Mardias Shawl

The clouds directly above the tower had drifted away, allowing sunlight to pour in through the skylight. In the center of the room stood Mardias Shawl, who was also the center of attention for everyone present. Facing him was a slightly taller young man, both holding their sheathed daggers. They stood on a rectangular stone platform slightly elevated from the floor, the only part of the room bathed in direct sunlight. All the onlookers standing around cast their shadows to varying degrees, obscuring their features.

Jorgen watched from the eastern side, his gaze fixed on Mardias. When he had entered the room, Jorgen had recognized him, primarily by the color of his eyes, which matched Dalia's. Mardias had undergone changes since the days Jorgen had saved him from the circus's catwalk. His hair was darker, his skin tanner, all differences that could be noted. But the rest, due to the dramatic shift, hardly seemed worth noting anymore. After all, the period between nine and fourteen years of age was a time of profound transformation. The memories themselves began to lose their reality.

Despite the transformations, Mardias now seemed untouched by true hardship. His skin, hair, and eyebrows showed no signs of countless days spent in the elements, no roughness from wind and rain, no coarseness from abrasive sands. The bright light and he seemed in harmony. If not for the black attire of a rogue, he might have resembled a celebrated young rider.

But make no mistake, he was prepared to harm others, of that there was no doubt. His opponent—a nineteen-year-old MI7 trainee—initiated the attack. Mardias blocked the dagger's strike aimed at him and swiftly tripped his adversary. He didn't pursue but shifted to a position opposite his original one, watching his fallen opponent closely.

"Effective strike," the instructor at the edge of the training area said, "Mardias Shawl, six points."

In MI7's combat proficiency evaluations, the goal was to incapacitate opponents. Merely striking the head or abdomen did not necessarily earn points; knocking down and subduing were key. In practical evaluations, it wasn't uncommon for both participants to have lost substantial blood without accumulating sufficient points to pass. Jorgen recognized Mardias's opponent, who had twice secured the championship in the quarterly close-quarters combat assessments. Three minutes had elapsed, and he had lost six points while Mardias had earned none. For most trainees, losing more than five points in a single evaluation was a significant blow, and now, with two minutes left until the scheduled conclusion, it seemed unlikely he could recover.

The opponent climbed back to his feet, blood trickling from his nose.

"His nose is broken," Elin, standing beside Jorgen, observed. "That was an ugly fall."

"It wasn't the fall," Jorgen replied.

"When did he strike then? I missed it."

"Mardias blocked the attack with his right hand, and as he pulled it back, he deftly swiped the dagger's hilt across his opponent's nose."

Elin scratched his newly grown chin stubble with his left thumb, shot a sidelong glance at Jorgen, and then returned his focus to Mardias. "As someone who secured an A in close-quarters combat assessments thirteen years ago, I have to say, this is quite unnecessary. Or maybe I just can't keep up with the times?"

Jorgen remained silent. It was indeed unnecessary, completely unnecessary. Typically, such tactics were employed to sap an opponent's energy when it was impossible to score effectively. In a match that was so one-sided, what was the point?

If one were to simply describe it as humiliating the opponent, that would greatly underestimate the significance of the situation. The people gathered to witness this contest included not only important members of MI7 but also some military officials and members of the Stormwind City Council. These weren't ordinary high-ranking officials; they were individuals who had close ties to MI7. Some had compromising information held by MI7, while others were advocates for MI7 in public forums. In other words, if Mardias were to ascend to power one day, these would be the first outsiders he'd need to establish contact with.

The person who had extended these invitations, Panthonia Shawl, sat on the room's western side. Most of the time, his eyes remained lowered, seemingly disinterested in the proceedings before him. Jorgen thought that displaying the heir's combat skills was just the first step in the elder's planned sequence of events. Getting those high-ranking officials to accept Mardias, a mere fourteen-year-old, based on one contest was highly unlikely. This was likely just a warm-up, a warning that simplicity in form raised suspicion.

"Seven points," the instructor said. This time, Mardias Shawl had choked his opponent, wresting away the weapon. He released his grip and tossed the captured dagger to the ground. His adversary hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward to retrieve it, and as he stood upright, he swayed slightly. He was exhausted, having lost most of his fighting spirit, seemingly accepting the harsh reality that his years of training had rendered him worthless in this moment. To make the insult less hurtful, he swallowed it along with his grievances.

"I can't help but feel for the guy getting beaten up there. He used to pick on Costa a lot when they were in the same training camp. Of course, I mean academically. But this is just dull." Elin lowered his hand from his chin stubble rubbing. "One-sided contests are never entertaining. In my opinion, the old man should have come up with a better way to showcase Mardias's intellect."

"He'll get to that sooner or later."

"I still can't imagine that this kid might one day be barking orders at us. If he takes the stage before he's seventeen... no, eighteen, I won't be following any orders. By then, I might as well resign. Do you think the old man can hold on for three more years?" Elin's voice gradually lowered.

"We should be prepared for that."

Jorgen had learned of Mardias's return to Stormwind City shortly after returning from Darkshire. It wasn't a sudden development, but it was ill-timed. Five years was not enough for people to forget his existence entirely, but not long enough to keep their impressions of the past fresh either. Jorgen had more than once daydreamed about the old man suddenly passing away and Mardias never reappearing—childish thoughts, but it had indeed been one of the possible developments. After all, Mardias's disappearance had been so complete, as if he had cut himself off from the world. As an investigator with direct access, Jorgen had found no leads despite his efforts, and he kept this from Dalia, even though he had initially considered telling her at the first sign of any trace. But now, the disappeared person was right before his eyes, and the thought of sharing this with Dalia seemed absurd.

Dalia, the last time I saw you both together, Mardias was sitting on the grass with your handwoven lunch basket by his side. But now, he's beaten an adult into a bloody pulp, drained of all will, and his pants barely have a speck of dust on them. What should I tell you?

"Eighth point," the instructor announced.

What genuinely surprised Jorgen was that the person who had brought Mardias back was Farad, the deputy leader of Ravenholt Manor. To his knowledge, the manor's leader, Jorach Ravenholt, had some connections with the old man. Mardias couldn't have received five years of training there, considering that the main business of the manor was training adventurers and Rogues. Moreover, there was nothing in his fighting style that couldn't be found in MI7 combat tutorials. As the intelligence agencies of the Alliance and Horde expanded, the space for Ravenholt's existence had undoubtedly been squeezed because a significant number of capable Rogues preferred official employment to the nomadic life of adventurers. At present, these matters were not within Jorgen's purview, but he suspected that he would soon become involved in such affairs.

For some reason, Farad's party had not appeared in the room.

"Jorgen," Elin said.

"What?"

"What happened between you and Dalia in Darkshire?"

"A lot. I'm still writing up the report. She got herself bitten by a spider, and I almost killed a poet. That's all you need to know for now."

"No, no. I mean, what happened between you two."

Jorgen turned his head. "What do you mean?"

"Since you two came back, the way you look at each other... it's a bit different."

Jorgen remained silent. He heard the instructor announce, "Ninth point."

"Alright, I know this isn't the right time. I won't pry."

One second later, Elin spoke again. "Dalia, she..."

"Can't you just shut up?"

"Don't get so worked up. I mean, about this situation... are you going to..."

"If the matter of Mardias's return becomes public, I'll be the one to tell her."

"Alright... good. Hearing that makes me feel better. You're better suited for this. Oh, look, he's standing up. He seems to be preparing for one last strike. This should be over now."

There was less than ten seconds left. The opponent charged Mardias one last time, perhaps realizing that he should at least leave the audience with a valiant image. It was an attempt that couldn't even be called a failure. Mardias grabbed the opponent's wrist before the dagger could get close, twisted his thumb, and once again took the weapon. With this inevitable defeat, the opponent no longer forced his body and simply knelt down. He no longer cared if this posture signified self-deprecation, he just wanted a quick release, some rest. It was at this moment that the instructor announced the end of the match.

But Mardias's actions were not finished. He held the spoils in his left hand and clenched his own dagger in his right hand, launching simultaneous attacks. After two almost simultaneous muffled sounds, his opponent fell forward, motionless. Blood flowed from his face into the shadows between him and the ground. If Mardias had a real blade in his hand, the blood would have dyed the entire platform.

Elin let out a sigh. "Do you want to fight this kid? I don't."

Jorgen didn't say anything.

In this final move, he saw Dean's shadow.