Among the Sword Sect contingent, Jared’s faded blue coverall looked almost out of place beside rows of spotless white uniforms. At his waist hung Dragonslayer Sword, plain steel when compared to the fancy swords carried by everyone else.

Lyra nudged Jared’s arm, breath forming pale curls in the brisk mountain air. Her voice dropped to an urgent whisper. “Jared, look… Over by the gate.”

Across the flagstone square, three young men in polished silver mail escorted a fourth in crimson. That man, tall, sharp-jawed, his brow framed by raven-dark hair, moved with the careless grace of someone who had never known failure. A faint, crooked smile carved itself across his lips, the unmistakable smirk of Jayson Morrow.

Jayson must have felt Lyra’s stare. He turned, gaze sweeping past and settling on Jared as though inspecting a trinket at market, something cheap, barely worth weighing. The smile hardened into a sneer.

“So this is what the Sword Sect dredged up? A third-rate Wandering Immortal Realm, to make up the numbers?” He let the words hang, lazily venomous. “Looks like they’re truly scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

The silver-armored disciples around broke into muted laughter, soft enough to feign courtesy, loud enough to sting. The sound slid across the square like a cold draught, reaching every Sword Sect disciple.

Color drained from Lyra’s cheeks. Her fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped hilt at hip, knuckles blanching as they trembled.