." Scar waved a hand. "Point is, if you want real answers, you'll need proper training. And for that, you'll need an academy."
Cassin absorbed the information. "Which one's best?"
The woman laughed. "Depends on what you're after. Cyrus is for swordsmen who want to be legends. Dawn's for nobles who want to play at being warriors. Argent's somewhere in between." She smirked. "Then there's the smaller ones—Iron Fang, Verdant Blade. They'll take anyone with half-decent coin and two working legs."
Scar tapped the table. "But if you're serious about this, kid, you'll need more than just curiosity. The good academies don't take street rats without references."
Cassin's fingers tightened around his cup. References. Another obstacle.
He stood abruptly. "Thanks for the advice."
Scar raised his cup. "Good luck, kid. You'll need it."
Outside, the streets of Lothern were alive with the clamor of merchants and the scent of roasting meat. Cassin moved through the crowd, his mind churning.
Academies. Training. Answers.
He had the coin now to pay for entry at one of the smaller schools. But the thought of wasting months on drills and etiquette made his skin crawl.
And yet—
The Cyrus Sword Order would provide what he needed. Knowledge. Strength. A path to his vengeance.
But they wouldn't take him as he was.
Which meant he'd have to find another way in.
He turned his steps toward the city's eastern district, where the banners of the Cyrus Sword Order fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
There was always a back door.
And Cassin had spent his life learning how to slip through them.