The Mana crystal did not flicker like a lantern or candle. Its light was constant and gentle—more than enough for the size of the room, not too bright to gaze directly into. One night after oil had gone up two coppers, Mr. Fletcher had sworn he’d be changing out all the lanterns at the inn with Mana crystals. Went and stomped his way to the Enchanter’s shop.

  He’d returned two hours later with a barrel of oil and never talked about it again.

  The soldier was kind enough to bring Grant a fresh change of clothes once he stopped crying. A simple set of tunic and pants, but a vast improvement over his beggar’s disguise. The man was off searching for more suitable shoes for him.

  Moments later, the door opened, and he walked back in, brown leather boots in hand.

  “Feeling better?” he asked, dumping them on the table. Flecks of dirt fell onto its white surface, and the man swept them onto the floor with his forearm. “If those don’t fit you, I think I can find something else.” He wore his smile like he might wear a formal uniform, clearly unused to how it felt, but Grant appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

  He took another sip of his tea. It had gone cold, but he’d never had proper tea before, and found himself quite enjoying it. “Thanks. I’m really sorry about all of this.”

  The man waved a hand dismissively. “Nonsense. I cried like a babe when I got selected. Debated running away too, if I’m being honest.”

  Grant nearly choked on his drink. He pulled the collar of his shirt up, spluttering wet coughs into it. The law was unambiguous: dereliction meant death. He supposed that thinking about doing something wasn’t a crime until you actually did it.

  “My Marge talked me out of it,” the soldier continued, paying no mind to Grant’s reaction. He looked off into the distance, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Glad she did. Took me four years to get to the Third, but I would have had a target on my back for life if I ran.”

  Grant smiled. The first genuine one he’d had since Calibration, but he found himself enjoying the talk with the man. “Sounds like a great lady.”

  “She was! Ah, I would’ve married that one, but she went and found another man while I was gone, she did. Couldn’t blame her. Four years is a long time for a 21-year-old woman.” He stared off into space longingly again, nodding his head.

  Grant felt it appropriate to offer condolences. “I’m sorry about that.” He pulled a boot over his foot and up his shin. It was close enough to the right size, although there was some wiggle room in the toes. He was never too picky about that sort of thing.

  “Ha!” The soldier barked a loud laugh and slapped the table. Grant jerked back and tottered on the back legs of his chair before finding his balance. It sounded like someone had struck the side of a barrel with a hammer. “I’m not! Second best thing she ever did for me. Found my Ama six months later. A man’s got to wonder, though, how things would have gone had I ended up with that Marge. She had a way of swaying her hips when she danced, why a man might go mad watching! Not a thing I can talk about with my wife, of course, so you’ll have to forgive me for taking the chance when I have it.”

  “No need to apologize for something like that,” he said dumbly.

  “Anyway! This ain’t what you’re fixing to talk about, is it?” He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “We only have a few minutes, so tell me, Grant Leeman. What do you want to know?”

  Grant didn’t hesitate. “I never caught your name.”

  The man scratched his oily hair. “Oh Goddess, I scare you half to death, toss you in a room, interrogate you, and don’t even give you my name? Dealing with soldiers all day has shot my manners.” He sat up straight, shoulder blades pinned back. “Sergeant Ferguson. Friends call me Rott.”

  “Why do they call you that?” Grant asked.

  He stared expressionlessly. “It’s my first name.”

  “Oh. That makes sense. Can you tell me how many Points I have?”

  Rott shook his head, a tight-lipped smile on his face. “You’ll need a Reader for that, you will. Readers’ll tell you how many Points you have right there and then, no effort in it at all, just it ain’t the most common Spell to have, not with most Campaigners reckoning a Spell like that won’t help them much surviving. Only a few on the continent, and they’ll be real busy come next month. Make a killing while they’re at it, the lucky shits. Have half a mind to accuse them of making the Campaign come early. ‘Course, it’s not like they’re the only ones who make a bit of coin from the whole thing.” He laughed, clearly not actually jealous.

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  Grant pushed the conversation back on track. “What’s it like … you know?”

  “Beyond the Portal?” He picked at a scab. “Most of what I know comes from what I seen in books.”

  “You’ve never been on a Campaign?” he asked. “I thought—”

  “It messes with your memories,” he said, spreading his hands. “The second you come out, everything you knew was crystal clear just moments before is like you’re looking at it through muddy waters. You can remember some things, but it’s a face, a meal, a fight, a town, a lay, and if you’re real lucky, maybe a name or two. As disorienting as too much drink on an empty stomach, it is.” He paused, scratching again for a moment before continuing. “And if I’m being honest? That’s a blessing,” he said, pointing at Grant. “All I can remember ain’t pretty.”

  Grant paused for a second, considering the words. He’d never heard anything about memories being erased, but he’d never really talked to someone about the Campaign. He’d guess Rott was right about the wanting to forget part, though.

  “Wait. If nobody recalls much, how are there books about it?”

  Rott gave a toothy grin. “There’s that Intelligence at work. After the Third Campaign, a scholar over at the university in Lorne came up with the bright idea of putting the pieces together, like a puzzle. Called thousands of former Campaigners from all over and asked them a bunch of questions. Used some Mind Mages to dig for details, too. Took him a decade to finish his book. I read it, the Fourth Campaign’s, and the Fifth Campaign’s too. And… you like books, son?”

  Grant nodded. He would have slept in the library as a kid if they had let him.

  “Well, you ever read a book, and then a few years later pick it up again? You know, you forgot you read it, but as you get further and further in, you start thinking, ‘Hey, I know all this, don’t I?’”

  Grant didn’t have the faintest clue what the man was talking about, but he bobbed his head up and down anyway.

  “So, when I got to reading the Fifth Campaign’s book, it was kind of like that for me. I felt like they were the things I should know. Just I didn’t. Felt like I’d heard of some names, but the memories were gone as quick as they’d come burbling back up. Now, you’ve got to understand the recounting is far from perfect, but until we find a better way, it’s all we’ve got.” He shrugged. “Never did learn how I got this, though.” Rott pulled up his shirt to reveal a pink burn scar that spanned from his shoulder down to his abdomen. It had tendrils branching off like a lightning strike. Grant sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth and recoiled.

  Rott chuckled at his reaction. “Yeah, I know. Probably some asshole Mage saw me and figured I’d be an easy meal. Hope I got him good.” The man made a thrusting motion with his hand, as if he were skewering an opponent on his spear. “Shittin’ Mages.”

  Grant felt another one of Rott’s tangents coming on and hurriedly asked his next question. “From what you read and what you remember, is it bad in there?”

  Rott looked down at the table as a frown crossed his face. “I won’t sugarcoat it, boy. That depends completely on your Points. The Anomalies live in luxury, even on the other side. They’ll stroll their way through to the Third. Stay in cities and only venture out to raid, if that. Between the fancy lodgings and gourmet food on the Store, it’s like a vacation for them. The Royals will even have servants and personal guards.”

  Grant bit his lip. “And the others?”

  Rott considered the question. “Let’s just say that you should catch up on your prayers to the Goddess.”

  Sounds easy enough, thought Grant. Just be lucky.

  “How many Points did you start with?”

  His crack of laughter made Grant jump again. “You don’t ask that, boy! Whatever you kill, you get a portion of its Points, both spent and unspent. About a third, if you’re curious. If it gets out that you’re sitting on a trove, you’ll start noticing a lot more friendly arrows narrowly missing your neck.”

  A conflicted look came across the man’s face. After thinking about it for a few moments, he opened his mouth, stopped himself, and then opened his mouth again. “Listen, son… Not everyone’s going to be your friend in there. Keep your cards close to your chest. Having high Points usually keeps you safe, it does, but those who do come after you are going to be strong. Low Points makes you not worth the time, but more likely to die to everything else. You’ve got to pray you don’t get enough that makes you worth killing, but not so few that you’re helpless. Stay safe until the Store closes, usually about a month into the Campaign, you should. Use that Perception of yours well. If something’s not looking right, there’s no shame in running.”

  “I—thank you,” he said. He’d tried to sneak across town to talk to Dan’s dad, but while he’d gotten himself caught, he couldn’t imagine there being a nicer fellow than Rott. “Wait, what’s that about the Store closing?”

  Rott opened his mouth, then paused as the door squeaked open. In the frame stood a man so short Grant thought a lost child had barged in. He wore a creased officer’s uniform, on the left breast of which dozens of medallions sparkled from the Mana crystal’s light. He had a full head of curly, brown hair, cropped neatly above the shoulders, slight features, and he scowled at Grant like he was a clump of wet leaves stuck to the bottom of his boot.

  Rott shot up and sharply crossed his arm across his belly. “Sir!” he reported.

  Grant did something between standing and sitting, butt off the chair but legs still under the table. The short man looked him up and down, making no attempt to hide that he was Identifying him.

  Must be nice, he thought bitterly. Being able to do that without Mana Depletion.

  “Sergeant Ferguson,” he nodded at Rott, a hint of respect in his voice. He looked directly at Grant. “Grant Leeman.”

  Grant swallowed nervously. “That’s me.”

  “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  The short man snorted. “Where do you think? The capital is three days away.”