Evening came slowly to Solamen, dragging its weight across the rooftops as though reluctant to let the day end. The smith's yard glowed orange with the last of the sun, sparks drifting like fireflies from the forge beyond the wall. The steady ringing of hammers carried through the air, a rhythm that had lived in the bones of the city longer than any one man.
Sorrin sprawled on the steps, head tilted back, letting sweat dry on his skin. His arms trembled faintly even at rest, muscles singing from hours of awkward repetition. The wooden sword leaned against his knee, scarred now with shallow cuts where he had swung too wild and struck stone instead of straw.
Renn, seated beside him, tapped his cane twice against the step. A signal more than a sound. "That's enough for today. Push any further and tomorrow you'll feel as if someone filled your arms with sand."
"I already feel like that," Sorrin muttered.
"Then imagine tomorrow."
Sorrin groaned. The idea of waking with limbs too stiff to lift his revolver made him want to collapse face-first into the stones and stay there. Yet despite the exhaustion, there was a sharp edge of satisfaction in his chest. For the first time since touching the Flow, he felt like he was carrying something forward instead of being dragged behind it.
The door to the forge creaked, and a head popped out. A young man, no older than Sorrin himself, face smudged with soot and hair wild as kindling. His leather apron hung crooked, one strap nearly sliding off his shoulder.
"You two still here?" he asked, voice cracking halfway through the words. "Master'll skin me if he finds out you're cluttering the yard after sundown."
Renn lifted his chin. "And yet you've come to warn us instead of throwing us out. That means you don't want us gone as much as you claim."
The apprentice flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just—don't let him see you. He's already in one of his moods. Burned a casting this morning and spent the rest of the day shouting at the bellows."
Sorrin smirked, too tired to rise. "Relax. We'll head out soon. Unless you want to take a turn with the sword first?"
The apprentice snorted. "I've enough work without bruising myself on a stick." His eyes flicked to Sorrin's arms, the faint green bruises just forming where the wooden hilt had pressed too hard. "Looks like you've already done that for both of us."
He disappeared back inside before Sorrin could answer, though Renn's soft chuckle carried enough sting for both.
"Everyone's a critic," Sorrin said, half-laughing, half-groaning.
"That is the curse of the visible," Renn said. "Everyone sees your mistakes. Few see the effort beneath them."
They left the smith's yard as the lamps in the street blinked awake, one by one. Solamen's alleys were rivers of shadow between those little islands of flame, and steam hissed from the grates like whispers from the undercity.
On their way back toward the boardinghouse, they passed a trio of children chasing one another with tin swords, shrieking as though they were heroes storming the gates of heaven itself. One of them stopped dead when he saw Sorrin's practice blade slung across his shoulder.
"Hey!" the boy shouted, pointing. "You a duelist?"
Sorrin blinked. "What?"
"A duelist," the boy repeated. "Like in the stories. Do you fight in the Circles?"
Sorrin opened his mouth, but Renn beat him to it. "He does," Renn said solemnly. "Champion of the Straw Dummy League, undefeated."
The children gasped, then burst into laughter, the boy swinging his tin sword wildly in imitation. Sorrin shot Renn a look sharp enough to cut, but Renn's expression was the picture of innocence.
"Great," Sorrin muttered as the children ran off. "Now I'm the undefeated Dummy King."
"It suits you," Renn said. "Few titles are so honest."
The boardinghouse sat on the edge of the Tram Quarter, its bricks soot-darkened, its windows patched with mismatched panes. Inside, the common room hummed with tired voices. Dockhands in sweat-stained shirts drank watered ale beside seamstresses with needles still tucked in their sleeves.
Sorrin and Renn took their usual corner, a table worn smooth by countless elbows. The innkeeper, a broad woman with arms like battering rams, dropped two mugs in front of them without being asked. She knew their routine by now.
Sorrin drank deep, the liquid lukewarm but welcome. Renn sipped more slowly, turning his head slightly as though listening to the room. His sightless eyes seemed always to catch more than anyone else's.
A man at the next table leaned toward them suddenly. His beard was patchy, his coat too fine for the dirt beneath his nails. "You boys trainin' for the entrance?" he asked, slurring slightly.
Sorrin stiffened. Renn answered smoothly. "We are."
The man grinned, showing a gold tooth. "Good luck with that. The Academy chews up plenty every year. Fools think they're chosen, end up in the gutter instead."
Sorrin's hand twitched toward his mug.
"Then we'll try not to choke," Renn said evenly.
The man barked a laugh, then turned back to his companions, already forgetting them.
Sorrin exhaled slowly. "Half this city seems built on reminding us how impossible this is."
"Half this city is jealous it cannot try," Renn said.
Before Sorrin could reply, another voice piped up from behind the bar. "If you two really are headed for the Academy, you'd better hope you've got more than biceps and wit."
The innkeeper herself leaned on the counter, glaring at them as though they had insulted her bread. "I seen enough would-be heroes come through here. Most last a week. Some don't last a night."
Sorrin started to protest, but she held up a hand. "Don't bother arguing. You want to prove me wrong? Do it in steel, not words."
Sorrin bit his tongue. Renn smiled faintly. "We'll keep that in mind."
Later, in the narrow room upstairs, Renn sat cross-legged on his cot, cane balanced across his knees. Sorrin sat opposite, massaging his forearm.
"She's right, you know," Renn said quietly. "We need more than what we've shown so far. The Academy tests are not just drills and sparring. They'll want to see the Flow itself."
Sorrin flexed his fingers, roots prickling faintly under the skin. "I can summon them now. That's something."
"It is," Renn agreed. "But something is not enough."
Silence stretched between them, heavy as the city outside.
Finally, Renn spoke again. "Tomorrow, we'll go to the Tinker's Market. See if we can find someone willing to test your Flow against more than straw."
Sorrin frowned. "A street fight?"
"Not exactly. The Market draws inventors, artificers, and sometimes Flow users who can craft challenges for coin. If you're to be ready, you need to test yourself against the unexpected. Better to bleed a little now than drown later."
Sorrin leaned back on the wall, letting the thought settle. The idea of facing strangers, even in practice, twisted his gut. But Renn was right. He usually was.
"Fine," Sorrin said at last. "Tomorrow."
Renn nodded. "Tomorrow."
The next morning, Solamen was alive in a way it never was at dawn. The Tinker's Market sprawled like a carnival gone feral, stalls of brass and copper stacked alongside cages of half-broken contraptions. Steam hissed from portable boilers, gears whirred in endless chatter, and everywhere voices barked offers, threats, bargains.
Sorrin's eyes darted from one invention to the next—mechanical birds that flapped but could not fly, gauntlets wired with Flow channels that sparked dangerously, goggles tinted with alchemical glass.
Renn moved confidently despite the chaos, cane tapping with assurance. "Keep your eyes open, and your money out of sight."
"You seem to really enjoy tapping that cane of yours..." Sorrin said, seemingly tired of his antics.
"You bet I do," Renn replied.
They passed a stall where a woman demonstrated a Flow-reactive net, tossing it into the air. It shimmered, then tightened into a sphere before unraveling again. Sorrin slowed, fascinated.
The woman noticed. "Ten copper coins and I'll let you try it, boy."
Sorrin shook his head, but Renn whispered, "Later, maybe."
Further in, they found what Renn had been searching for. A makeshift ring, roped off with chains, where a crowd gathered to watch duels. Not lethal, at least not intentionally, but enough to draw blood. Contestants wielded mostly dull wooden weapons, impacts flying harmlessly off skin but leaving bruises behind.
Renn tilted his head toward Sorrin. "There. Go and learn what a moving opponent feels like."
Sorrin's throat dried. "You planned this."
"Of course," Renn said. "Better a bruise today than an obituary tomorrow."
The crowd parted as Sorrin stepped forward, wooden sword clutched tighter than ever. His stomach twisted, but his feet kept moving.
He entered the ring.