Foolish Soldier: Reborn With A Broken Limit.

Chapter 6: pressing On

A month had passed since Soren first stepped into the training yard.

The body he wore now was different. Leaner. Harder. The softness of the merchant's son had been replaced by something quieter—long muscle, tight against bone. His shoulders sat back when he walked. His hands, callused from the practice sword, hung loose at his sides. He had caught his reflection in the hallway mirror a few days ago and almost didn't recognize himself.

His mother had noticed first.

"You're filling out," Maren said at dinner, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw. "You look different."

"I've been training."

Bran didn’t look up from his plate. "I know." 

The words were casual. Dismissive. But Soren caught the weight beneath them. I know you've been training. I just don't know why.

Maren was still watching Soren. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I want to look manlier."

His father had laughed. A short sound, unexpected. "Manlier. The boy wants to look manlier." He shook his head and returned to his meal. But his eyes lingered on Soren a moment longer than they used to. Assessing. Calculating.

Soren finished his plate in silence.

The month had been careful. Bran was watching. Soren could feel it—a prickling awareness at the back of his neck. His brother didn't confront. He waited. He collected. Soren had learned to keep his movements quiet. His training with Kael was public enough to explain the changes in his body. His private training was another matter entirely.

Soren reached into the drawer beside his bed. The dagger was small. Simple. A blade kept for protection that Soren Vail had never needed to use. He turned it over in his hand. The steel was cool against his calluses.

Infusion. He had watched the guards do it a hundred times. Their halos flowing into the wood of their practice swords. The blades moving faster at the end of each strike. Hitting harder. Elaine could do it. Most halo users could. It was one of the first things they learned.

Soren had been learning in secret.

He gripped the dagger. Felt the pulse in his chest. Surging. Present. Stronger than it had been a month ago. Stronger than it had been yesterday. He pushed it down his arm. Through his wrist. Into his fingers and then into the blade.

The jug sat on the table against the wall. Mira filled it with drinking water every evening. Tonight it was empty.

He aimed. Released.

The dagger punched through the jug. The jug shattered. Shards burst across the windowsill, rained onto the floor, skittered under the bed. The blade embedded itself in the wall behind it.

Soren stood frozen. His arm was still extended. His chest was heaving. 

A month ago he couldn't have done that. A month ago his halo was still raw, still untrained. Now it answered.

He pulled the blade free. Wiped the clay dust off the steel. An old voice surfaced—gravelly, half-forgotten. Make peace with it, boy. A halo only grows so much.

Soren slid the dagger back into the drawer.

I don't have to.

He lay awake for a long time. The pulse in his chest was quiet now, but his mind wasn't. When he finally slept, it was shallow. Dreamless.

The inner markets were crowded. Traders hawked spices and silks. A cart laden with stone blocks rumbled past—Elaine's family, probably. Soren walked past the stalls until he found what he was looking for.

The weaponsmith's shop was small. Unassuming. A wooden sign hung above the door, carved with the image of a crossed sword and axe. The man behind the counter was broad-shouldered and bald, his arms scarred from years of working a forge.

"I need a blade," Soren said. "Steel. Properly weighted."

The smith looked him over. "I’ve got just what you need boy."

He reached beneath the counter and produced a sword. Simple. Unadorned. The blade was straight and sharp, the grip wrapped in dark leather. Not a nobleman's weapon. A soldier's.

"This one's balanced for someone with long arms," the smith said. "You've got the build for it."

Soren took the blade. The weight was right. The grip settled into his callused palm like it belonged there. He felt his halo stir.

"How much?"

"Eight silvers."

“I’ll give you five for it.”

“Hmmm—alright son.”

Soren paid it. His father was wealthy but not that wealthy. He was about to ask about a sheath when voices carried through the market.

"—outside the wall. A big one. The guards can't bring it down."

He turned. Two traders were huddled near a fruit stall, their voices low.

"Beast-type," one of them said. "Horns like a battering ram with thick hide too. The soldiers have been at it all morning. Their halos barely scratch it."

Soren felt his chest tighten. Beast-types. He had seen them before. Massive creatures with hides like armor and horns that could gore a man in half. They didn't move in groups but one was enough to hold a section of wall. A few of them together would be a disaster.

He left the shop. The blade was still in his hand.

Wall Iros rose at the far edge of the outer district. By the time Soren reached it, a crowd had gathered on the parapet above the western gate. Farmers. Carters. Market vendors who had abandoned their stalls. They pressed against the battlements, craning their necks for a view of the field below. Soldiers moved among them, trying to keep order.

"Back from the edge," one of them barked. "Give the guards room."

No one listened.

Soren climbed the stone steps. The guards were too busy with the crowd to stop him. He found a spot at the battlement and looked down.

Beyond the wall, the field stretched toward the treeline. Scarred earth. Trampled grass. The debris of a fight already in progress.

The beast was hard to miss.

It stood twelve feet at the shoulder, its hide gray and gnarled like old tree bark. Horns curled from its skull, thick as a man's thigh, sharpened to points. Arrows jutted from its ribs. Spears had snapped against its flanks. Nothing had pierced deep enough to matter.

The soldiers were scattered across the field. A dozen of them. Their halos pressed outward in frantic pulses as they darted in and out, stabbing at the creature's legs, trying to bring it down. A guardsman was being dragged toward the gate by two others, his leg bent wrong. The beast lumbered after them, slow but unstoppable, its horns swinging low.

The gate below was sealed shut.

Soren gripped the battlement. They were fighting it wrong. All frontal assaults. The hide was thickest at the chest and skull. They needed to flank it. Get behind it. Strike the joints. The neck. The soft tissue beneath the jaw. But the soldiers were guards, not hunters. They didn't know how to bring down something this big.

His hand went to his new blade. He was leaning forward when a voice rang out behind him.

"Give way. Give way."

The crowd on the parapet parted. Even the soldiers stepped aside. A man strode through and stopped at the battlement a few feet from Soren.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Blonde hair catching the morning light. His features were sharp and even—the kind of handsome that made people stare and then look away. Blue eyes, deep and cold, scanning the field below.

Theron Antares.

His halo pressed outward. Vast. Effortless. The soldiers on the field felt it. Some of them stumbled. The beast-type felt it too. Its massive head swung toward the wall. Toward him.

Theron unstrapped the axe from his back. Black iron. Silver runes. The blade was the length of a man's arm. He held it in one hand.

"Clear the field," he said. His voice was calm. He didn’t shout. He didn't need to. His halo carried the words. The pressure of his voice pressed outward with the same vast weight as his presence. The soldiers below obeyed instantly. Broke formation and headed for the base of the wall, carrying the wounded man with them.

The beast was forty yards out. Close enough to charge. Close enough to kill.

Theron's halo surged. The pressure built until Soren could feel it in his chest, pressing against his own. The air around the axe grew heavy. Dense. The weapon was infused.

Theron threw.

The axe crossed the distance in a blink. It struck the beast's head just above the eyes. The thick hide split. Bone cracked. The creature didn't roar. Didn't stumble. Its legs gave out and it hit the ground with a sound like a landslide.

Silence.

Then the crowd on the parapet erupted. Cheering. Shouting. Soldiers clapped each other on the shoulders. Theron was already turning away. He didn't acknowledge the noise. He descended the steps toward the gate to retrieve his axe.

Soren stood at the battlement. His heart was hammering. His halo pulsed against his ribs.

That's what a vast halo can do.

His own was nowhere near that. Not yet. But it was growing. It hadn't stopped. Soren felt it—a familiar prickle at the back of his neck.

He turned.

Bran was at the back of the crowd. Arms crossed. Not watching Theron. Not watching the beast. Watching Soren.

Their eyes met. Bran didn't move. Didn't speak. He just held the gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and descended the steps toward the inner city.

He followed me here.

The crowd was still cheering. Soren gripped his sword tightly.