Chapter 7 : The City of Forgotten Fates.

Dorian was a Fixer.

Not a noble. Not a criminal. Something in between.

He thrived in Velmire's underworld, acting as a broker for those who needed information, money, or disappearances.

Ethan remembered him from the novel.

Dorian wasn't a fighter. He didn't have an aura or magic.

But he was dangerous in a different way.

His mind was a weapon sharper than any sword.

And if Ethan wanted to survive, he needed a weapon like that.

Ethan, Lysia, and Kael made their way through Velmire's slums, where the air smelled of unwashed bodies, spiced alcohol, and rotten wood.

At the back of an old gambling den, past a hidden door, they found Dorian.

He was seated behind a desk of polished ebony, his fingers idly flipping a gold coin. His gray coat was lined with expensive fur, and his piercing silver eyes studied them with amusement.

"Well," he murmured, his voice smooth. "The ghosts of Fort Ironwood come knocking at my door."

Ethan didn't react. "We need safe passage out of Velmire."

Dorian smiled. "Of course you do."

He leaned back, studying them.

Then—his eyes flickered to Kael.

"You," he said, voice thoughtful. "You should be dead."

Kael's jaw tightened. "And you should mind your own damn business."

Dorian chuckled. "Oh, but this is my business."

His fingers drummed against the desk. "You see, I make it my business to know the players of the game."

His gaze shifted to Lysia.

"A runaway princess."

Then to Ethan.

"And a man who shouldn't exist."

Ethan forced himself to stay still.

Dorian knew too much.

Ethan didn't bother with lies. Dorian would see through them.

So he offered something better.

"Seran Durell is moving early."

Dorian's smile vanished.

The room went silent.

Ethan pressed forward. "The war isn't supposed to start for another two years. But it's changing. Seran is making moves. Lord Aldryn's assassination wasn't planned. And you know what that means."

Dorian's silver eyes darkened.

"Chaos," he murmured.

Ethan nodded. "And chaos is good for your business, isn't it?"

Dorian exhaled, his amusement returning.

"I do enjoy a well-placed disruption," he admitted. "Fine. I'll get you out of Velmire."

He reached for a stack of sealed documents, sliding one across the desk.

"There's a caravan leaving tonight. You'll pose as hired guards. But be warned—this caravan belongs to House Meridan."

Lysia's expression hardened.

"Meridan?" she repeated. "They're loyalists to my father."

Dorian shrugged. "And they'd turn you in the moment they recognized you."

Ethan exhaled. Perfect. Another risk.

But they didn't have a choice.

As they left Dorian's hideout, Kael scowled.

"I don't like this."

"Too bad," Ethan muttered. "We don't have better options."

Lysia's gaze was distant. "House Meridan's guards… They'll be trained knights."

Ethan knew that.

And that meant one thing.

Everyone they met from now on would have real power.

The moment they reached the caravan, that fact became painfully clear.

Two knights stood at the entrance, their red auras pulsing faintly in the dim light.

Tier 3 Martial Aura.

Not weak. Not strong. But stronger than Ethan.

The knight in charge was Captain Rael Sareth.

Tier 4 Aura. Stronger. Faster. Deadlier.

He eyed Ethan's group with suspicion.

"You don't look like mercenaries."

Kael stepped forward. "And you don't look like a man who asks too many questions."

Rael's golden aura flickered faintly. "Watch your tongue, sellsword."

Ethan kept his head down.

Tier 4. A knight like Rael could break his ribs with a single punch.

They needed to move carefully.

Because if anyone discovered who Lysia was…

They'd be dead before sunrise.

Ethan felt Captain Rael's golden aura the moment the knight stepped closer.

It wasn't overwhelming, but it was heavy. Pressing. The natural force of a trained warrior four tiers above Ethan.

This is bad.

Rael's sharp gaze swept over them. "We don't take weaklings," he said flatly. "If you're hired swords, you'll prove it."

Kael crossed his arms. "What kind of proof?"

Rael drew his sword in one smooth motion. The steel gleamed in the dim firelight.

"A duel."

Ethan's stomach dropped.

Of course. Of course it's a damn fight.

Rael's eyes flickered between them before settling on Ethan.

"You. You look soft." His lips curled slightly. "I'll test you."

Ethan felt his pulse quicken. He couldn't refuse. If he did, they'd be kicked from the caravan—or worse, exposed.

But he knew the truth.

He was Tier 1. Gray Aura. Weakest rank.

Rael was Tier 4.

This wasn't a test.

It was a slaughter.

Ethan stepped forward, forcing his face to stay blank.

He had to think. He had no strength advantage, no aura tricks, nothing.

If he fought Rael head-on, he'd be on the ground in seconds.

But that was fine.

Because Ethan had never planned to win.

He just had to lose the right way.

The caravan guards gathered around, eager for a show. Even Kael and Lysia stood at the edge, watching in silence.

Ethan grabbed a training sword from the rack—a dull steel blade meant for sparring.

Rael didn't bother with training gear. He kept his real sword.

The knight's golden aura pulsed lightly as he settled into a ready stance. "Whenever you're ready."

Ethan gripped his sword tighter.

Then—Rael moved.

Too fast. Too strong.

Ethan barely saw the first strike. He twisted just in time, but the impact still sent him stumbling back.

Pain flared in his arms.

Shit.

Rael didn't stop. He pressed forward, attacks precise and controlled.

Ethan dodged by inches.

A step left. A duck. A pivot.

He wasn't countering. Just surviving.

But that was exactly what he wanted.

The longer he lasted, the more people would assume he was capable.

Even if he never landed a hit.

Rael's golden aura flared brighter.

He was done playing.

Ethan saw the final strike coming—a feint, then a brutal downward cut.

There was no dodging it.

So he did the next best thing.

He dropped his sword.

Rael's blade slammed against his gauntlet instead, glancing off the metal armor. Ethan twisted with the impact, letting the force knock him to the ground.

Hard hit. Believable fall.

He stayed down.

The gathered soldiers laughed and cheered. Some exchanged coins—they had been betting on how long Ethan would last.

Rael stepped back, lowering his blade.

"Not completely useless," he said. "But you need work."

Ethan didn't argue.

His arms ached. His legs were unsteady.

But he was still breathing.

And that meant he had passed.

As the crowd dispersed, Kael offered Ethan a hand up.

Ethan took it, legs still shaky.

"That was painful to watch," Kael muttered. "But not bad."

Ethan exhaled. "I'll take the compliment."

Lysia, however, was still watching him.

Ethan turned to her. "What?"

"You didn't fight back."

Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow. "Did you really think I could win?"

Lysia said nothing. But the slightest flicker of amusement crossed her features.

Ethan wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

But at least they were still in the caravan.

For now.

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