“You’re lucky you aren’t part of my troops,” Dame Vesuvia went on. “Rushing towards a chainling with that level of training. If it wasn’t for the Cleric, you’d have been a pile of charred flesh.”

Dallion kept quiet. He’d only been part of the hunting party for several days, and already he felt like some things never changed. After the fighting was over, several people had received praise from the Dame as well as some monetary rewards. It came as no surprise for Gloria to be in that group, though Dallion was somewhat annoyed that Veil was part as well. In contrast, Dallion got another earful. Then again, things could have gone far worse.

Eleven soldiers had been killed during the fight, as well as five volunteers—crushed by the flaming debris. That composed roughly half of the party. Among the survivors, a third had sustained from minor to serious injuries.

“What did you think you could achieve?”

I already achieved it, Dallion wanted to say. Common sense, though, kept his mouth shut.

“There’s a saying where I come from.” Vesuvia narrowed her eyes. “Luck goes to those that least deserve it.”

Dallion thought not to snort. This was supposed to be good luck? Dallion was supposed to be starting college—a blissful life of learning and partying. Instead, he ended up in a forgotten medieval village with a mini-tyrant set on sealing the powers of everyone who wasn’t immediate family. Not to mention that he had been “temporarily drafted” to hunt some unknown monster with the ability to set people and objects on fire. Yes, lucky indeed.

“You better not be expecting any reward.”

“No, ma’am,” I’m not.

The woman arched a brow.

“I meant no, Dame.” Nobility titles were all so confusing.

“Good. Go get some rest, we’re heading back in the morning. Real rest.”

“Yes, Dame.” Dallion bowed slightly, then stepped away.

Real rest. Considering where they were, he wouldn’t have minded sleeping in the awakened state. The only person who had anything close to a sleeping bag was the Dame herself. The soldiers used their chainmail as a pillow and their tabard as a blanket. Just looking at them made Dallion feel uncomfortable.

With a silent sigh, he made his way back to the nearest fire. With the task completed, and half of the party dead, everyone had dispensed with the division. Only the wounded received special treatment, and given that Dallion didn’t have any visible marks on his body, he wasn’t considered in need of healing. Interestingly enough, Havoc wasn’t either. The large man had recovered remarkably fast, considering what had happened. He seemed quite in good spirits that Dallion and his group had survived, though oddly not surprised by the fact.

“Dallion!” Havoc shouted. “Come here. Saved you some ale. Wasn’t easy.” He kneed the pile next to him that was Veil. “He would have gulped all of it down if he could. Good thing he’s such a lightweight.”

Given what strength of spirits in this world, it didn’t come as a surprise.

“Where’s Gloria?” Dallion looked around as he sat.

“Off to do her business somewhere.” Havoc didn’t elaborate. “So, how did it go?”

“Is there anyone in the camp who didn’t hear?” It’s not like it is far away.

“Oh, we heard. But that doesn’t answer my question. How do you think it went?”

“Not great, not terrible.” Dallion shrugged. “I’m starting to get used to the shouting. I don’t see the reason for it, though.”

“Oh, boy. You really don’t know anything about the world, do you?” The large man shook his head. “That’s the good thing about living in a hamlet—it keeps you safe from the bullshit going on. You probably think that being awakened is a big deal, right?”

“That’s what I’ve been told. Repeatedly.”

“Well, it isn’t. It’s just an ace in the sleeve—good to have, but it won’t get you anywhere if not used properly.” Havoc moves closer. “You’re a peasant,” he whispered. “The Dame is a noble and a member of the Order. Treating you as an equal for no reason is out of the question. Compliments can only be given through shouting and grumbling. The fact that you’re being yelled at, means they see potential in you, possibly enough to treat you as an equal one day.”

“You think that’s possible?”

“Three things can thrust you in the midst of nobility—money, skill, and lineage. You’re not a merchant, and you don’t have the lineage, but after what I saw right now, you might have the skills. You’ve a long way to go, though. Before anything, you must fully awaken. Then you must make a name for yourself. After that, who knows.”

Make a name for myself. That had a nice ring to it. Way better than college. Only now did it dawn on Dallion that there was a whole world out there ready for the taking. He didn’t have to go back to the village. He could ask the Dame to become a soldier, or if not accompany the group to some city. The village elder couldn’t stop him now—with the echo destroyed he had no power.

“Keep in mind, though. The higher you climb, the more dangerous you’ll get. See him?” Havoc glanced at the Cleric. Since the battle, the albino had been tending to the wounded. The “insignificant” amount of magic he had seemed to work pretty well on minor wounds. “He was born with magic, so he thought he’d rise in the world. He got a lot of attention when he was fifteen, enough to get him a decade of prison and his name removed from existence. He was lucky that the Order took him in. Others weren’t.”

Damn! Not for a moment had Dallion expected the cleric to have been in trouble. Havoc, sure—the bear-like man just screamed convict. His knowledge far exceeded his awakening level. The Cleric, though…

“He was forbidden to use his name?” Dallion asked.

“No, his name doesn’t exist anymore. It was taken out of every book and mind. No one could remember it, and even if they did, they’d never be able to utter it.” Havoc’s voice got darker. “Anyway, enough dark thoughts. We’re supposed to celebrate.” He shoved a half-empty waterskin in Dallion’s hands. “Drink up. There’s no telling when you’ll have the chance.”

“Yeah, sure.”

A name of my own, Dallion took a sip. Is that the way to go?