To say Fritz's spar against Mathew went poorly would be an understatement.

It wasn't just that his cursed state made every parry painful and every strike a struggle; it was that the lordling would weave in Water Strikes as he cut and sliced. Fritz complained, protesting that the use of Abilities was too much.

Adam disagreed. "Lord Whiteship is following a water swordman's Path. You'll have to watch for the telltale signs of its casting."

"There's hardly a need for that, with my powers," Fritz argued.

"You can't always rely on Senses. Evolutions or Treasures can shroud Abilities," Adam explained. "Certain sneaky beasts also have that power."

"Is it likely that my upcoming opponents would though?" Fritz asked.

"If they have learned that you're a Scout, they will assume you have Senses and will bring a shrouding Treasure," Adam said.

"Oh, they know he's a Scout," Mathew provided. "And they know he's as slippery as an eel."

"They do? Why do they know that?" Fritz asked.

"Why, I told them, of course," Mathew said, smiling.

"What?" Fritz growled. "Why did you tell them that!? Are you spying on me? Conspiring with those two bastards?"

He raised his training blade menacingly. The man took a step back and guarded with his sabre, though he still smiled smugly. "Now, now. This was a few days before this duel was even ordained. How could I know that you would challenge them?"

Fritz struck and Mathew swiftly parried. The deflection wasn't effortless, Fritz was too skilled for that, but it was all too carefree, which irked him further.

"Brute," Mathew said.

"Spy," Fritz seethed.

He struck again and the blow was diverted with little difficulty.

"Stop that," Mathew said. "We're speaking, not sparring."

"I will do neither with a traitor," Fritz said, lowering his sword.

"So dramatic," Mathew replied, rolling his eyes. "It was idle gossip at the time. You can't blame me for being sociable."

Fritz wanted to attack again, but held back, knowing it would do no good.

"What did you happen to mention, Lord?" Adam asked, his eyes hard.

"Nothing much," Mathew said. "A passing comment or two. I did not tell him all there is to tell. To be honest, there's very little to tell anyway. I'm not sure I've ever seen you use an Ability apart from that predictive Sense."

"One shouldn't gossip about their sparring partner's Abilities," Adam said reproachfully. "It is incredibly vulgar."

"Am I not divulging the secrets of Lord Whiteship? Is that also vulgar?" Mathew countered.

Adam scowled."The mysteries of the water swordsman's path is not so hidden in this city. Most Houses practice some form of it. There's a great difference between open secrets and personal ones."

Mathew grimaced and the two glared at each other. Adam then had a vindictive look like he was going to order the man to do some tortuous training. The lordling soon relented.

"I suppose you're right there, Sir Needle," Mathew agreed. "Though there's nothing to be done for it now. And if Lord Hightide won't spar with me any longer, then perhaps I should leave. My presence shall not be missed."

"Trying to escape more training?" Adam asked.

"Of course," Mathew admitted amiably. "I still feel rotten after last night."

"Too bad, don't drink so much," Adam said. "Raise your blades and get back to sparring."

While Fritz still felt simmering anger, he decided to release it through his swordcraft rather than letting it stew in his stomach.

They clashed, the clang of steel on steel filled the air. Mathew cut, sliced and parried while Fritz replied in kind with thrusts, flicks and ripostes. They weren't evenly matched. Even before Fritz had to wield the point-heavy rapier, his skill had suffered from a lack of refinement. And now his horribly balanced blade threw him off over and over while his wrist and forearm ached terribly from the strain of keeping its point high and steady.

Fritz fought through the pain, stabbing his sword in a battering barrage, constantly pushing forward even as he was struck again and again by his foes' blunt sabre. His Danger Sense warned him of these strikes, but it was one thing to know an attack was coming and another to dodge it. Especially when he was meant to be keeping up an offence, threatening harm to his foe.

If he dedicated his all to defending himself, it would be different. Properly prepared he could dodge a bolt of lightning, but he knew that a strategy of total evasion would not achieve victory; if he could not attack, the best he could hope for would be a draw.

Fritz wasn't aiming for a draw. Triumph or death was his choice. As it always had been.

Mathew was skilled, his defence impeccable, he'd trained most of his life to be so, but he lacked a certain vicious instinct; his cuts were clean and slashes were becoming predictable. Fritz pressed him harder, dodging those strikes he could and enduring those he couldn't. The lordling gave way to his assault, retreating cautiously, blocking and parrying as he stepped back.

The prick deserved a beating, not just because of his loose tongue, but because Fritz was sick of his smirk, so he didn't let up even a little.

"Whoa there!" Mathew cried as his back met the wall. "Calm down, good man!"

Mathew parried a thrust and Fritz pushed the man's sword off-line with his own blade, then he stepped close, throwing a punch wrapped in wisping shadow. With a satisfying thud, his fist connected with the bastard's jaw. Fritz made to hit his surprised face again.

"Stop!" Adam barked.

Fritz ignored it as he had done that battering from the blunt blade, punching again. It was a glancing blow. He would have struck a third time if not for a brutal false pain that cascaded down his forearm. He leapt back as a baton whistled through the air where it had been.

Fritz turned and scowled at his tutor, who was wielding the interfering weapon.

"Sir Needle," Mathew said gratefully.

"Why did you intervene?" Fritz nearly spat.

"None of that, you want to be practising the Inevitable Blade, not the inevitable brawl," Adam said. "Fighting like a beast won't refine your Technique."

"That's right, you savage, how dare you lay a hand on me. I am nobility and I will not put up with such barbarity," Mathew seethed, rubbing at his cheek.

"My Lord, reconsider, it was a foolish mistake," Adam assuaged. "Isn't that right, Lord Hightide?"

Fritz smirked. "Of course, it was a mistake."

"I have eyes, that was intentional, and you used some Ability to hide your attack," Mathew claimed. "My face still feels numb. What did you do?"

Adam turned a hard glare on Fritz.

"Just a simple savages sneak attack," he said, still smirking.

"Well, until you apologise and learn some restraint, I'm leaving," Mathew declared. He threw his practice sword on the ground and stormed off.

When the lordling was gone, Adam stared at Fritz darkly. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"No, I just couldn't stand his stupid smile."

"Withstand it."

"Why? I don't need his help to get better. I have Elliot and George," Fritz said.

"Don't be foolish, he's the best chance you have of learning your foes' weaknesses," Adam said. "Throwing away an advantage due to your anger is a complete waste."

Fritz knew he had a point, though he found the statement galling. Especially coming from a man such as Sir Needle. It was only through an application of Focus and Control that he could think through the frustration.

He sighed, then said, "I'm sorry. It's just one setback after another. And now my life is again on the line because I dared to claim what I am rightfully entitled to."

"I understand," Adam said. "But remember, you're closer than you've ever been to achieving what you want. It will be a deadly trial, but you do have a chance. If you put everything to use. And if that means apologising to the indolent lordling, then do so."

Fritz nodded.

"Good. He'll hopefully be here tomorrow, but for now, let's work on your stance and footwork again," Adam said. "It was appallingly inept when you were advancing. Oh, and try not to use your Gloom Strike again, you're lucky he didn't immediately recognise it for the shadow magic that it was."

Fritz agreed, then suffered his tutor's instructions. Through the basic steps, again. Leaps and lunges until he was satisfied. Then it was made all the worse when he was ordered to hold his sword's heavy point high while going through the same repetitive drills.

While Fritz was busy with his own sworsmanship, Adam also aided Elliot, running him through the same exercises, though he corrected him less thoroughly. His foundational skills were, apparently, more practised and precise than Fritz's own, even if he couldn't see much of a difference in proficiency.

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Sure, Elliot's movements were more sturdy, sure and solid, but that only made him seem more stiff and stodgy in Fritz's eyes. Easy to overcome for someone more quick, relaxed and talented, such as himself.

When they were both eventually set to spar against each other, Fritz found that he'd been somewhat overconfident. It wasn't a complete rout one way or the other, as they traded strikes, defeats and wins almost equally, and he soon was forced to respect his brother's long-honed skill.

That simple, flourishless style was far more efficient than he had suspected, and the well-practised ease in which Elliot advanced and retreated accordingly had Fritz at some loss. There was something to be learned from it, or so his Technique whispered, but imitating that same control over distance would take much diligence to ingrain into his body.

Still, Fritz did his best in overcoming that clean, straightforward technique.

"Keep a steadier stance, be more precise and hold better form," Adam advised Fritz.

"More aggressive, don't be afraid to feint and don't be so obvious where you're striking," he told Elliot.

On and on, for two hours, until they were both too tired and sore to keep their swords steady.

Adam watched and advised the whole while, choosing not to take his leave earlier and extending their stay in the hall. Both Hightides were grateful for it, though the strain was something of a torment.

"Right, that's enough," Adam said as one wobbling blade hit another. "Head home and get plenty of food, mana-dense if you can afford it. Then get some sleep, you'll need it."

Fritz nodded, not speaking due to his heaving breath. He was tired and sweaty, and took some minutes to rest up.

"Would you like to have lunch with me and my team?" Fritz asked his brother as they recovered under the Treasure lantern's wonderful light.

Elliot shook his head.

"Why not? We have monster meat. It'll do you some good," Fritz cajoled. "It could even let you grow a couple of inches, maybe you'll finally be taller than me."

Elliot scowled. "No. I think not."

"What's wrong?" Fritz asked.

"Nothing."

"It's obviously something. What have I done to earn this ire?" Fritz asked.

"There are too many things to count, Francis," Elliot said coldly. "Though, first of all, I would ask you to stop playing at being a protective big brother."

"I am a protective big brother," Fritz bristled, not at all liking his tone.

"Only when it suits you, otherwise it all falls on my shoulders."

"Oh, and what great burden falls on your shoulders exactly?" Fritz asked darkly.

"Everything," Elliot said.

"That's hardly true," Fritz dismissed.

Elliot glared, then seeming to dig up some deeply buried words, he spoke, "Every day it falls on me to protect our family, to keep Thea safe and to hold up our House's honour. Every day you're not around, it's all on me. After my mother died, and we had no one else left, you also left us. You weren't strong enough to stay with us, so you fled all responsibility, leaving it all to me."

"I didn't choose to, I had to leave," Fritz nearly snarled.

"You did choose to! You chose to harm that evil girl, not for us, but for yourself. An excuse to escape us and feel right about it. You say you were protecting us, but in truth, you forced a situation in which you could leave without remorse. Then you were gone. And we were alone."

"I was alone! Not you! You had each other," Fritz yelled. "I had no one."

"No one, save your new, better brother, Bert," Elliot spat, jealousy, fury and bitterness plainly writ across his face and in the dripping dark light around him. "And I bet with your newfound freedom, you engaged in thievery and worse, all while we worried for you and ourselves."

Fritz stared with incredulity, in awe of the one-sided tale his brother spouted. He wondered why his brother thought so lowly of him, what he had done to deserve such scorn. How could Elliot possibly think that starving on the streets, scraping together meals of rats and refuse, could ever be preferable to living safely in that orphanage? Then the incredulity passed, laying bare a brutal, bitter fury of his own.

"Elliot," Fritz said, his voice low, soft and deadly. "I starved. I stole. I begged and I bled. I've eaten rats, cats, rotting peels and mouldy bread. You don't know an inch of the horror I've survived. Not just in the gutters, but in the Spire too. You don't know what it's like to go hungry, you don't know what it's like to have no bed to return to, you don't know what it's like to fight a pack of beast hounds with nothing but a sharp bone wrapped in cloth. Whatever you think you've suffered, it pales to the misery of my existence these past years."

"Spare me the pauper's tale," Elliot dismissed, though he did seem shaken. "Your suffering, if unexaggerated, which I doubt, doesn't excuse you from the pain you've caused me and Thea. You're selfish, a coward. And you've been a terrible brother."

It was almost too much for Fritz to be accused of such by his own brother, whom he had only tried to shelter. It brought forth such rage and sorrow that he could scream. Black waves roiled over his vision, and Dusksong delighted in his dark emotion.

He almost went to wield it.

Instead, stifling any curses that would spill from his throat, he exerted his control and squeezed the dancing shadows around him.

Cold, heavy and dull, Fritz met his brother's glare.

"You're wrong," he said simply. "I suffered so you wouldn't. You can't blame me for protecting you the best I knew how. If you had to bear the responsibilities that had fallen on me, for a time, so be it. This grudge you've nursed is a petty nothing. Your anger is a child's tantrum. If you ever go down to the desperate district, you'll see how it was. You'll see what suffering is, even if you won't truly know it. I don't think you could ever understand. You called me selfish and a coward; you're right on one account, but I have sacrificed for our family. What have you ever sacrificed?"

The calm, dead voice Fritz spoke with unnerved his brother more than a shout ever could. Elliot looked away.

"At least I was there," he replied. Although his tone was steady, all Fritz could hear was petulance.

"We're done," Fritz said, standing. "You don't have to speak with me. In fact, I would prefer it if you wouldn't. But you will be here tomorrow, and you will practice. I won't risk our lives for your idiocy."

With that, he left, without glancing back.

Only after three long minutes, when he found an isolated out-of-sight spot, did he let go of his Control. He ducked down and cloaked himself in dusk while he struggled internally. Rage, recrimination, then rage again ran through him. His whole body shook and his breath came in hisses. He didn't weep or wail.

Eventually, the anger faded and he stood, returning home to a cold, mana-dense lunch, alone. He ate it in something of a daze. Then he decided to sleep.

He was woken for dinner and he joined the lively team. His obvious brooding brought down the mood, but Fritz didn't care to smile or joke as he usually did. Still, none blamed him; they could see that something sat heavy on his shoulders. They assumed it must have been the approaching duel and they attempted to reassure him, but he hadn't the heart to explain the true source of his misery.

Bert, of course, guessed something of it, but since he had no family to speak of, he could only offer a hug and a pat on the back, which Fritz accepted easily. Then his blood brother had to be off, and in full butler attire. Again, he was evasive as to the why, though Fritz theorised he was working for the Nightshark in some sordid capacity. Perhaps auditioning for a place in her harem. The idiot had on a wide, eager grin, so there was no talking him out of it. Fritz could only hope he'd stay safe and not get too embroiled in those seductive tides.

With a full stomach and something of a second wind, Fritz decided to take to the yard and practice the Inevitable Blade, following the small nudges he felt from the Technique. George joined him, though he didn't speak. Together, in silence, they swung their swords. Fritz was grateful for the company and the quiet.

After he had pushed himself to his limit, Fritz returned to his room. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to seek out Sylvia, though he decided against it. He needed the rest.

That night, Fritz slept fitfully.

The next day dawned, and training went as it had the previous day.

Fritz put on his most polite airs and apologised to Mathew, who accepted most ungraciously, smiling smugly the whole time, then they sparred. Again, Fritz was at a disadvantage and lost most of their bouts. Then they switched partners, each testing their skill against the other's, then they worked on their flaws.

Adam criticised and corrected the whole while and after some hours, the long lesson was over.

The skill rankings were clear to Fritz's eyes: Mathew was at the top, Elliot and himself were tied, and George, as the least experienced, was last. George didn't mind his near constant defeats, though; he just listened to the lessons and practised diligently, only striving to get better. It was that steady presence and quiet determination that had Fritz reflect on his own shortcomings and the shortcuts he was taking with his own swordsmanship.

Fritz and Elliot did not speak.

The third day passed much the same, and although Fritz thought that he would have become acclimated to the ugly, ungainly training sword, it wasn't so. They were just as heavy and seemingly more awkward to wield. He theorised that his time training with Quicksilver later in the day had him lose his touch with the blunted blade. Fritz supposed that was just what he'd have to get used to.

It was only on the fourth day, five away from the ever-approaching duel, that Fritz noticed some clear improvement to his fighting style. He found his footing easier and could fall into rhythmic, back-and-forth exchanges without being struck. His sense of the distance between himself and his opponent came more naturally, and he observed himself using it to his advantage more often than not.

Still, while there was a slight shiver in his Sanctum as he sparred, there was no tremor and no greater mastery. There was something he was still missing.

Focused as he was on his swordsmanship, the next day went by in something of a blur; he barely registered what George was talking about until Fritz was holding the heavy device the man had forged. It had a frame of metal and a series of tubes and multifaceted lenses. There was a slot in which to house the gem, and another for a mana lantern to shed its light through all that glinting glass.

While Fritz was happy for it to be finished, he hadn't the time to study it or what was within the red gem, not yet. Still, they could take a small peek, just a few minutes for curiosities sake wouldn't do any harm.

"George, my good man, let's have a look at what is written within this scintillating stone."

He nodded stoically, then smiled brightly.

They set up the device in the lounge, interrupting the two ladies within. Lauren had been perusing the Mist Art scroll, and Jess had been reading some 'tasteful' romance novella. They both quickly set aside their respective books, intrigued by the device and enamoured with the intensely faceted gem.

George set the strange, metal apparatus on the tea table while Fritz explained its purpose.

Soon, the gleaming red stone was in the receptacle, and Fritz's Mana lantern sat on the opposite side of the device, separated by the various large lenses. While the gem fit perfectly, the lantern wobbled in its housing. Though it was a small flaw, it set George to frowning.

"I'll fix that," he said, producing a small hammer from a bag.

"Later, George, let's see if it works first," Fritz said.

He nodded reluctantly, and Fritz activated the lantern.

White light splashed through the lenses, each focusing the illumination until it was refined to a brilliant point that plunged into the gem's depths. The wall behind was painted with warped lines and broken glyphs.

To Fritz's dismay, they were unreadable.

"Oh, that's pretty," Jess said, delighted by the sight.

"Quite," Lauren agreed.

"Unfortunately, pretty is not what I was hoping for," Fritz said.

"There are dials here, they let you adjust the lenses. And these ones rotate the gem," George pointed out.

Fritz immediately knelt by the device and started adjusting. The unfocused pattern blurred and sharpened, but nothing, then swirled and changed completely when he found the dial for the gem.

While there were ooo's and ahh's from the audience, and he quite enjoyed the show of lights himself, frustration and weariness built within him. Even with the dizzying display, he couldn't keep his eyelids from drooping or the grumbled curses from escaping his lips.

"Fritz," George said, after another five minutes of fruitless adjustment.

"Yes!?" Fritz asked with exasperation. It was meant for the device, not for George, but he still looked upset by the tone. "My apologies, I didn't mean for my words to come out like that."

George hesitated, then looked down at the designs for the device in his hands.

"What's wrong? Speak," Fritz entreated.

"I may have made a few mistakes," George admitted. "I can see now that there are places where the placement and forging aren't quite right. In my haste to provide you with something that might help you, I did less meticulous work than I should have."

"Alas." Fritz sighed. He wanted to be annoyed at the time wasted but couldn't be; the man's intentions were clear, and Fritz was too tired to care overmuch. "Well, thank you anyway, George. I appreciate the effort and skill it takes to make such a device."

"I'll do my best to repair it," George promised.

With that, the disappointing device was stored away, and they left the lounge.

The next day, a crate of sharkskins, properly tanned and treated, arrived. Fritz had mostly forgotten about them and was surprised when they were delivered. They went into the vault, and Fritz promptly put them out of his mind. He'd deal with them later, when he wasn't so preoccupied. Still, when he did inspect the matte, dark blue hides, he thought they would make mighty fine armour. He just needed to find a good leather worker.

That wasn't the only delivery, though; there was another, given to him in a strange and surreptitious way while he was walking home. Quinn Cold, one of the Scale Guard, not wearing their distinctive green armour, had accosted him.

"Lord Hightide," he hissed from an alley. He repeated it again when Fritz pretended not to hear.

Fritz turned, then warily approached. He noticed the guardsman was in plain clothes, quite drab really for a man of his prestige and character, and he wondered what he was doing.

Playing spy, perhaps?

"Sir Cold?" he asked suspiciously. "What business do you have with me?"

"Not I, but His Majesty," Quinn quietly explained. "He wishes for you to accept this gift."

"A gift?" Fritz asked, even more suspiciously.

Quinn held out his hand and in it was a thick bracer. It was fashioned of pale bone and intricately carved with single-tailed, bare-chested mermaids.

"What is it?" Fritz asked, thinking it some ludicrous ploy or joke.

"Not for me to know, though I suspect it is a Treasure," he said, stating the obvious. "The King is quite magnanimous, yes?"

"Quite," Fritz replied blandly.

"Seize it, it would not do to spurn the King's largess," Quinn said seriously.

Fritz took it gingerly, then slipped it into a pocket.

"Good, well, my task is done," Quinn announced. "Farewell, Lord Hightide, may you find success in all your endeavours. Especially that duel, I have placed three gold triads on your victory. They're long odds, however, if you manage to win, that would be a wonderful windfall."

The guardsman bowed and then was away.

Fritz barely had a moment to collect his thoughts when he was surprised by another voice.

"Who were you just speaking to?" Louisa asked sternly.

Fritz turned on the Drizzler with a scowl, puffing out his chest. "I am a Lord, and as such, you will address me as one."

"My apologies, Lord Hightide," she said with as little sincerity as she could muster.

"It's good that you are sorry, otherwise, I would speak to your Captain and have you whipped," Fritz stated arrogantly.

"From what I hear of your esteem with the Captain, I doubt he would listen," she said.

Fritz sighed, deflating as he did so. "True as the rain."

She stared at him hard, but her gaze softened almost imperceptibly when he gave her a small, sad smile.

"Who was that?" She asked again, returning to her previous question.

"Oh, no one really," Fritz said. "A messenger of sorts, I suppose."

"One of your informants? Like one of the ones who discovered that warehouse?" she asked.

"I was going to report that," Fritz lied. "I just wanted to be sure the information was right. Though I'm very glad it fell into the right hands."

"Uh-huh," she said.

"Anyway, let's not speak of old crimes past. Rather, I have something else to ask of you," Fritz said.

She raised an eyebrow, and he began to speak, expressing the request with a note of Dusksong in his voice.

When they had come to an accord, Fritz made his way home and fell into a restless sleep.

Every day the strain grew heavier, every night his dreams were of being sliced to pieces.

Late that night, Sylvia visited him, tapping on his window until he let her in. They spoke a little, though he didn't trouble her with the news of his impending doom. She seemed to sense something was amiss, but she didn't interrogate him as he feared she might. Instead they took comfort in each others arms.

It was a wonderful, warm night. And he slept well.

It was on the grim, dark day before the duel, while he was alone in his yard, lunging with a horrible practice blade, that the much sought tremor finally ran over Fritz's Sanctum.

"Thank the Gods."

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