This Ascent to Divinity is Lewder Than Expected

6.54 – Training Facility I

The Mantle Training Facility was split into three major sections: one for the low rankers, consisting of the first and second advancements, one for the mid-rankers, consisting of the third to fifth advancement, and one for the high rankers, sixth and higher. Of course, the number of sixth advancement wayfarers was vanishingly rare, but of any place in the world, Mantle was where they would congregate.

Zoey's team of four walked down polished tile hallways, headed for the mid-ranker public arenas. Even during the short trip, Zoey caught people outright staring at Rosalie—and the rest of them—as they passed, conversations cutting off mid-word. Rosalie might not be recognized on the streets of Mantle, but here, she was. Her reputation preceded her. Likely, some knew her personally.

Rosalie always walked with squared shoulders and her chin up, but today, it was with an even more imperious grace than usual. She was treating her first public outing seriously. For all she'd said that the d'Celestins were out of reach of other noble families, she intended to set a good first impression. How much of that was her father's insistence, and how much was it Rosalie wanting to foster such an image herself?

It was a short walk before they exited the main building and entered a sprawling courtyard. Elevated platforms were arranged in a spacious grid, some small, meant for one-on-one fights, and some large, presumably for team combat.

Interestingly, the largest of the arena platforms was centered in the courtyard, and it was changing shape. Where the platform had been covered with a dense thicket of trees, Zoey watched as the environment shifted: trees shuddering and disappearing like an illusion going out, before dirt was replaced with rolling dunes of sand and trees with cacti and other desert foliage.

An arena that could emulate natural terrain? Considering the sheer variance in shards, that would be a useful tool to train with. Such a thing had to be an amazing undertaking of magic, but if any training facility would have such a feature, it would be Mantle's.

Even for a place as rich as this, though, there only appeared to be one of those—terrain morphing wasn't a feature of every arena, only the largest and centermost. The rest were standard stone platforms surrounded with magical energy shields, which became visible only when stray attacks or an unlucky flung body slammed into them.

The mid-ranker public courtyard teemed with activity. Engagements surrounded them. Most, though not all, of the sparring platforms were occupied with frenetic fights. And frenetic they were. These weren't first- or second-advancement wayfarers, but third at the minimum, up to fifth. Men or women flitted around with daggers, disappearing and reappearing in untrackable bursts of speed; huge explosions of arcane energy exploded toward hunkered-down warriors in full plate armor; skills of a huge variety went off. She watched as a bare-chested, tattooed man slammed his foot into the floor, and the entire arena rippled with force, the energy only not leaking into the courtyard thanks to the magical shield encasing him.

Back in Treyhull, advancements three to five were rare. Globally speaking, even third advancement was a fair accomplishment—the end-point for many people in a years-long wayfaring career, and wayfaring wasn't a run-of-the-mill occupation to begin with. Fourth was where status began, and fifth, the beginning of local or regional prestige.

So these weren't typical, everyday fights. Zoey watched the flurry of activity with amazement. The magical fields dampened the racket being created. The courtyard was filled only with the chatter of its inhabitants, oddly calm for all the visual display.

There was quite a bit of chatter, too, not a small amount. More even than combatants, wayfarers stood in clusters, talking amongst each other. Some weren't dressed in combat gear, but the finery expected of high nobility: suits and dresses of various styles. As if they'd come here with no intention to spar and simply to speak instead. Though, Zoey realized, they could throw on armor at a moment's notice via their inventories. So maybe they just preferred staying formal until they stepped into the arena.

Regardless, Zoey intuited this courtyard was for political mingling as much as combat practice. Hence why Rosalie's father had encouraged them to show their faces, for Rosalie to make her introduction not at a gala, but at a training facility. For a society structured around strength and advancement, where direct power determined a pecking order, that made sense.

They attracted attention mere moments after walking in. Zoey wasn't the first to notice their approachers; Rosalie did. When Zoey saw her posture stiffen slightly, she turned her own eyes. Sure enough, a group of three—two women, one man—were headed for them. Several others were looking, but they made no move to come and speak. Zoey could only assume that while Rosalie might be a major point of interest to everyone present, that didn't mean she was approachable to everyone. She was this world's version of a princess: and not just a princess, but the heiress-apparent.

"Here we go," Rosalie murmured. To Zoey, she said: "They're friends. Mostly."

That was as much context as Zoey got before the group had arrived.

She took them in. Leading the pack was a tall woman with short brown hair and chocolate eyes. She wore a white chest plate and had a sword sheathed at her hip. Her expression was acutely interested as it swept across Zoey, Maddy, and Delta, though that attention was brief; her eyes landed solidly on Rosalie. There was recognition there, though friendly might be too generous a description. But not unfriendly either. Rosalie had made it clear that she had known some people approaching 'friends' back before entering the Fractures, but Zoey suspected her relationships were complicated. Too many layers of political entanglements and duties.

The man standing to her left was a few inches shorter than the tall woman, which made him about average height for a man. He was dressed in a fancy black-and-gold robe. A heavy leather-bound tome was hooked to his belt like a sheathed weapon. And that was probably the case: a weapon. A mage's combat tool he'd gotten from a shard. Which made him a caster of some variation?

He was pretty. That was the simplest way to describe his features. Though not necessarily feminine. His haircut, at least, was masculine, short and glossy black hair swept to the side. His green eyes were calm and analytical. He didn't seem to have as much recognition for Rosalie as the leading woman did—in fact, he seemed wary as he walked over. Like he didn't want to approach the d'Celestin heir but had forced himself to anyway.

The third was another woman. She had a tomboyish look, with red hair shaved short on one side and leather armor showing off her defined biceps. A huge two-handed axe was strapped to her back. She wore a frown as she walked over, her attention so solidly locked to Rosalie—ignoring the rest of them—that Zoey wondered if they'd even been noticed. Like the first woman, there was recognition in those orange eyes. She knew Rosalie in a personal manner, not just by reputation. Strangely, Zoey thought the woman looked … upset?

Was this one of Rosalie's potential teammates? Perhaps offended that her opportunity to be placed onto the wayfaring squad of their generation had been unceremoniously discarded? Except the offense seemed more personal than that. A friend spurned? Or was Zoey reading too much into a frown?

Those quick appraisals were all Zoey had time to make.

"Rosalie," the brown-haired woman said, spreading her arms with a wide smile. "You're here! People were starting to worry."

"Worry?" Rosalie asked with an arched eyebrow. "About me?"

The woman smirked. "Not for your health, of course. Just that you'd run off like Elodie, too tempted by shards to bother returning to the humdrum of regular life."

That same eyebrow arched further, which seemed to be the totality of Rosalie's response.

The woman laughed again. "And who are these three?" she asked, turning her gaze at Maddy, Delta, and Zoey. "The prodigious teammates mentioned earlier?"

The woman's gaze lingered on Zoey, unable to help herself. Zoey was used to that reaction. She had been given a body reforged by a sex goddess. It was rare for someone's eyes not to linger, however briefly. Even men and women not naturally inclined toward the feminine.

Rosalie introduced each of them not curtly, but efficiently. "Zoey, Delta, Maddy," she said. "And this is Cordelia." She gestured at the tall woman. "We were frequent sparring partners when we were younger. The same for Honor." She gestured at the red-haired girl. Her eyes turned next to the man. "And lastly … Quinn, I believe?"

Quinn nodded. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady d'Celestin."

"I heard you'd found some strays," Honor said, cutting in before any more pleasantries could be exchanged. "Almost didn't believe it."

Unlike Cordelia, there was no politeness in her voice. Her tone matched her expression: upset, even aggressive.

"Strays?" Delta repeated, sounding highly unimpressed—bristling to meet Honor's attitude. "Excuse me?"

"How did that happen?" Honor asked, addressing Rosalie, but keeping her smoldering gaze on Delta—as if emphasizing, yes, strays.

"Now, Honor," Cordelia tutted, resting a hand on the girl's shoulder, which Honor glared at next. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm sure Rosalie has a fascinating story."

Honor shrugged the woman's hand away. Her gaze returned to Rosalie. "What advancement are you?" she asked bluntly. "Lord d'Celestin didn't say. That had to be intentional."

Rosalie pursed her lips. She didn't look surprised by the question, or indeed the hostility in Honor's voice. She even seemed … sad?

Despite Honor's aggressiveness, Zoey was nearly certain she wasn't one of the enemies Rosalie had mentioned. The opposite. An ally spurned, then? That was what Zoey would assume until proven otherwise.

"Fourth," Rosalie answered. "As are each of my teammates."