The air seemed to shudder. The plank rattled.

A roar surged through the docks as the crowd erupted.

Only then did I feel it—my heart hammering, my breath ragged. Cold sweat soaked my tunic, a chill I hadn’t noticed until the moment passed.

Thomas and I exchanged a glance—and grinned.

We had outgrown our own expectations. Neither of us had believed we would pass the trial.

Applause thundered across the docks, washing over us in crashing waves. Shouts, whistles, and crude cheers burst from every corner—the roughest kind of blessing, loud and hard-earned.

Then the dockmaster rose.

The noise ebbed at once, as if the tide itself had drawn back at his command.

Weatherboot stepped toward us, leather boots grinding into the salt-crusted sand with slow, deliberate crunches. He stopped two paces away. The air between us carried the sour scent of old rum.

A red scar twisted as a crooked grin spread across his face—one that never reached his eyes.

I glanced at Thomas. The same question flickered in his stare.

What’s the madman up to now?

Then—steel shrieked.

The cutlass hissed from its sheath, flashing silver as it stopped inches from my throat.

Somewhere in the crowd, a child shouted our names. The cry cut short as a hand snapped over the small mouth, muffling it into frightened silence.

I froze mid-breath.

The cold edge hovered a gnat’s wing from my skin, its chill pressing against the pulse in my neck. My heart hammered like a trapped bird. Every tiny flinch was mirrored by the blade, holding that impossible distance as though it were tied to me by an unseen thread.

Weatherboot’s gaze sharpened, pinning me where I stood.

Beside me came a soft leathery thud.

From the corner of my eye, Thomas had dropped his sling. It lay limp in the sand while he stood rigid, staring at the steel at my throat, words caught somewhere behind his teeth.

A jagged roar burst from the sailors—men who lived by the blade and loved the scent of danger. They slammed mugs against the timber in brutal applause.

But among the villagers, the air seemed to vanish. Mothers pulled children back. Travellers shrank into their cloaks. The morning’s sport had turned suddenly real—the cold authority of the dockmaster’s steel.

Weatherboot tilted his head and locked eyes with me.

Then he winked. The bastard was enjoying this.

The silence stretched until it felt ready to snap. At last the corner of his mouth twitched. With a casual flick of his wrist, he turned the blade and smacked the flat of it against my shoulder.

The blow landed like a mule's kick. My knees dipped and sand ground beneath my boots as I fought to keep my footing.

"The First Soulbreakers are born!" he roared. Laughter ripped through his voice.

The crowd erupted—some cheering, some confused. "Soulbreakers?" someone called out. "What's that mean?"

He turned to Thomas — no pause, no theatre.

The blade swung, flat and swift. Thomas swallowed hard; his jaw clicked as the steel struck his shoulder.

Weatherboot sheathed the cutlass with a hard clack and turned back toward the crowd.

The docks exploded again—cheers, confusion, and relieved laughter crashing together. Many of them had no idea what the trial truly meant.

Weatherboot merely leaned back into his chair.

He’d had his fun.

The fear in the air had clearly tasted better than the rum.

“Soulbreakers!” someone shouted, and the docks erupted.

“Levia’s Courageous Children!”

“An adept slinger at that age—bloody impressive!”

The crew’s barricade duties were forgotten. The crowd surged forward, a wild, cheering tide breaking over us. Sweat, salt, and the heavy scent of rum filled the air. Praise rained down in a chaotic chorus of Soulbreaker, hands clapping us on the shoulders, voices roaring in every direction.

Thomas puffed out his chest, joy blazing across his face. His hands trembled—not with fear this time, but with exhilaration.

For a fleeting moment, I thought this might be the greatest day of our lives. A title that began with The First carried weight anywhere—but to earn it here, from Big O’ Scar himself? That was no small honour.

The crowd slowly receded, though the docks were far from quiet. Town children, unable to contain themselves, peppered us with questions, their voices bright and eager. Questions and chatter bubbled up around us, urgent but harmless, curiosity sharper than any steel.

Behind us, a large group gathered at Stainer's stall, claiming their winnings and counting coins, their laughter and low bargaining weaving into the fading roar of the docks.

Skewers and strips of jerky found their way into our hands, pressed there by triumphant spectators. I glanced at Thomas—his eyes gleamed as he bit into a long strip of jerky, savouring it slowly. I could only laugh wryly at the chaotic generosity of the crowd.

A cold finger traced the length of my spine. I felt the prickle of eyes on the back of my neck—a gaze that didn’t belong to the cheering crowd. I turned. Weatherboot was nowhere to be seen among the throng.

Then I spotted him—sitting in the tavern, leaning toward a man clad in a brown woollen cloak, his face hidden beneath a deep hood. The stranger murmured something, close enough for Weatherboot to hear.

Their movements spoke of familiarity—old acquaintances, not strangers. My breath hitched as their eyes flicked toward us mid-conversation.

The exchange was brief. They clasped hands, firm and deliberate, as if sealing an unspoken bargain.

Then the hooded figure rose and slipped back into the crowd, vanishing as quickly as he'd appeared.