Foolish Soldier: Reborn With A Broken Limit.

Chapter 8: The Cut

The bruise was gone.

Soren stood in front of the hallway mirror, tunic off, fingers pressed against his ribs. A week ago, Kael's wooden blade had cracked bone there. He'd felt it grind when he breathed. Now there was nothing. No pain. No tenderness. Not even the yellow ghost of a healing wound. Just skin.

He turned his head. The bruise on his temple from the same session. Gone. He turned his hands over. The blisters that had kept him awake for the first two weeks of training had healed into calluses weeks ago—but even the calluses looked older than they should. Seasoned. Like he'd been gripping a sword for years instead of a month.

You don't have a halo to speed it up. Elaine's words. A month ago. She'd meant them. He'd let her believe it.

Passive enhancement was supposed to be subtle. A slight edge in speed. A little more durability. Halo users healed quicker than ordinary people, but not like this. Not in days. Not without a vast halo and years of conditioning. Soren's halo was still contained. Still hidden. Still growing. It shouldn't have been doing this.

He pressed his palm flat against his chest. The pulse answered. Surging. Steady. Stronger than yesterday.

It's not just growing. It's changing me.

He pulled his tunic on and left the mirror behind.

He found Elaine at a worksite near the eastern quarter.

A bridge repair. The old arch had cracked during the last rainstorm, and her family had taken the contract. She was standing on the scaffolding, her blonde curls pinned back, a layer of stone dust on her sleeves. Behind her, two masons were chipping away at the cracked stone. A laborer hauled a bucket of mortar up the scaffolding. The worksite was alive with noise. She was pointing at something on the arch when she spotted Soren.

"You're alive," she called down. "I was starting to wonder."

"I've been busy."

"You're always busy these days." She climbed down the scaffolding. Wiped her hands on her trousers. Studied him. "You look taller."

"I haven't grown."

She tilted her head. "I didn't think you'd last a week. When you first told me you were training, I thought it was a phase. Something to prove to your father. Now look at you." She gestured at him. “You actually look like someone who knows what he's doing."

"I'm learning."

She studied him.

"Your bruises are gone. How?"

"Good diet."

"You're hiding something."

The words landed. Soren said nothing.

Elaine didn't look away. "You know, Bran came by. A few days ago. Asking questions."

Soren felt his chest tighten. "What kind of questions?"

"About you. Where you go. Whether I'd noticed anything strange." She paused. "I told him you were training at the garrison yard. That's all."

"That's all he asked?"

"No. He asked if I'd seen you anywhere else. If you'd mentioned anything to me. If I thought you were acting different." She met his eyes. "He's not just curious, Soren. He's investigating."

She stepped closer. Her voice dropped. "Your brother isn't the only one. People talk. A merchant's son training with city guards. Even winning spars. The sword. You think no one's noticed?"

Soren held her gaze. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're not as careful as you think. And whatever you're hiding—it won't stay hidden forever." She paused. "You could tell me. Whatever it is."

"I can't."

"Can't. Or won't."

Nothing.

She nodded slowly. Not hurt. Just tired. "One day you're going to have to trust someone."

She turned back to the scaffolding. Soren stood alone in the afternoon sun, the dust settling around him.

The sun was sinking behind Wall Aldric when Soren reached the storehouse.

The eastern quarter was quiet at this hour. The building stood at the end of a row of abandoned warehouses, its boarded windows dark, its stone walls streaked with age.

The door was ajar. About an inch. No more.

He always closed it flush.

Soren stood in the doorway. His hand went to his sword. The steel was cool against his calluses. The pulse in his chest was surging. He didn't pull it back.

The lamp was where he'd left it. The crates stacked against the walls. The dust on the floor had been disturbed. Footprints. Two sets. His own. Smaller impressions from his boots, leading from the door to the center of the room and back again. And another set.

Bran.

He had been here. Not just outside. Inside. He had watched Soren move through forms that no merchant's son should know.

Soren drew his sword. The blade caught the lamplight. The room was empty. The footprints were cold. Bran was long gone.

He definitely knows.

The word settled in his chest like a stone. Not the panic he'd felt when Kael first noticed him. This was colder. Deeper. Bran had spent his whole life being overlooked. He knew how to wait. He knew how to collect. He knew how to use what he found.

Soren sheathed his sword. He didn't bother closing the door. The storehouse wasn't safe anymore. Nothing was.