In the stories travelling storytellers told at river taverns. That wronged student returned to his old sect with an ancient inheritance always collected his former rival as a stepping stone. Binding the humbled prodigy with an oath so every drop of the rival’s future sweat would feed the hero’s rise. Seyun looked at Joren propped on one shaking elbow with his practice sword across his knees. He saw how desperate the other young man was to turn his debt and humiliation into a martial contract.
If Seyun accepted a rivalry vow from him, Joren could tell himself he was no longer a charity patient who had been rescued by the classmate he wronged. He would be an equal enemy again.
“I’m not asking for a handicap,” Joren pressed, his breath catching slightly as he held the sword sheath out toward Seyun’s knee. “Before Tor Ves gave me that cursed brass vessel, I had mastered eleven of the twelve base forms and stood at Peak Coal. Once my around the heart vessels heal under the ash packs, I’ll build my outward return back from the ground without a single grain of borrowed heat. Swear your Balance vow with me—let me prove that Ash Reed’s true foundation can meet yours in the ring, and let my breakthrough pay back what I owe you!”
