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But the crowd went wild.

Eir and Snaff cheered as loudly as anyone.

“There you have it,” called the announcer from his stand, “the fall of an empire. The undefeated Killers have now been defeated by Edge of Steel.”

That name brought the fans to their feet and they cheered, “EDGE OF STEEL! EDGE OF STEEL! EDGE OF STEEL! EDGE OF STEEL! . . .”

The man, the charr, and the sylvari stood dumbfounded in the midst of it all.

Snaff turned to Eir. “They’re the ones—the warriors we need.”

“You’ll never be able to afford them,” Zojja put in.

“That’s why I’ve got a different plan,” Eir responded.

Zojja huffed, “Oh, here we go again.”

Eir turned toward Snaff. “We can’t buy them. But I bet I can make a deal with Magnus the Bloody Handed.”

“What kind of deal?” asked Snaff.

“If he lends these warriors to us, then after we defeat the Dragonspawn, we’ll lend some warriors to him.”

“Who?” Snaff asked.

“Us.”

EDGE OF STEEL

I could get used to this,” Rytlock said as a platter of thundershrimp was set in the center of the table. The tails were huge, and the red shells had been cracked down the middle to reveal steaming white meat.

Edge of Steel had earned five hundred fifty silver for their victory in the arena. They’d paid three hundred of it toward their billet, but the rest was for rooms and a feast.

Caithe speared some of the thundershrimp meat, twisted, and ripped it loose. She popped the morsel in her mouth. “Tastes a bit like devourer.”

“Less poisonous, though,” Logan said, dunking his own piece in drawn butter. “And it wasn’t trying to kill us.”

Too hungry to worry with silverware, Rytlock clamped down on a section of meat and tore it free. He tossed it into his mouth and leaned back, staring at the smoky rafters above—once the bilge of a ship. “Ahhh.”

“Are you Rytlock Brimstone?” asked a voice nearby, unmistakably charr, unmistakably young.

Rytlock turned to see a cub fresh out of his fahrar, brown eyes gleaming with hero worship. “Why, yes, I am.”

“I saw you fight today,” the young charr said. “Would you sign my sword?” He slid a wooden blade onto the table.

“Of course.” Rytlock winked at him. Lacking a writing implement, Rytlock used his claw. He carved his signature boldly across the flat of the blade and handed it back. “There you go.”

The young charr stared with white-ringed eyes at his practice sword and bobbed away.

Watching the cub go, Rytlock sighed, “Yeah, I could get used to this!”

Just then, the server brought three tall tankards of charr ale, setting them in the middle of the table.

“Old Regret!” Rytlock enthused. “I didn’t think you could get this stuff outside the Black Citadel.” He hoisted his tankard. “Here’s to Edge of Steel.”

“To Edge of Steel,” chimed in the other two, lifting their ales and clanking the tankards.

Rytlock drained his in a single, long pull. Logan tried to match him but had to stop halfway, tears coming to his eyes.

Caithe took two gulps and set the tankard down, eyes wide. “Water from a peat marsh?”

“No,” Rytlock said, tugging on the waistcoat of the server and handing his empty tankard over for a refill.

Caithe sniffed the drink again. “It’s not sweat, is it?”

“No!” Logan laughed, winking at her above his ale. “Drink some more. It tastes better the more you have.” As if to prove his point, he drained his tankard—while Rytlock drained a second.

Shrugging, Caithe took a few more gulps. She lowered the drink to see two faces leering at her.

“Well, what do you think?” Rytlock asked.

Caithe stared blankly back. “You two are not as ugly as I first thought.”

Logan guffawed.

“You’re not as insufferable, either,” Rytlock said. “Neither one of you.”

“I’m not sure why I said that,” Caithe blurted.

Rytlock grinned. “It’s in the name, girl. Old Regret. Makes you say things—true things, of course—that you’ll regret later.”

Caithe scowled and took another gulp, coming away with a foam mustache. “Things like what?”

“Things like . . . well, like . . .” Rytlock huffed, making a decision. “All right, here goes: being with