Renza scrambled, hauling Vashar up by his uninjured arm while the sudden flare of his soul-brand faded into a dull, angry throb. The air in the alcove hung damp and cold, thick with catacomb dust and the sour bite of scorched ozone. The massive bronze portal, etched with glyphs that pulsed with an ancient, hungry power, seemed to mock their escape. Behind them, the faint sound of shifting gravel betrayed the spies’ retreat, a chilling reminder of Grandmaster Pahran’s unseen hand. “Are you alright?” Renza demanded, her voice rough, an edge of genuine concern she immediately regretted. She tightened the crude bandage on his shoulder, avoiding his gaze. The memory of their near-kiss, the heat of his breath, and the frantic pounding in his ribs still prickled her skin like dune briars. Vashar recoiled, yanking his arm away with a sharp wince that had nothing to do with his wound. He pushed himself to his feet, a rigid wall of discomfort emanating from him. “I’m fine, Renzo. Just… a lapse. The cold, you know.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his uniform, eyes darting everywhere but her. “We need to report the cave-in. And… and those figures. They were definitely… spies. Or cultists. We should inform the Grandmaster.” Renza snorted. “Oh, I’m sure he’s already quite aware.” She gestured back to the glowing portal. “This little field trip had nothing to do with attracting Scorch-fiends, did it?” Vashar’s jaw worked, his face a mask of furious denial. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Grandmaster is a man of honor! He’d never… he’d never endanger cadets for some… some arcane objective!” The words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to reassert control, and then, with a forced cheerfulness that sounded more like a death rattle, clapped Renza hard on the back. “Right! Let’s get out of this glorified tomb. We’ve got… we’ve got urgent business. Manly business. Bro rituals!” Renza eyed him, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. The panic was radiating off him like heat from a forge. “Bro things, huh? You’re going to teach me how to wrestle a sand-bear with my teeth?” Vashar grimaced. “Better! I’ve arranged a… a social outing. A triple-date! With Cadet Beric and… and some lovely ladies from the Serpent’s Kiss alehouse. You need to… you know. Mingle. Act natural. Show off your… Renzo charm.” He puffed out his chest, completely missing the irony. Renza’s eyebrow rose. “A triple-date? With Beric, the boy who looks ready to spontaneously combust from panic?” “He’s… charming in his own way,” Vashar insisted, already steering Renza toward a narrow passage that climbed to the surface. “It’ll be good for you. Good for us. Bro-bonding. Nothing… nothing untoward. Just good, wholesome… heterosexual fun.” The last words came out in a rush, a desperate plea to the universe. Hours later, the Serpent’s Kiss alehouse hummed with the boisterous roar of off-duty scouts. The air hung heavy with roasted rock-hare and fermented cactus wine. Beric, a lanky recruit with twitching ears, nervously clutched a leather flask under the table, grease pooling along his brow. His ‘date,’ a pretty girl named Lira with a splash of freckles across her nose, kept glancing at him with a mixture of affection and exasperation. Vashar, meanwhile, sat stiffly beside a striking woman named Zephra, whose long dark braids were adorned with silver rings. He kept trying to engage her in conversation about combat formations, completely oblivious to her polite yawns. Renza, on the other hand, was having a grand time. She’d managed to charm not only her own date, a robust merchant daughter named Marra with a ringing laugh, but also Beric’s companion, Lira. She leaned back, draping an elbow over Marra’s chair, flashing a grin that flushed the girl's cheeks red. “So, Lira,” Renza purred, leaning forward over her tankard, “Beric tells me you can out-drink any two Vanguard cadets. Is that true, or is he just trying to impress me?” Lira giggled, nudging Beric with her elbow. “He certainly talks a big game, doesn’t he?” Beric turned the shade of boiled beetroot. “R-Renzo! Don’t tease her!” He fumbled with the wineskin, nearly dropping it. Vashar watched the exchange, his smile frozen. His grip on his goblet tightened, his knuckles stark white. He had intended this to be a demonstration of Renzo’s undeniable heterosexuality, a chance for Vashar to observe and reinforce proper ‘bro’ behavior. Instead, Renzo was practically purring, his eyes sparkling with an easy confidence that seemed to draw every woman at the table closer. It was… effective. Too effective. He felt a familiar, unpleasant twist in his gut, a raw, burning sensation that had nothing to do with the spicy food. *He’s just being Renzo*, Vashar told himself, *charming the ladies, as a man should. This is good. Very good.* But the internal monologue felt like a lie. “You know,” Renza continued, leaning closer to Marra, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “I hear the Vanguard trains its recruits to be quite good with their hands. Perhaps you’d like a demonstration after we finish this… excellent vintage?” She winked. Marra dissolved into a fit of giggles, playfully swatting Renza’s arm. The sound of splintering glass cut through the tavern’s din. Vashar’s goblet, a sturdy piece of obsidian-infused crystal, had shattered in his hand. Wine and shards sprayed across the table. Zephra gasped, jerking her hand back. Vashar stared at his palm, a single drop of blood welling from a minor cut, as if surprised by his own strength. “Clumsy fool!” a booming voice snarled from a nearby table. Jorn, the house bouncer, a mountain of meat with a split nose and shoulders like canyon boulders, stomped over. “Breaking property in my establishment? That’ll be a dozen sun-coins, cadet, or I’ll throw you out myself!” Vashar, still reeling from his accidental act of jealousy, snapped. His face, already flushed, hardened into a cold fury. “You dare address a Vanguard cadet like that, you gutter thug?” Jorn laughed, a phlegmy rattle in his chest. “Oh, a little canyon blossom thinks he’s tough, does he? Come on then, pretty boy. Let’s see what that fancy uniform really protects.” He gestured to the open floor, a sneer twisting his lips. Vashar, his rational mind entirely overridden by a cocktail of confused longing and displaced anger, pushed back his chair with a screech of wood. “You’ll regret that, ruffian!” Before Renza could intervene, Vashar lunged, a flurry of precise, disciplined strikes. But Jorn was bigger, slower, and surprisingly agile for his bulk. He dodged Vashar’s initial assault, then landed a heavy blow to Vashar’s side, sending him stumbling back into a table, which promptly collapsed. Chaos erupted. Shouts, clatter of plates, panicked screams. Renza cursed under her breath. “That’s it, bro-code broken,” she muttered, pushing herself to her feet. This was not the kind of attention she needed, but she couldn’t let Vashar get pummeled by this brute. She stayed low, weaving around the flailing patrons. Jorn, seeing Vashar down, let out a triumphant roar and moved in for another strike. Renza was faster. She slid low, sweeping Jorn’s legs out from under him in a move so quick it looked like he’d tripped over his own feet. The bouncer hit the floorboards with a crash that rattled every plate. Before he could recover, Renza grabbed a stray bucket of stale ale, upending it over his head. The man sputtered, gagging on the foul liquid. “Maybe next time,” Renza quipped, a wide, irreverent grin on her face, “you’ll learn some manners, you overgrown sand-slug!” The drinking hall erupted in cheers and whistling, two sellswords tossing copper bits at Renza's boots. But as the adrenaline faded, a searing pain erupted in Renza’s chest. Her soul-seal, usually a controlled ember, now blazed with a raw, agonizing fire. It wasn’t the slow burn of training or the frantic flare of combat; this was a hungry, consuming inferno. A violent throb pulsed through her very core, radiating outwards. *Three months*, a voice, not her own, echoed in her mind, cold and clear as ice. *Three months until detonation.* The pain was so intense, so immediate, it nearly brought her to her knees. She clutched her chest, biting back a cry, her face paling. Just then, the heavy timber entrance exploded inward, slamming against the sandstone frame. Every voice went dead. A figure stood framed in the doorway, impossibly tall, his silhouette stark against the night sky. Grandmaster Pahran, his robes swirling around him, a predatory smile on his lips. He surveyed the wreckage, looking past the groaning bouncer, split benches, and a pale Vashar, until his yellow eyes pinned Renza. His voice, amplified by some unseen force, boomed through the sudden silence. “Forgive my intrusion, citizens! But I have an urgent announcement! The Inner Vault, long sealed, will be opened tomorrow morning for a brutal Survival Trial! And Cadet Renzo,” he declared, his smile widening, his eyes locking onto Renza with an almost terrifying intensity, “you are absolutely required to compete.”

The Bro-Code and the Sabotaged Wingman