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“What?”

“That’s what they called us,” Rytlock reflected. “In my fahrar—that’s the pack they put you in when you’re born—in my fahrar they called the smallest of us the striplings.”

“You were small?” Logan asked incredulously.

“I was the youngest. The smallest. They called me Runtlock.”

“Runtlock!” Logan snorted.

“I made them stop,” Rytlock growled ominously. “I did, and the other striplings did. We banded together, and I was the leader. We taught the bullies a few lessons. Still can’t stand bullies.”

“But you can stand us,” Logan said.

“Yeah—barely.”

Logan took another pull from his tankard. “Well, it may be the Old Regret talking, but, you know—I always thought charr were bloodthirsty brutes—”

“We are,” Rytlock interrupted, receiving another ale.

“But not just that,” Logan went on. “You’re also loud, foul, and pigheaded.”

“What’s your point?”

Logan clapped a hand on Rytlock’s shoulder. “I’d rather hang out with you than with my brother.”

Rytlock laughed. “Oh, yeah. The Seraph.”

“Yeah. The white knight, you know—the perfect one. He’s guarding Queen Jennah, and I’m guarding a caravan of salt pork. He’s a Seraph, and I’m a grunt. He’s always judging me—”

“I’m always judging you,” Rytlock said.

“But I don’t care what you think, ’cause you’re a jackass like me. There. I said it: you’re the jackass brother I never had.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Rytlock proclaimed, crashing his tankard with Logan’s.

Logan took another sip and then turned to Caithe. “What about you? Why do you put up with us?”

Caithe blinked. “You’re interesting.”

The man and the charr traded looks.

“She’s got a point,” Rytlock said.

Caithe continued, her foam mustache disintegrating with tiny, fizzy pops, “Sylvari are one thing. We are born out of the Pale Tree, and no matter how far away the winds bear us, we still carry the life of the tree in us. Humans and charr, you don’t belong to anything, not even your mothers or brothers. Not even yourselves. You spend your whole lives trying to find something to belong to—something worth it. And it seems like most of you never do.” Another hiccup. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah,” Logan echoed hollowly. “Interesting.”

Rytlock sighed. “Well, I’m sure not gonna belong to a tree.”

Caithe stared hard at him for a moment before she laughed. She never laughed. The sound was strange, like bells ringing—rare and pure—and it left her comrades gaping. She glanced from one to the other, stopped laughing, and fell over.

“Here they are, the up-and-coming team of Rytlock Brimstone, Caithe of the sylvari, and Logan Thackeray. You know them as Edge of Steel!”

Rytlock, Caithe, and Logan jogged out to a smattering of applause. That was plenty, though: everything seemed loud this morning.

“So, what do you think Sangjo’s got in store for us today?” Rytlock wondered.

“Get ready,” Caithe broke in. “Here they come.”

“And today, Edge of Steel faces a fan favorite,” called the announcer, “the Northern Fury!”

Three norn warriors loped from the open gate, massive in their animal hides and gleaming armor. The crowd greeted them with shouts and applause, and the Northern Fury lifted huge hands toward them.

“The Northern Fury?” Caithe said wonderingly.

“They’re huge,” Logan said.

“I’m huge,” Rytlock reminded.

“We can defeat them easily,” Caithe said. “They all have the same strengths—brute force and fury—and all the same weaknesses.”

Across the arena, the three norn drew morning stars from their belts and broke into a trot, heading toward Edge of Steel.

“What are their weaknesses?” Logan asked as he pulled loose his war hammer.

The three norn were charging now, bellowing as they came.

“We’ll see,” Caithe said, her dagger in hand.

The first of the three norn ran directly at Rytlock, who raised Sohothin for the charge. The norn warrior arrived with skins flying and armor gleaming. Rytlock swung the flaming sword at his foe’s morning star, severing the chain. The norn did not slow, ramming Rytlock backward. He rolled once and lunged to his feet, Sohothin forming a