On a warm, golden afternoon in late October, Len Vey sat on the front bench of the Highfield posthouse porch. He used a fine-grained oilstone to hone the carbon-steel blade of his pocketknife.
The porch was bathed in the rich, slanted light of the three o’clock sun. It warmed the weathered pine floorboards. Then it drew the pine-scented scent of drying cedar shavings from the carpentry shed.
Beside Len on the wooden bench lay a four-page broadsheet newspaper—the Royal Provincial Gazette, printed in the capital three days ago and brought north on the heavy morning stage.
On the fourth page, beneath an ornate woodcut border depicting crossed swords and golden laurels, an extensive feature article described the Grand Autumn Tourney of the Southern Progression Guilds.
The article was filled with breathless, sensational prose recounting the triumphs of twenty-two-year-old combat initiates who had attained their twelfth and thirteenth milestones in the gladiatorial arenas of the southern plains. The text celebrated their shimmering mana cloaks, their lightning-step dashes that blurred across the sand. Their enchanted signet rings capable of summoning spectral battle chargers from the ether. The names of the victors were listed in bold type, alongside the sky-high sums paid by high-born merchant syndicates to purchase their future advancement contracts.
