“Keep your back to the walls, boy,” the old man didn’t look up as he honed his blade. “I don’t need another dead apprentice. Not at this age.” Rowan nodded and returned to his own blunt length of steel.

Wellsy brushed Rowan off when he’d asked about the magistrate. He told Rowan not to ask about silly things like a “magistrate of shadows,” although the old man checked behind him before saying so. Wellsy thought any gutter punk lucky enough to avoid the guards lash shouldn’t dream of a better life. Of glory. Rowan knew the bitter old man was wrong. He’d prove it by finding the magistrate.

It took him three months, his pride, and all of his meager coin, but Rowan found a legend. And just as quickly found him wanting. He’d dreamed of an clever, elegant operator. A powerful man who could move behind the scenes, but possess the courage and ability to fight at the front. Instead, he found a half-crippled drunk.

Rowan did his best to swallow the insults and bile the supposed “legend” launched his way. Each sufficient hit knocked the former Tarnahill scion lower and lower, until even a disgraced son couldn’t stand it.

He pushed back against the venomous cripple, but found him gone. In his place. transformed, stood a steady instructor. Rowan, a long way from Tarnahill keep, found the man he’d been looking for. Or so he thought.