SAMGAR

When Zhang Jindi appeared on his doorstep first thing in the morning, Samgar knew he was in for one hell of a day.

"Gods, Jin," he said as soon as the door opened. "It's not even second bell. Please don't tell me Addy's gotten in trouble already."

Jindi fidgeted and refused to meet his eyes. In hindsight, this was the first warning sign: for a kid with all the common sense of, well, him at that age, Jindi was remarkably composed. Samgar had only ever seen her still as a statue or moving with eerie grace. Her left nail had almost been bitten through.

"What's she done now? Is it jail again? Please tell me it's not jail."

"She's not in jail," Jindi answered, still not meeting his eyes. "She's–fuck. I'm so sorry."

Samgar watched her for a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he sighed and gestured for her to come in. Jindi stepped over his threshold without complaint–another warning sign. Samgar was never sure why, but Jindi always hesitated to enter his home. He shut the door behind her and waved her over the worn wooden floor to the table. He took a seat with a grunt and gestured at Addy's chair. However, Jindi remained standing, fiddling with the edge of her robe.

"All right, spit it out. Who do I have to bribe or murder to get her out of trouble?"

With a completely straight face, Jindi answered, "The king."

Samgar began to roll his eyes, then stopped as he realized Jindi wasn't joking. "I think he's a little out of my price range, kid. What exactly did she do?"

Jindi took a breath before, in a rush, she admitted, "She went to the Well."

"Why the hells would she go to the Well?" Samgar asked. "There's nothing but dirt and aqueducts there, as well as—"

He trailed off, eyes widening. "No. She didn't. She couldn't. They said you had to be eighteen to sign up! She's only sixteen!"

Jindi's face crumpled, and she sat hard on the other chair. Oddly, it didn't creak under her weight. "I'm so sorry! I told her I was signing up and wanted to say goodbye. I thought she already knew about your king's challenge, but she had thought it was for soldiers only. I think she's lying about her age, and the recruiters for this kind of thing never check papers."

"Damn it, Jin, I was the one who told her it was soldiers only," Samgar ground out. "As soon as I heard about this death trap of a contest, I knew it was exactly the kind of stupid shit I would have done at her age. I even wrote on the flyers around her favorite haunts to seal the deal. She was never supposed to know!"

Jindi blinked at him. "You lied to her about the rules?"

"Of course I did. People lie to their kids sometimes. You'll understand when you're older." Samgar took a deep breath. "What do we do? Report her?"

Jindi looked at him with a strangely knowing gaze before shaking her head. "Too late for that. The qualifying fight and entry into the caverns start at third bell. It'll take almost that long to get across the city, and by then, they won't care about an arbitrary age restriction."

Samgar frowned. "A qualifying fight?"

"They're putting everyone on a platform in the Well. I asked for details, but the recruiters refused to tell me anything else. I'm guessing it's some kind of free-for-all, where only the winners will go in."

Samgar looked at her for a long moment, then slowly grinned. "And the losers get sent home? All right. I know exactly what to do. And you're going to help me."

~*~

The Cistern of Queen Diana, called the Well by locals, was one of the marvels of Nuhan engineering. After a drought two hundred years ago shrank the Ryxi River to a straggling creek the color and odor of shit, Minoa was faced with a choice: find new water or die under the summer sun. Under Queen Diana's direction, twenty spring magi bored a hole two hundred feet under the city's heart in the hopes of finding an aquifer in time. Their efforts were rewarded: a massive stone cavern filled with water was uncovered in the first month. What they didn't anticipate was the Deeps, a labyrinth of caves that honeycombed the land under Minoa, of which the Cistern was only one.

Dangerous? Certainly. A brand-new hideout for desperate lowlifes and monstrosities? Obviously. A tempting piece of real estate for a king eager for war?

Unfortunately so, Samgar thought as he took his ready stance. He pulled the visor of his helm down and drew a blunted arming sword. A quick scan of the crowd revealed a motley crew of mercenaries, hands twitching towards hidden knives. A few had the smug look of mages itching to fuck with the fabric of reality. Samgar made a mental note to avoid those unless he absolutely had to—there were few things more reckless or dangerous than a mage with something to prove. Hardly anyone had even basic armor, he noted with relief. No armor meant that his blunt sword could work as an excellent club, and the ban on blades meant the few chinks in his armor were safe from all but magic.

Underneath his feet, the wooden platform creaked ominously. Samgar eyed it for a moment before turning his gaze to the crowd. In theory, the platform connected to the Well stairs was in perfect working order, able to fold down to access the water or lock up to access the tunnels. In practice, Samgar trusted the Well maintenance crews about as much as he trusted Addy's cooking, and she had once confused salt with sugar in a jam recipe.

The thought of Addy reminded him; Samgar scanned the crowd further until he spotted a familiar brown ponytail on the far side of the platform. His eyes narrowed, and he moved to make his way across the platform.

He had hardly taken two steps, however, when a horn blared out the signal to begin.

Ah well. Time to get to work.

Samgar was within easy reach of two of his competitors: a tall woman with the canteens of a winter mage and a scrawny boy with fists wrapped in cloth. The winter mage was too powerful to allow a chance to gather her wits in the Cistern, where water was just under their feet. Samgar whirled his sword in a strike that, with a standard blade, would have decapitated her. As it was, she barely got her arms up in time to save her skull from being cracked open. The force of the blow still knocked her off the platform, and Samgar turned back to the fray before even hearing her splash.

The platform had devolved into an all-out melee in the scarce pair of seconds he'd needed to dispose of the mage. For a handful of moments, Samgar focused only on getting his bearings. He planted his feet in a stance solid as a mountain and swept the arming blade in long, looping blocks meant to clear space as much as deflect blows. Around the edges of the platform, unlucky mercenaries were already starting to topple into the drink. To his left, he spotted a flash of blue punctuated by a sharp cry; an instant later, an enormous man in leather armor flew off the platform's edge, impacted the Well's wall, and collapsed bonelessly into the water.

Jindi was good to her word, Samgar realized. When he'd conscripted her to draw attention so he could reach Addy, he hadn't realized the girl had such prodigious skill. As he worked his way toward her, she seemed more teeth-bared dervish than layabout, her steps following the tight, twisting sequence of Southern circle-walking as she wove around the other combatants. Every few seconds, one fist would lash out in a strike with the full force of her body behind it, and the unfortunate recipient would be knocked off their feet like they had been kicked by a horse.

She was too strong, Samgar realized. No skill, no matter how well-honed, should produce that kind of force. But she was no mage; he could tell that much—

A chain wrapped around his sword, and Samgar cursed his momentary inattention. There would be time to interrogate Jindi after the fight was over. On instinct, one hand gripped the chain, and Samgar twisted and yanked, falling to one knee to add extra strength to his pivot. A startled man covered in tattoos was hauled out of the crowd. Samgar continued the twist, the full weight of his armored body pulling the man off balance and off the platform. Another moment and he was up and moving again, stalking toward Adeline.

Adeline stood by the platform's edge, on the defense against two opponents. Her eyes, as brown as Samgar's mother's, flashed with indignation as a blond autumn mage advanced on her, his hands cracking with lightning. The other, a club-wielding wastrel in black, menaced her left flank. To her credit, Adeline was managing tolerable well with only a wooden baton and her rapier at her side. However, the autumn mage's hands were twisting in a sign that Samgar knew all too well: lightning was about to strike. As Adeline spotted the lightning, her eyes widened in fear. The sight of that fear kindled explosive fury in Samgar's gut.

A step and grunt: Samgar's dull blade brained the mage in the back of his skull. The mage collapsed, lightning winking out, and Samgar slammed his steel pauldron without breaking stride into the other combatant's solar plexus. The man didn't even have time to swear as the air left his lungs, and he was shoved off the platform. Samgar watched him fall with satisfaction as the anger dwindled.

"...Dad?"

The sound of Adeline's voice reminded Samgar of his purpose. He whirled to face her, pulling his helm off. "Adeline, what the hells were you thinking, coming here? Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea how dangerous the Deeps are?"

Shock, anger, and embarrassment warred on Adeline's face. After a moment, embarrassment won. "It's not that dangerous—"

Samgar's worry, building for over an hour, rapidly transformed into anger. "Not that dangerous? The king wouldn't be offering this kind of reward if it wasn't dangerous! Did you ever think about what would happen if you won the melee? Going into a dark cave full of monsters with no armor and that—that toad-sticker as your only real weapon. Your mother would geld me for letting this happen!"

Real hurt flashed through Adeline's eyes. "I just wanted to be like you! You would have gone to the Deeps when you were my age—"

"Because I was a stupid kid with a head full of stories, and if I hadn't fathered you, I'd be dead on some Southern battlefield!"

Samgar was breathing hard, staring at his daughter as the platform creaked underneath them. The sounds of the brawl were beginning to die behind them. Adeline looked at Samgar as though she had never seen him before. Regret seized him.

"Addy, I—"

There was a metallic shriek, and the platform beneath them lurched. Samgar stumbled back to the edge as the platform folded away beneath them, managing to get his feet onto the hinges. Those with magic or good reflexes managed to get to safety, and from the center, Jindi leaped twenty feet straight up to cling upside down to a stalactite like a blue-robed bat. The remainder gripped the edge or plummeted into the water with a colossal splash, Adeline among them. Samgar watched her surface, his gut churning.

"Congratulations to the victors!" Cried the recruiters with a grin. "Go forth for honor and glory!"

Honor and glory. Adeline wouldn't look at him in the water a mere ten feet below. Samgar closed his eyes.

"Shit."

MAEVE WRAITH

No Entry, no comment, no score.

Ashlynn "Ash" Dawnsinger

The Mother's Eye was once the crown jewel of Jhehet, but years of neglect had left the grand structure to decay. Blue sandstone inlaid with white gold was now cracked and worn like a dried river. The bronze dome is now a sickly blue-green. In these days of New Magic, there was no love nor care for the relics of Old Magic. What was once a sacred worship site is now desecrated and used for one beastly purpose.

Gladiator Battles

Blood, sweat, and beast fueled the ever-hungry masses. Stone pews packed full of both rich and poor alike, all gathered together to quench that primal need for violence. The royal family perched above them like judgemental vultures observing the carnage with boredom.

A cacophony of excitement rang throughout the arena at the sight of The Bone Crusher, eviscerating a Dolcan Lion. The giant of a man divorced the lion's head from its shoulders and held it for the crowd to drool over. A shower of coins and flowers descend upon the arena as cleaner auto golems clear the area for the next event.

"Let's have another round of applause for the mighty Bone Crusher!" The announcer booms into a microphone.

The crowd goes insane.

"I LOVE YOU, BONE CRUSHER!" Yells a woman.

"And I love you, random citizen!" The giant responds as he waves to the crowd, leaving shortly after.

"Alright, alright. Let's settle back down." The announcer waves his hand to move everyone to their seats. "Now, for the real reason, we have gathered all you beautiful people here. Our ever-amazing king has invited many men and women from around the country to earn the honor of becoming the next Nuhan Champion!"

The gates surrounding the arena groaned open to reveal many men and women, each armed with blunt weapons, armor, and shields. However, a few stood out, including our hero: Ashlynn Dawnsinger. The audience erupted into a symphony of cheers and jeers as the combatants entered the ring. Some enjoyed the attention, while others, like a timid girl with fire for hair, attempted to remain hidden. Ash was among the group relishing in the spotlight. He set off little pops of blue and green fire, mimicking fireworks and jumping on the edge of the ring to greet his adoring fans and outspoken haters. He was even so bold as to send a kiss and a wink up to one of the princes, earning a frown of disapproval from the king.

"You better not be going for my king, foxy boy." Chastised a red-headed girl as she sauntered up next to Ash.

"Why? Are you trying out for wife number eight?" Ash wiggled his eyebrows as he plopped back down. "I hear he's a dusty old vampire that sucks the blood of his wives." He wiggles his fingers with an evil smile.

"Well, I'll just have to check out for myself. Kenna, by the way."

"Ash. I hope you don't die."

"Likewise."

"Alright, champions! Back to center!" The announcer waved the contestants back to the center ring. "I have one teeny tiny last thing for you all."

The center platform groaned as it rose, and the outer ring retracted into the walls, revealing the placid dark waters of the lake below. New Magic lights clicked on, casting an eerie orange glow on the cave walls.

"Do whatever it takes to stay in the center, but no killing. Now, let the games begin!" He grabbed hold of a rope that had lowered down and disappeared into the upper dome as the contestants sprang into action. The ring becomes alive with desperate war cries and weapons flailing around in a frenzy.

Ash ducked out of the way as two men lunged at him, colliding with each other instead with a loud clang from their armor. A wooden mace grazed his ear, nearly taking a chunk with it. He crouched low and weaved through the writhing mass of bodies, avoiding fists, weapons, and shields.

A splash echoed up from the lake below, hushing the violence instantly. Even the audience had gone silent.

"What are you waiting for? Your kingdom requires a champion." King Charles' voice echoed throughout the silent hall.

"Yeah! We want a champion!"

"We want a champion!"

"We want a champion!"

"WE WANT A CHAMPION!" The entire crowd took up the chant.

"You heard them, you dolts. They want a champion." Kenna held up her hand, flames dancing across her fingertips.

The rest let out a cry in agreement and started fighting once again. Fresh blood dotted the ground, despite the blunt weapons. Left and right bodies were tossed from the platform, some unconscious before hitting the water. The room lit up with Old Magic, earning cheers from the crowd. However, the royal family remained silent and watchful. The king eased back in his seat as if watching a boring ballet.

Ash managed to find a break in the very center of the platform—a brief calmness, like the eye of a storm. His breaths came out in quick beats as he took in the violence around him. A dwarven man plows through a cluster of bodies with his war hammer, the sounds of cracking bones following his swings. His next swing connects with the jaw of an elf, knocking out blood and teeth as the girl flies from the platform. A ghoul of a woman slinks through the crowded arena like a shadow, her fingertips crackling with energy. The dwarf spins to meet her, but her hand connects with the metal head, electrocuting the brute.

"All the little flies fry." The ghoul flicks her wrist, tossing the man over the edge like a wet rag. She then slunk off to find a new fly to zap.

Kenna popped into view, arms alight with fire and determination in her eyes. He blasted a twig of a man out of the ring with ease. She turned on her heel and sent a kiss the king's way before ducking back into the fray.

Ash's eyes trailed to the royal box, where his prince sat neatly perched between his two elder sisters. Their eyes met briefly, and Ash felt those little butterflies take flight. All this was for him. Well, really, to impress his father.

"This is all insane! If I knew it would be like this, I never would've accepted the invitation." The girl with flaming hair burst out of the sea of bodies.

"Welcome to Jhehet, Flame Girl." Ash plastered on an easy smile.

"That's probably the warmest welcome I've gotten here."

"Not surprised. A big city doesn't mean a big welcome."

"I 'spose."

"You'll be fi-" Ash was suddenly yanked back into the fray by his tails. He clawed at the ground, trying to gain some purchase.

"Get over here, little fox." The half-orc woman laughed and tugged on his tails, lifting him into the air and earning a yelp from the small boy. "Thought you could get away from the fight?"

Ash whipped around in her hold and kicked her jaw. His body hit the ground with a thud, and he rolled to escape her stomping foot.

"Why you little." She reached down to her boot to grab her hidden dagger but found Ash had stolen it.

"I remember them mentioning only blunt weapons." Ash tsked and flipped the knife in his hand. "Thanks for the help, green bean." He winked and dodged her next fist. With a flick of his wrist, he stabbed her arm, a fine line of blood staining her green skin.

She slightly waned at the sudden sting but grabbed a bat from another contestant running by. She swung for Ash's head, but he teleported behind her. He sliced the back of her head, a chunk of her hair falling to the ground.

"You'll pay for that!" She turned on her heel and slammed the bat into Ash's head.

His vision went blurry, and ringing filled his head. Ash staggered back and felt the floor give out below him. The center platform had opened up, dumping the brawling champions to fall. Everything slowed down. The surprised cries barely registered in his mind as he fell.

Down.

Down.

Down.

A warm hand touched his arm, shaking him from his daze.

"Come on, Ash. Our fight ain't over yet." Kenna squeezed his arm, and jets of fire shot out from her feet.

They had nearly hit the water when she grabbed him. Her flames caused steam to rise from the lake, the feeling waking Ash up further.

"I've got a better idea." He muttered and wrapped his fingers around hers. His golden eyes glowed, and in an instant, they had teleported to the royal box. He landed in his prince's lap, and Kenna landed in King Charles's.

Kenna Ashfyre

Kenna Ashfyre strapped on her armor with the familiarity of one well-versed with battle. She tied her leather bracers with ease, lacing the strings until they were tight against her skin. But when she tied the final, intricate knot, she hesitated. It had been many years since she'd donned any sort of armor. Many years since she'd worn these old leather pieces—leather because metal would get too hot. The motion teased at her memories. Shoved the ones she tried to push away, and yet never could, to the forefront of her mind.

Maybe it was fate, then, that she could never forget. Because being here, joining this tournament, was for them. Was for everyone she'd lost. And even though she had tried to forget, the numbness only kept so much away.

She'd need a distraction, and soon.

The distraction was not to be had in the dank, brown walls, or the wooden benches that lined the musty room. Rather, it was in the people in it. Kenna eyed her competition with a fierce gaze, wandering across faces she could not put names to and their choice of weapons. There was a girl who stood without shoes, talking at nothing. Not her, then. Kenna had no patience for the insane.

Her gaze next fell on a woman with emerald skin, who didn't walk so much as swagger through the chamber. The woman paused in front of the stack of bladeless weapons and pulled out a club. Kenna licked her lips. That one could be fun.

A man glaring at a shield next caught her eye, a man with shoulder-length dark hair and a wicked mouth. Attractive if you liked the roguish idiot type. He looked up, catching her staring, and winked. Oh, it was like that then. Kenna knew a challenge when she saw one. She would win, of course. She always did. And she always left them wanting more.

"Stand for the king."

The competitors stood, turning their attention to the light from the open door. Beyond, a crowd cheered for their blood. But in front of the bloodthirsty onlookers was the man Kenna had engrained into her memory. Emblazoned across the backs of her eyelids when she fell asleep.

It was him she was here for. The real reason she'd accepted this farce of a competition. If there was a prize to be won, it was him.

King Charles IX stepped through the door with all the prowess of a general stepping onto the field of battle. His face held an ageless quality about it, wrinkles marring his forehead and the place around his eyes, with a firm jaw and straight nose. He was handsome, which was easy to see, and the way the golden crown sat upon his dark hair gave no illusions of his power. To the outsider, he was a gentle savior. Renowned. Honorable. But his eyes, blue as the raging sea, told the truth—his past was not kind.

He was not kind.

The man was surrounded by four knights, dressed in glistening metal armor, as he stepped through the masses. The knights studied the competitors with appraising looks, sometimes weary, sometimes curious, as they followed closely behind.

"We are here to find the bravest among you," he said. "Test your strength. Resilience. Fight well, and you shall be rewarded."

The king continued his trek forward, past the girl with flaming hair and the boy with the two fox tails. It was at this moment that Kenna knocked over a wooden sword, right into the path of the king.

"My sincerest apologizes," Kenna said, rushing forward to retrieve the weapon as the knights regarded her warily. She made sure to look up at the king underneath long eyelashes as she knelt before him.

"No harm done, Kenna Ashfyre." King Charles asked, studying her with that penetrating gaze. And then, "You look familiar. Have we met before?"

Kenna smiled and stood, knowing full well how her lips looked when painted the deepest red. Knowing they would distract from the truth. "I'm afraid not, your majesty. But I welcome any invitation to meet with you."

One of the knights scoffed. One of the competitors protested. But the king simply rose a hand and the crowd went silent. "It takes more than a pretty face to tempt me."

"Perhaps you look for power." Kenna held up a hand, letting orange flames flicker across her skin. Race across her fingertips. Someone sucked in a breath. She felt the heat against her skin. Felt where her flesh should burn, but didn't.

The king watched with tempered fascination. He was a head taller than her, but as Kenna took a step closer, standing nearly chest-to-chest with the man, he felt infinite.

"Is that what you think I seek? Power?" King Charles asked as Kenna let her flames wink out.

"Is that not what all powerful men seek? A powerful woman to stand at his side?" Kenna bit her lip, feigning ignorance, and was pleased when his gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

"Let's see how you fair in the fight."

Kenny smiled and stepped back.

"Your majesty, are you ready to begin?"

The king gave Kenna one last, lingering look and turned away, his cloak fluttering behind him. "I look forward to seeing everyone's skill. Best of luck, my champions."

A few minutes later, Kenna stood on a platform overlooking the ocean. Sea salt air stung at her nose and whipped through her braid, pulling strands of red hair loose. The crowd watched with rapt attention from elevated bleachers, cheering for their favorite competitors.

Kenna tensed as an announcer listed the rules, but her mind was elsewhere. She needed an impressive performance if she was to receive an audience with the king.

She needed to be brilliant.

A gong sounded and Kenna sprang into action. She'd left the wooden sword behind, but that didn't mean she was powerless. She met a young girl in the middle of the platform, blonde and blue-eyed, swinging a wooden ax at the girl Kenna saw talking to herself earlier.

Kenna ducked under the ax swinging before her, her heart beating rapidly. The girl was fearless, Kenna had to give her that. But fearless and precise were two very different things. Kenna ducked, flames alighting on her hand as she sent a blast of fire at the girl. It wasn't hot enough to kill, the rules were very clear on that, but it was hot enough to sting. To distract.

The blonde hissed and something in her eyes shifted. She roared, throwing herself at Kenna, who dodged, momentum carrying her into the insane girl. They toppled to the ground, rolling to a stop. The girl looked down at Kenna with a wicked smile and slammed a bolt of lightning into her chest.

Kenna's mind went blank, her thoughts dissipating as the pain coursed through her head, through her heart...just as adrenaline coursed through her blood.

This—the feeling of euphoria right before a downfall—was a feeling she treasured.

It was only when Kenna was the closest to death that she felt the most alive.

Kenna blinked feeling back into her limbs just as the hand arched down again and bucked her hips, flicking the girl away. Kenna was on her feet in a flash, her leather armor charred and smoldering from the lightning.

The blonde girl was at her back in an instant, aiming for her side. There was something in the way this girl fought, in the way her eyes were wide and fearful, that said she never lost. That said she couldn't afford to lose.

Kenna could understand that feeling on some, fundamental level. It was the way she fought in the last war. Despair takes over and there is nothing but steel and survival and blood.

She felt for this girl. Pitied her. But she couldn't let her win. Kenna would stop at nothing to see this thing through, to find the one thing in the dungeon that could finally grant her freedom. There was no room for other, more desperate souls in her plan.

The heat of flames raced up her arms. The song of fire flew through the air. And the blonde collapsed at the edge of the platform.

A plank creaked behind her. As Kenna whirled to meet her assailant, the platform shuddered. And then collapsed.

Falling was a silent, desperate endeavor. Kenna clawed at the planks, feeling splinters enter her skin until the fingers of her right hand caught, wedged into the platform. She heard a few contestants splash into the water but didn't look down. Couldn't look down.

Her arm wouldn't allow her couldn't dangle there forever, but the trek up was treacherous. She knew falling would not mean her death, but her dismissal. And she couldn't allow that to happen. So Kenna reached up, stuffing her hand into the crack with all the strength she had, and pulled herself up. Plank by plank. Foot by foot.

Sweat beaded against her brow, less to do with the blazing sun and more to do with the energy it took to keep her grip. And finally, as Kenna reached the top, a hand reached down to help her up.

Kenna rolled onto her back, limbs aching, and stared up at the boy with the fox ears. All golden eyes and pretty smiles.

"My savior," Kenna said, smirking, though her chest still heaved.

"I'm sure you call all the boys that." He mirrored her smirk. "I'm Ash," he held out a hand and pulled her to her feet.

"I don't usually give out names until the second date," Kenna said as she stepped back, "but for you, I'll make an exception. I'm Kenna."

"Kenna Ashfyre," Ash said. "So I've heard."

"All good things?" Kenna winked.

"All broken hearts." Ash countered and glanced behind her head. "I think there's someone waiting for you."

Kenna turned around, eyes shifting through the remaining competitors before landing on a scrawny boy, a squire, holding an envelope. Staring directly at her.

She closed the distance between them swiftly, pointing at the letter. "That's for me?"

"Yes, my lady." The boy held up the letter with a red stamp, the king's crest, melted onto the beige paper. "From the king."

Kenna's heart skipped a beat. "Thank you." She waved a hand to dismiss him, tearing open the envelope with little decorum.

Brilliant moves, Kenna. I'm intrigued.

Meet me at midnight.

~Your King

This was it. Kenna couldn't help the smile crossing her face. This was her chance. Her chance to right the wrongs and finally seize a long-sought peace. But the longer she stared, the more her smile twisted into a frown.

Brilliant.

She'd heard those words used to describe her before. Brilliant. Bold. Beautiful. Kenna knew that's what people saw. That's what she let them see.

And it was for the best, she told herself. It was better no one could see her anger. Her fear. Her grief. Because if she let her those feelings show, didn't it mean they'd won?

Grief, chief among all, was the thing Kenna fought the most. Grief was her constant companion. A reminder of a heart wrenched in two. A steady pain in her chest. A numbness that threatened to pull her into oblivion. A pain that she strived to drown out in the adrenaline and the cold embrace of a broken-hearted lover.

Some days, her pursuits worked, and the pain diminished into a dull throb. But other days, was sharp, a knife in her chest. Grief never truly ends. Because love never truly ends. That's what grief was: a suffering so personal and deep, a place where the absence of a person lingers. A hole in her heart. A place where love remains.

A love that has nowhere to go.

So it was better, than, that they saw Kenna as reckless, as fierce, as dangerous.

Because then they wouldn't see her as the one thing she truly was—broken.

Zhang Jindi (张金帝)

No blades. No killing.

"I have to hand it to them," Jindi tells Sam. Nearby, a man in heavy armor and a heinous crested helm throws her a dirty look. Joke's on him; Jindi's received that look from far older people she respects far, far more. She ratchets her volume up, smile blooming into a shit-eating smirk. "It's very civil! Much more civil than I expected from your barbaric king, Sam-xiansheng, though I feel obligated to point out the inherent irony."

"That's not what irony means," Sam grunts. Jindi likes Samgar; his complete lack of subtlety makes him tragically difficult to dislike. Sometimes he reminds Jindi of herself, although he'd probably laugh if she said so. "Be careful out there, kid. And make sure to stay out of my way, okay?"

"Old man, don't you know better? If I didn't, I'd call that a challenge and return it threefold."

He shifts awkwardly, the sort of endearing discomfort that makes Jindi want to pitch his scruffy cheeks and call him 'kid.' "Might get a little rowdy, s'all I'm saying."

"Psh! Rowdy is the place I work best. I could do a lot worse than rowdy." She gives him a beatific smile before bouncing away on the balls of her feet, her entire body already wound through with the restless thrum of potential energy. "And besides, no one's better at staying out of the way than me. Ask any of my teachers, they'll all say the exact same thing: 'that Jindi, all she ever knows is getting into trouble and running away from the consequences.' At least when these people chase me down and make me behave, they won't have swords!'"

"Well, do more of the former and less of the latter." Sam glances over his shoulder—when he turns back, his face is somber, a soldier resigned to wading into the trenches. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"Go find Addy." Jindi nods, slinging her jian over her shoulder. "I'd better see you on the other end, laoxiong, or I'm going to be very disappointed in the exaggerated rumors of your martial prowess!"

She leaps away before he answers, her feet barely skimming the wooden floor as her smile falls from her face. Jindi eyes her competitors carefully as she skips to the edge of the platform; the king had explicitly suggested they stay in the center of the ring, so the only people this close to the water are opportunists looking to push people in or underdogs nervous about their chances in the brawl.

Jindi's neither. It's easier to guard her right side when no enemies can approach from the water. Instinctively her hand falls to the leather pouch attached to her hip, her fingers cradling it with gentle, cautious reverence.

It's here. There's no mistaking the restless, off-kilter energy that keeps her free hand tapping nervous patterns against her thigh, the confused homing instinct that's carried her across the deserts of her home to this lawless kingdom. She's spent weeks circling this castle like a vulture and longer coming to terms with stepping foot on enemy soil, but it's worth it. The jitter reverberating through her is at an all-time high, and her leather pouch has never felt heavier; her body is a balloon tethered only by the treasure at her hip. It's here. She's here. You're here.

The barbarian king, seated high above the platform, begins the battle with a wave of his hand.

At first, it's no worse than the training exercises her instructors used to put her through by the waterfalls of their mountain. Jindi follows the edge of the circular platform, her feet sweeping through martial forms as she moves counter-clockwise and keeps her leather pouch facing outward to the water. True to her expectations, the stronger fighters stay in the center; the ones who come to the edge picking easy fights are armed to the teeth, which makes them easy to throw off-kilter. Jindi, completely unarmed and unarmored as she is, weaves smoothly between them with a crane's sinuous, lightweight elegance.

She's just polishing off a man with a poorly-fitted breastplate and far too much confidence when a war hammer smashes into the platform hard enough to splinter the beams by her feet. Jindi turns to see the man from earlier—full plate, ostentatious crest—prise the spiked mallet loose with the wrenching sound of a tree being uprooted.

"Have you come for a fight, xiansheng?" She smiles, the careful kind she used to aim at gekkering foxes in the forest—polite for an animal, unpleasant for a person. "We're not supposed to kill each other, you know. Your beast king's orders."

"To maintain honor amongst fighters," the man snarls. The consonants grate on his breath as if he's trying to hack up a ball of phlegm. "But my brother and my father died in your wasteland war. You, you're nothing but a dog."

"What a coincidence!" The mallet whips savagely through displaced air; Jindi twists away, her ponytail curling around her neck as she resurfaces with a breathless grin. "My own brothers and teachers did the same. If you have grievances, might I suggest taking them up with your barbarian king?"

This time the hammer comes at her from the side with the crude, brute strength of a machine. Jindi swings her steps outward and the weight careens breezily through the space she once stood. Her expression hardens as she meets the smoldering anger glimmering behind that disgusting helm.

"I'll take that as a no, then." She shifts her stance, tensing in preparation for a proper fight. "Then again, who am I to expect better from a mutt who only barks for his master?"

The man is stronger than she is with a weapon that could level a building, and Jindi is going in without being able to draw her sword. But if Jindi has faith in one thing, it's her own body; she knows she has the speed and stamina to tire him out. She dodges each swing and jabs him where his armor stretches between strikes, reminding herself that she just needs to stay on the platform until the barbarian king has had his fill of blood. She could defeat this man before he enters the dungeon with her, but all she has to do is protect her side and draw it out—all she should do is the bare minimum. Any more than that is unnecessary risk, sheer arrogance.

Despite her best efforts, she can feel a bead of sweat itching as it carves a path through her concentration and down her cheek. It's not from physical exertion but from pressure; this is simple, but that's why she can't fail.

The man is panting like an animal, his armor heaving noisily as he bears down with his weight on another side-swing of his hammer.

Jindi slips like a current in a stream under the curve of his arm. On his other side, all it takes is a flat strike with her sheathed sword to the back of his calf; his legs buckle, and the momentum of his own weapon does the rest. He careens into the water, where the lapping waves embrace him with a gulping sound.

"Like I said," Jindi mutters as her eyes follow his arc into the waves. "Barbaric."

And then the ground falls away beneath her with a stuttering creak, opening up into darkness.

It's only by virtue of her training that Jindi, distracted as she is, manages to avoid sliding into the depths. The trap door flops downward limply on its hinges, split evenly down the middle into two doors. One of the other contestants, weighted down by weapons, knocks her sprawling as he plummets into the churning water. Jindi's body untethers, weightless in freefall as she's hurled off the falling floor. At the last second she slams her hand up, the salty backsplash sloshing at her shoes as competitors around her plunge into the water.

Jindi's fingertips grasp the edge of the hanging door, her blunt nails scrabbling against unyielding wood. Instinctively she draws her knees up, curled into herself; the buzzing in her mind has turned into a full-body haze, the pouch at her side inexorable in its weight and throbbing with urgency. Above her head, she can hear the barbarian king counting down seconds in his cruel voice as the trapdoors sway dangerously.

No.

The hinges pop as the metal pins begin to mechanically unlatch.

No!

A flourish and a flash: Jindi's free hand slices through the air. Her sword flashes, a silver streak like a shooting star that cuts a clean line between the falling competitors before embedding itself firmly into the opposite wood-panel door. Desperately, Jindi's eyes flicker across the slapping waves; the sword sits at a daunting distance, parallel to the water. It will have to do.

With a last flex of her aching arm, she flips upward acrobatically and plants her feet firmly onto the vertical trapdoor before launching herself toward her sword. Her shoes kiss the blade precariously as she springboards off it into a wild, directionless leap with as much height as she can muster.

At the last second, Jindi catches a falling competitor by the strap of their armor, scampering up his surface area with her hands and feet before using his downward momentum for one final boost off his skull. She flings her hand out, barely grabbing the edge of the safe zone as the trapdoors fall away, her sword a metallic seam in the wood as the panels drop into the water with an almighty crash. The fallen competitors yelp as it drops unceremoniously among them, sending shockwaves through the frothing water.

Jindi sighs, blowing the matted hair out of her eyes as she dangles by one hand. Her free arm strains to pat the bag on her right before she carefully maneuvers herself up. It takes a second for her to perch herself upon the edge of the platform alongside the other victors, sitting on her haunches like a frog; when she finally raises her head, the barbarian king is looking down on her with a smile that sears with patronizing arrogance.

Jindi is still panting like an animal, but she can feel the way her responding glare cuts with all the bright flint of a star.

"Zhang Jindi." The barbarian king's tongue curls wrong around the syllables of her name, crude and flat and insultingly lazy. "The rules were clear: no bladed weapons."

Fuck your rules, she thinks, her harsh breath steaming noisily from her open mouth.

"The rules were clear," she rasps back, her focus never once wavering through the curtain of messy hair over her bowed head. "No bladed weapons." She takes a moment to swallow, her sandpaper tongue scraping against the salt-crusted roof of her mouth, then carefully and deliberately spits into the gaping hole in the ground. Bitter and heavy and humiliating; it gets the taste out of her mouth. Jindi stares at him, defiant anger safely concealed in the distance between them. "You made no restrictions on stepping stones, which is the only capacity in which I have used my blade."

The barbarian king's empty gaze gleams before his smirk splits at the seams like his foolish arena; he laughs, then turns and waves his hand, Jindi dismissed for more pressing concerns.

Jindi watches as he goes, eyes tracking him with the precision and bite of a surgeon's scalpel.

She spits again. Her legs, her fingers, ache; the persistent buzz in her head is settled, but in its place her temples are as sore as her screaming, overworked muscles. Her leather pouch digs into her thigh, heavy and warm in the cradle of her tightly folded limbs.

It's humiliating to be here—to dance for the barbarian king.

But it's here. It has to be. She's here. You're here.

Hold on just a little longer, sister. On the balcony above her, the barbarian king laughs and laughs. I am coming to save you.

Evelyn Ashe

The cheering, jeering,and laughing was painfully familiar. Not a single face was in sight and all that Evelyn had for comfort was herself. She was six years old again in a Well struggling to keep her head above water with only a bucket and soggy rope for company. She should have died that day, but just like before she was moving towards a growing light unsure of what lay beyond the circular outline of sun.

The sound of gears grating against one another followed by a slow upward pull was the only thing that reminded Evelyn she wasn't in the Well. Instead, she was in a thin iron cage. The kind you keep small fragile parakeets in. A place to protect tiny creatures from the harsh realities of life. It was almost fitting if the circumstances were different.

These cages weren't to keep predators out, but to keep predators in and as soon as the cage settled on its final destination the door would spring open releasing a plethora of fighters. There wasn't supposed to be any death today but accidents had a tendency to happen and people had a tendency to break rules.

As wisps of fresh air funneled down through the vertical tunnel, Evelyn's cage crested the sun filled opening and with it a crowd erupted. The noise was alarming to say the least and disorienting at the most. Blinking fiercely, Evelyn shielded her eyes from the overbearing sun and struggled to take in her surroundings. As far as she could see there were dozens of metal cages coming to rest atop an even stone tabletop carved out into a series of rings each comprised of different stone. There was grey slate, dark quartz, and more. While artistic in nature it was about to be tarnished.

Swallowing tightly, Evelyn's gaze traveled to the stands of onlookers. They appeared to be upper class citizens oddly enthralled with the violent proposition at hand. They looked hungry. As if they were observing the winter solstice and gathering around a warm brown sugar basted turkey. At least they didn't have forks and knives at their disposal.

Unsure of the customs outside of the commune, Evelyn caught sight of a pretty red headed girl waving to someone that looked important. Based on the crown atop his head, Evelyn suspected he was King. Pausing in thought for a moment, she considered ignoring the man before succumbing to doubt and mirroring the girl's gesture. It was strange to do, to wave at someone of such importance let alone expect them to acknowledge the gesture.

Hesitantly letting her hand fall, Evelyn watched as the King gave a confirmatory nod and the cage doors sprung open like released traps. The sound of metal doors clanking open reminded Evelyn of the blacksmiths back home. How their hammers sought out red hot metal sending sharp notes into heat filled air.

As expected, people left their cages behind in a frenzy. They were enticed by the prospect of glory, honor, and blood. On the other hand, Evelyn was enticed by freedom. That's why she was here. To escape the world she knew no matter the cost. Heart hammering as battle cries infiltrated the crowd's cheering, Evelyn stepped out from the confines of her cage. She didn't go far, instead standing next to it.

Keeping quiet, Evelyn placed her heels against the edge of the stone arena. Not a single person paid her any attention. Sure it'd make sense to notice the girl with flaming hair but Evelyn had learned a long time ago that being overlooked came with being small. She watched wide eyed as large men pummeled each other with closed fists until their knuckles grew raw. In other cases, bursts of magic erupted across the arena launching unconscious bodies over the edge into a pool of water down below.

Admittedly, Evelyn hadn't noticed the water. Fingers trembling she took a few hesitant steps forward. Having liquid death a mere step away was more alarming than the people fighting. Unfortunately, this small bit of movement was all that Evelyn's opponents needed to notice her. She supposed it had to do with the laws of nature. After all, the eye was naturally attracted to motion.

Holding her hands up in a sign of peace, Evelyn made eye contact with a large man whose beard was braided. Long blue colored tattoos ran down his cheeks merging with a tribal pattern adorning his neck. He was shirtless and as broad shouldered as a bear. Skin glistening with sweat, the large man charged.

What happened next would have been comical if it didn't make things worse. As the man roared something in a language Evelyn didn't understand she stepped to the side. With so much weight moving at such a fast speed, the poor gentleman went hurtling over the edge and down into the water below. Feeling a little bad for humiliating the poor fellow, Evelyn hesitantly gazed over the arena's edge and offered a thumbs up to the angry giant. He made some sort of crude gesture in return that made her stomach twist. Maybe it was a good thing she didn't know what that meant.

"You're not gonna get that lucky again. Some of us aren't stupid," came a thick accent. Peering over her shoulder, Evelyn was met by a tall skinny fellow with oily black hair, a split tongue, piercings through his nose, and hands that seemed to smoke. He was definitely some type of foreigner but Evelyn wouldn't have any idea where from.

"Look, I'm not trying to fight here," Evelyn reasoned, her own accent coming out lilted at the ends of syllables. She sounded small, unbothered even, but she knew her powers. Emotions were a gateway to death. In fact, Evelyn remembered the words of an old mentor. Words that she did her best to live by. 'Be light like air and flow like water. Be strong like earth. And like fire...burn only when necessary.'

"A pacifist in a Dungeon Brawl?" The man laughed, the forked ends of his tongues moving separately to lick at his lips. "At least you're an interesting character."

Smiling like the devil himself, a set of filed teeth revealed themselves as the man vanished into smoke. As far as Evelyn knew, people weren't supposed to do that. Instead of sticking around to see what happened, she ran. Darting in and out of nearby fights, Evelyn's strategy became one of avoidance. If she didn't touch them, they wouldn't touch her.

Heart hammering as her lungs worked in overtime, Evelyn found herself running laps around the arena. As other people were thrown over the side, she remained untouched until the universe decided to change things up. Mid stride, something hard hit Evelyn from the side.

Unable to stop her momentum, Evelyn went flying. Landing hard on the stone she tumbled head over heel before coming to a rest. As bits of stone dug into her palms and knees she fought to reorient herself. Fighting for air, Evelyn looked up as a mighty tremble wove it's way through the ground. The sensation made its way up her arms causing her entire frame to vibrate. If her brain had been any smaller it would have rattled around in her head.

Looking up she noticed the others standing still. At first she didn't know why until the feeling of gravity began to tug at her. Getting to her knees, Evelyn watched in horror as the arena's inner ring split open like two doors swinging inward. Beneath them was water.

Pupils dilating Evelyn found herself back in the Well. Her hands were raw from grasping at the rope. The only solstice she had was being able to hook her arms through the bucket handle. Every now and then she let out a weak cry for help only to hear her own voice reply. Her spark was finally going to be snuffed out. It seemed almost fitting that it would be water that killed her.

"What the hell?!" A loud scream snapped Evelyn out of her thoughts as people began to slide and tumble into the water below. Blinking rapidly, Evelyn struggled to her feet attempting to run up the slanted slab of stone. For a brief second she gained traction before it vanished.

She was free falling.

She was going to die.

She'd be snuffed.

Unless...

As the sensation of falling caused Evelyn's fiery hair to sputter the sage words of her mentor came back.

"Burn only when necessary."

Taking a deep breath, Evelyn closed her eyes. Channeling the warmth in her chest down to her feet she let the fire within her blossom outward. For a moment she stabilized in the air before falling again. Thankfully, she'd managed to make herself upright. Furrowing her brow in concentration, Evelyn pushed upwards, small shoots of fire erupting from the heels and soles of her feet. She continued to fire step upward until her hands grasped the ledge of the arena.

Fighting to crawl back onto the blood soaked stone, Evelyn felt something firm press into her back. At first she wanted to fight back until she was pulled upward fast and hard. Toppling back onto the arena floor, Evelyn was met by a blonde haired, golden eyed boy.

"You okay?" He friend, eyes scanning the genasi for signs of injury.

"I'm going to puke," Evelyn warns, rolling onto her side as bile forces its way up the back of her throat. She stays there for a moment heaving up whatever lingers in her stomach. She's not sure if it was the disorienting nature of the fight or the fear of death that made her ill , but it didn't matter at the moment.

Letting out some semblance of a whimper, Evelyn staggers to her feet as the boy watches wearily. She's not sure why he bothered to help her. Or why he'd risk touching her, but she supposed that was another cultural difference. Wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve, Evelyn notices the girl from before. She's waving, yet again, at the King as all fighting comes to an end. Had he given some sort of order?

With spittle still clinging to the edges of her mouth, Evelyn waves at the king as well earning a peculiar stare from the other girl.

"You don't have to do that you know," the girl explains, winking in the King's direction as she turns to Evelyn.

"Oh," Evelyn remarks, letting her hand fall as the golden eyed boy hesitantly gestures at his mouth. Getting the hint, Evelyn frantically wiped at her mouth until she was certain she looked moderately presentable.

"You're not from around here are you?" The boy asks.

"Clearly not. At least she's pretty," the girl sighs.

"Oh! I've heard that one before. You say 'at least she's pretty' and then he says 'yeah, pretty ugly,'" Evelyn notes. "Although, it stopped being funny after the twelfth time I heard it. You didn't know that though so I'll give you a pass."

Silence settles over the trio for a moment and Evelyn watches as a strange look passes between the boy and girl. It's one she can't decipher but something between sympathy and pity.

"No joke, darling," the girl insists. "Just pretty."

"Oh," Evelyn nods, but she's not sure what to make of that word. Pretty. It's strange to her just like the rest of this place but before she can ask any questions a series of guards make their way to the arena beckoning for the remaining warriors.

"See you on the other side," the boy smiles, offering up a wink as he leaves Evelyn behind. A moment passes before the girl disappears too leaving Evelyn alone. She stands there for some time until the guards remind her of her place and as they escort her away from the blood soaked stone only one word turns over in her mind.Pretty.

Aurelia Regis

As a child, I would only go to bed if my mother had first read me a story. She'd tuck me in beneath satin sheets and tell me stories of an ancient land, much like Nuhan, and the oddities of the people that lived there. Each night I would beg for her to tell just one more story, and she would sigh ever-so-softly and tell me no, it was time for sleep and adventure could wait. I would promise her that I would sleep, then spend the whole night sat in darkness, creating my own ending because I simply could not wait. On my fifth birthday, having grown tired of my constant nagging for stories, my parents gifted me with a storybook so that I could learn to read to myself. In my excitement, I huffed and puffed and heaved the book all the way up the concrete stairs and into my bedroom. I was so sure that this book contained the adventure I had been waiting for.

Pages of parchment were held together by beautiful leather, dyed a deep shade of green not unlike the ivy that sprouted outside my window. Golden markings patterned the spine in an intricate design I spent hours tracing my fingers over. There was a title in swooping, sloping cursive that, try as I might, my little brain simply could not understand. Inside, the words on the parchment had the same curve to them and though I did not recognise all of them, I still knew what the story was about. It told a quaint tale of a beautiful maiden who, as long as she did what others desired of her, was blessed with eternal love and happiness. Indignant, I had slammed the pages shut and thrust the book underneath my bed, leaving it to become dust. I did not want to read a story about being rescued - I would rescue myself, thank you very much.

Later that night I crept into the room of my youngest brother, stood as tall as my tiptoes could reach, and stole the first book that fell into my grasp. Unlike the tales my parents thought suitable for me, my brother read about adventures - stories of mysterious, faraway lands ravaged by barbarian creatures and the gallant heroes who saved the day. He, alongside our elder brother, practised swordsmanship alongside statesmanship. They would play-fight one another on the lawn of our estate, whilst I, the only daughter, was confined to the sidelines due to my mother's fear that I might soil the petticoats of my dress if I were to participate in such boyish activities. If she thought that would stop me, then she was a fool. It only made me wish to participate more.

My father insisted on me receiving a proper ladies' education, and thus when I wasn't secretly learning the ways of the sword, I spent my days learning to care for my future husband as though that was a worthwhile use of my time. I did not want a husband; I wanted to go on an adventure. Alas, it became clear to me that what I wanted was of no relevance to the plan my father had laid out for me.

But still, every night I would manage to get my hands on the books not meant for me and I would scheme for the day I could leave this dismal life in search of something, anything, better. So when an opportunity came knocking by the name of one Maximus Varus, I could hardly contain my joy.

He was a peculiar fellow, but most people in Nuhan were. When he spoke, he showed off a mouth that was home to far too many teeth that all flashed in synchronicity. Each one was the exact shape and size of the next, lined in rows of unsettling unity. In his attempt to sound extremely eloquent in the way that all Nuhan nobility must, myself included, gusts of saliva would fly from his mouth at every syllable. Despite his many flaws (and teeth), I smiled and greeted him warmly as he stepped forward and thrust a bouquet of white carnations into my expectant arms. My father, ecstatic at yet another prospective suitor for me, hurried to invite Maximus inside.

We sat in upright chairs on the garden patio, myself and my father opposite Maximus, sipping on herbal tea from our most expensive cups. Maximus told of his life, heir to a moderate fortune and humble in the way that most nobility believe they are. He spoke mainly to my father, as if my own opinion did not matter to him. And then, when he was certain his tedious anecdotes had amused us, he asked my father if he could be so brazen as to take me for a walk as though I were the family poodle and not the woman he aspired to marry. My father, with his usual disdain for my opinion, was quick to accept Maximus' kind offer and usher me off - just as I had planned.

For this may have been the first time that Maximus and his overly-polished teeth had shown up at my door, however I had the misfortune of first running into him a month prior. At a gala hosted by my dear friend Julia, who was only exasperating to be around for extended periods of time, I had noticed those teeth from across the room and quickly deduced that he was an excellent target. It was not difficult to find out through the social circles I claimed to associate with that Maximus was as charming as an orchestral symphony, but as foolish as the King's most beloved jester. With every quip, he would guffaw as though he had never heard such absurdity before, even on common matters. It was easy to introduce myself in such a manner that suggested he ought to see me again, and soon. Even poor, simple Maximus could understand the insinuation.

Thus, as we strolled through the streets of Nuhan, he spoke of his elation that I had accepted his invitation and I thought of how it was a chore to remember his name. Maximus was easily drawn to the vibrance of the city - market stalls selling worthless trinkets, a row of taverns each selling their ale more overpriced than the next, and cobbled streets that weaved and wove in many directions before eventually circling back to the very spot in which we stood. Perhaps to the average dweller this place was of interest, but I knew that beyond the high, stone walls that imprisoned us here, there had to be something more. Which was why, away from my father's prying eyes, I had resolved to leave Nuhan and not look back.

"It sure is lively today," Maximus commented, as a group of villagers rushed past us in the direction of the docks. "That's quite the gathering they have going on there."

"I hadn't noticed," I said, although I had. Unlike Maximus who had become entranced at the sight of the first gemstone he saw - a gaudy looking emerald, an obvious imitation judging by the dull shade of green it bore, but despite this Maximus insisted on buying it and that I wore it as a token of his affection to which I begrudgingly accepted to keep up the charade that I had but the slightest interest in him. Instead, I had kept careful watch over the docks where the crowd had been steadily growing as the events got underway. Before Maximus could be swindled into purchasing me another unwanted gift, I lured his attention back to the docks. "Perhaps, we should see what all the commotion is about?"

As we wandered toward the spectacle, Maximus reached for my hand. Though I would have sooner plunged my hand into a scalding cauldron and watched as the flesh melted away leaving behind only bone, I accepted his hand and allowed myself to be led closer to the centre of the action.

Usually home to fishing boats and a struggling bait and tackle shop, the docks had recently undergone a renovation. I had seen the plans laid across the desk in my father's study detailing exactly how many cubes of travertine stone (127,463, precisely) would be required to build this monumental structure, before my father had snatched them away and lectured on how such things need not concern me. I gazed upward at the structure that arched over the waterfront, lined with stands filled with spectators clamouring to get the best view. Men wearing boaters, adorned with a speckled feather, rushed between the stands as their pockets jangled with the pennies of the gullible.

All eyes were focused on the towering archway at the forefront as the steel gate began to rise and the competitors rushed out to a symphony of cheers. These were the chosen competitors, handpicked by the King himself to compete for the greatest honour. Tomorrow, they would leave Nuhan before the sun had fully risen and travel to a hidden location in search of riches and glory. Or something. This was also drawn out on a map in my father's study. He ought to have been more careful with his papers, but then I would not have been able to formulate such a cunning plan therefore I looked fondly upon his mistakes. For today, they would have to prove themselves in what the people called a pit brawl.

As a gong rang out, the competitors lunged at one another with makeshift swords and, in some instances, the strength of their own fists. With every jab, the crowd would gasp as though someone could be mortally wounded by a blunt spear. One particularly brutish competitor, exceptionally tall and far wider than a person should be, took great pleasure in chasing the other competitors round the ring and listening to their screams. The crowds adored him, when he knocked another hopeful to the floor and thrust his fist up triumphantly, there were exclamations from the crowd that he should be given the title immediately.

As planned, Maximus was enthralled by this. His posture tilted forward to get a better look at the events unfolding, failing to notice as I stepped back and began to be swallowed up by the crowd. Just as I had anticipated, his simple mind had been won over by the clashing of swords and he was transfixed as the east side of the arena opened up, revealing the waves below. How this was shocking, I do not know, as we were still standing on the docks of Nuhan, a well known water source. Loud cries could be heard as the competitors scrambled to get away from the waterfront, echoed by the anguished shouts of the crowd as their favourites fell victim to a watery fate. As my eyesight began to blur as the distance between myself and the brawl increased, I lingered just long enough to watch the brute from before misstep and go plunging into the salty sea with a splish, splash, splosh. Satisfied, I hurried away.

By the time the brawl was over, Maximus would turn to discover that I was no longer there. He would most likely return home, disheartened, and drink his feelings away before rushing to present a fresh bouquet of carnations to the next object of his affections. If she were to be so lucky, she might also receive a fraudulent emerald. Perhaps my father would think that I was so taken with dearest Maximus that I had run away to be with him. Perhaps he would momentarily be intelligent enough to recognise the truth. But he would not know that I, thanks to my short stature, had easily snuck into the lodgings of the competitors and traipsed the very tunnel that tomorrow would lead them to their fate and set off on my own adventure. Whether it be adventure or certain death that awaited me, I was comforted by knowing that Nuhan was not.

SADE

You already know how this will end. There isn't much that we can say for certain about Sade at present, but there are two facts from which you can draw a conclusion without any additional information:

Sade never fights.

Sade always wins.

At risk of being redundant, let me tell you a story...

CHAPTER I

Kismet

The weather doesn't matter. Roars of thunder arc from sections of the stadium to where Samuel stands, but it is only groups of the other competitors' family and friends cheering them wildly on. Samuel still tenses at the sound. It still makes the stage stagger and sway under his weight. The wooden planks which make up the circular platform are rotted in areas, and the enormous stakes that hold the same platform precariously above a pool of mud are rooted in soil where the field has become swampy and susceptible to being eaten away. Another crack of thunder comes from the heavens as one of the women who looks like she was molded from clay–one of gangly, leerish Sam's contemporaries and competitors–pulls out a bat and twirls it in her hand with lazy flourish.

Sam raises and turns his head, following the interacting electricity into the crackling crowd. Nobles and ignorami alike are packed into two structures made from similar dark oak inlays which flare out like wings from either side of the central arena. Grimy-cheeked urchin kids who don't mind the dirt are diving into the foremost bannister, threatening to scale it. They get mouthfuls of mud as the pond at their noses erupts in acts of displacement, but they spit vitriol right back at the competitors. At Samuel, in fact, but this does not bother him. He is currently more concerned with silence.

As the risers rise and the seats become less splattered with silt, the status of the stewards swells. The Brother Knights are there, amongst the crowd, and Crestienne behind them. Samuel continues scanning the sea of faces, searching for the source of his shouts, his own storm cloud, and at last, after he must have passed it over thrice, he finds where it should have been. His mother is there sitting on her hands, elbows tucked into her waist. Grandpa is beside her, preoccupied with a pipe; poking and prodding at the piece with a pinch of plants.

His mother catches Sam watching her and shifts to free her hands to flap at each other a few times. "To share that!" Samuel thinks and rocks from heel to toe, causing the platform stage to let out a wooden wheeze. After all, no sound is his alone. He looks sharply to his left and nudges his brother, Zaccary.

The boy is sturdier than he, but shorter as well. The terracotta army pays him no mind either. With the excuse of being startled, he drops the ball of his mace–a jape, surely, pulled by the organizers of this event, who have removed the pertinent end of the weapon and replaced it with a smooth wooden squib–and causes clangor as the chain pulls taut to catch it before it drops to the deck like an overripe plum. That noise causes Zaccary to jump as well, and were he holding the wooden marble of another plaything mace, he surely would have dropped that too. Infinite marbles could have theoretically been fumbled as part of a chain reaction if the conditions allowed, but nay, Zaccary had but the one weapon. A couple of marbles rise–Zaccary's eyes–to meet Samuel's jaw. Zaccary's eyes are bluer than Samuel's gray ones, and they go better with his blond hair than Samuel's do with his own brown mop. When Zaccary looks past Sam's gesturing hand, he adopts a foolish and lopsided grin. Samuel snorts and turns slightly away, enough that nobody in the stands can see him talking. "We'll have to watch out. Shout out danger to ourselves."

Sam is forced to include an addendum as Zaccary's smile is yet to break. "It will be coming from everywhere," he continues.

"Yeah," Zaccary says. He gets in line and turns back astride with his brother, re-hefting his mace. Sam withdraws his own baton, looking surreptitiously at all those who wield the same weapon with more grace, more menace, than he.

There is a stirring of silence which whips around the arena as wind would. Master Parzifal has made his presence felt for the first time since he spoke to introduce the event. Between the two sections of seating, at a natural focal point for all eyes, rests a great drum; the leather of some beast stretched over a giant wooden frame. Parzifal approaches it with a mallet that looks a weapon more deadly than any brandished on the stage. The meeting of the master and his mark suggests–nay, demands–that the competitors' time to compose themselves is up.

After checking behind him once again to make sure nobody has taken up a spot between them and the edge of the deck, Sam takes half a step forward. He puts all his weight on his hind foot and tests each toe against his foothold. Every finger feels the grip of his bat. Nothing is right and Zaccary is left. Nothing is behind and his grip is good but now it's better and Zaccary is left and right...right.

The great drum sounds like nothing compared to the pounding inside Sam, and he gets off a step late. Together still, the brothers run off as planned to the mousey spellcaster they had pointed out in the proceedings. Speed kills casters, and this young boy had set up too close to the edge of the scaffolding to not fall victim to it. His eyes flash wide as he spots the two men barreling towards him, and he backpedals, trying to set his hands to let off a spell. When it comes to it, the brothers barely have to touch him to send him over the edge and elicit a few whoops from the watchers-on.

A mountainous woman with a similar plan swings a block of wood at the brother before they can partake in any bonhomie, but they are agile enough to evade the blow and dart away from the weary outer ring of the stage. Turning back to the battle, they are both astounded by the brutality and brusqueness with which the field has been culled.

Some sanded-down projectile is whisked up by the maelstrom that is everything and launched between the brothers. Sam sidesteps it coolly, taking the nimble, prancing steps of a mountain goat.

Then comes the grinding noise which shakes everything, and Sam takes a step without purchase and then another. The world shifts, the center of the deck falls away, and Sam is left dancing like a drunkard at the fault. His toes are not enough to pull him up and he falls, his underarms and his chin crashing into the lip. Scrambling for splinters as he slides further down, he is finally able to take hold with the strength of only his wrist.

"Oh oh ooh," he whimpers. Every sound which comes from him is reflexive and unrestrained. He calls out, "Zac..."

His brother did not need to be alerted, he had seen it all. Zaccary stands over Samuel now. There is a sleight of his hand as it first feints to reach out for Sam, but then Zaccary withdraws it and he looks from under his beaten brow at all the other competitors around him as if he were counting them off.

Sam rails against his perception in disbelief. Though he doesn't move a meter, it feels like all of him is dropping. As if his skeleton is a parakeet cage and all the birds just died. His heart, his lung seems so small. Everything has drained into the lower of his two feet–every organ floating like logs in his lifeblood–and the water level laps at his ankle. That's all. Everywhere between his bones is a vacuum.

Horror vacui.

It's only natural that something blossoms where only nothing is in its way. There is a spark like lightning which originates in Samuel's breast, but also flashes clearly across his now hollow, unbosoming eyes. If the fool Zaccary had not been busy weighing other options, he surely would have seen such a nonpareil spectacle and ran for his life. Alas. But all this is to say how severely Sam had been enslaved by the stimulus; he was an automaton and something had turned his key. The spark had lit the absence in him like incense and his blood started to swell and fishing nets of capillaries lifted his heart, his lung, and his brain back to where they belong, and all at once, each of Sam's organs recollected themselves and realized that he was incensed.

Anger gives Sam strength. He strains to bend at the elbows against gravity and his weight, and the weight of his suit, and with a strained yell, he is able to regain his former grip on the edge. Perhaps the feat is so impressive that it convinces Zaccary that he had no choice to make at all, and that his brother would climb away from the depths of defeat with or without assistance. Maybe the sound of Sam's struggles is enough to remind Zaccary of the brothers they used to be. Regardless, Zaccary lets his eyes settle down the drain and makes his decision. Of two wrong decisions, he chooses the most noble and beautiful wrong decision: he settles his feet as he spares a last furtive glance at the preoccupied cloud of chaos which embroils him, leans over the well, and holds out his hand.

Sam snatches at it, expending energy to dive up to meet it, and using even more to tug it, and Zaccary, down.

"The Devil's gotten into you!" Zaccary cries. And gasps. All of it is interrupted by the clatter of metal. The brunt of the force is absorbed by his ribcage and he is left on his stomach, his shoulders and head lolling over the edge as he rolls back and forth between the dance-steps of combatants. One takes the time to reach out a buckled boot to trod down on Zaccary's trailing leg, eliciting another moan, but the woman across from the zealous fighter seizes her window and lands a clean hit against the side of his head, and the two stumble away after each other. Zaccary can hardly say "Sam..." as he tries to position his body such that none of the planks are prodding plates of his armor at bones that by tonight surely will bruise.

The subject of the pleas does not give time to breathe. One, then the other, heavy hand land upon Zaccary's overhanging neck, then they, as if independent from their body, take laborious, inching steps until Samuel has his brother's back.

"Sam..."

"Yes, Zaccary. Porridge for dinner tonight. And on and on and on," Sam drains his arms to curse such in Zaccary's ringing ear, the exertion rendering his voice as lisping and stertorous as a snake's. "Can you taste it?" Sam asks. His muscles give and he goes limp everywhere but the fingers, which dig like the tines of a trowel past the flares of armor and under Zaccary's shoulder blades. A lurching swing forward provides the torque necessary to pull both of the bodies away from the platform. A wooden prototype of a mace spirals wildly between them during the short fall into the swamp.

There is a bout of raucous laughter and squealing as the children in the front row have their faces dirtied. Lenta wipes away the moisture at the corners of her mouth and tucks her hands back beneath her legs and Gregyor draws on his pipe.

The boys fall in mud. The taste sneaking into their jawing mouths is mud, and when they thrash at each other, they are thrashing mud. But all they can see is blood.

Sade always wins. Sade always wins. 

Mordecai Caddel

"You were summoned," Cain said. His lips lifted and cheekbones squeezed as he pulled his face into a grin. "As I knew you would. They'd be stupid not to seek you out."

Mordecai leaned his head against Cain's shoulder, albeit uncomfortable with his hard muscle, but the warmth from his skin was worth any trouble. Mordecai gazed at the small framed photo of a topsail sitting on the floor; it had sat there for years waiting to be hung up in the backroom of the shack. Most employees took their break in the main lunch room, but Mordecai and Cain liked the privacy and quiet in the small shack. It was the only time in their workday that they could be together—Cain was on the ships while Mordecai stayed at the shorelines. The quick glances and little waves they exchanged throughout the day were not enough to satisfy.

"Will you miss me?"

He felt Cain's shoulder twist outwards, and Mordecai smiled against his chest, avoiding the likely narrowed smirk on Cain's face."Why don't you search through that pretty little head of yours to find the answer yourself, yeah?"

"I see all sorts of outcomes," Mordecai said, "there is a world where you wouldn't."

"Not this world. You know that."

They enjoy the quiet together because in a few months that won't be a luxury they'll have anymore. Mordecai had been preparing for an invite from King Charles IX since word spread of cleaning out the dungeon under Khocia. He knew with his gift of seeing scenarios of the future he would be considered.

"You don't really, do you?"

Mordecai finally lifted his head, quickly glancing at the wrinkled fabric that his sweat and pressure created on Cain's shirt before staring up at him. "Do I what?"

Cain subtly shook his head as his eyes fixed ahead of him, jaw ticking and shoulders lifting slightly. He was the bold one, the one who would never cower from his words or actions. Mordecai had been the only one who saw Cain's vulnerable side, and even then it was only a few times. Mordecai leaned in, nudging his shoulder into Cain's side.

"Your powers are limited—at least, for now." he grinned. Cain was always the biggest believer in Mordecai's magical abilities, more than himself. "But have you ever imagined an outcome with...with us?"

"Oh," Mordecai reached out to wrap his hand around his lovers arm, "All the tim—"

An intense burning sensation traveled from Cain's forearm onto Mordecai's fingertips, smoke and blackness swirling amidst both of their bodies. Mordecai gasped as he pulled his hand away, but the feeling was still present, clouding his mind as he could only see, only feel, pure burning, raw screams, tears sizzling down hot faces.

"Hey!" the voice was distant, drowning. Gone.

Mordecai's mind could not see this outcome, but the feeling was intensified. It hurt. Flashes of red and orange hues swarmed around the darkness, the smokey air that stained his vision.

"Hey." the voice cracked the colors. "Come on, Mordecai. Come back to me."

The pair of eyes met—wide, dazed ones meeting a narrowed, focused set. It helped ease Mordecai's state of mind, seeing the concern but also seeing the safety for the both of them.

"Mordecai, hey—what did you see?" Cain's voice was close, pulling him back into the small shack. "You've never reacted like that before. Was it something you saw? What did you see?"

"I didn't see anything." Oh, but he felt something. He glanced at Cain's forearm, but there were no marks, no burns.

He felt Cain's hand reach out, fingers intertwined within his. "Hey. What's wrong, my love."

Mordecai took a breath as he felt Cain's hands in his own. Strong, warm, present touch—so present. His mind faltered back, away from what was to come. It was only a fleeting future, one that couldn't possibly be true.

It was difficult to focus in the Pit because, in some twisted way, it felt like home. Maybe it was the sand that his boots sunk in, or the loud clashing of armor around him that reminded him of knives cutting into boards, boats clashing against the docks, intense shouts from the workers at sea. Whatever the feeling was, it was just that—a feeling.

Mordecai stood in the Pit amidst the other potential heroes, with armor and non-bladed knives and other weapons at the ready, doing whatever it took to stay on the sandy platform. The crowd filled the stands all around the stage, and King Charles IX sat on a high throne just above the stage with familiar faces standing around him: Crestienne, Parzifal, The Terror Brothers—all royal figures with eyes on the potential hero. Below them was a timer, counting down the seconds to reveal the true heroes.

Mordecai used all his might to avoid the audience despite the thrill it gave him; to be cheered on and awed over was something he never knew he craved. It was a feeling of being desired, of being seen as something important, something more. He was seen as a human with power, with no past mistakes or flaws known to them. He could start over. And that was all he wanted.

But he was not the only one craving the title of the hero. A swarm of people and beings aimed to stay in the middle of the Pit, weapons and magic at the ready. Mordecai noticed the different tactics that every person actioned. One man, large and stoic, firmly stood in the middle, hands gripped on his sword, swinging only when necessary, and only when someone initiated a fight with him. Another, a witch with dark hair peeking through her armor, stood more towards the side, making sure nothing approached behind her. Mordecai moved while his mind worked—with every step, he focused on the potential futures his steps would lead him.

As Mordecai made his way toward the middle of the Pit, a powerful swing from the side threw him backward, a little too close to the edge. He tried to get back up on his feet, but a figure stood above him, hand cooly gripped onto her sword like a hand falters to the hip.

"Painfully average hero—if you even deserve to have a chance at the title." she scoffed, a strand of blazing red hair flowing to the side, but it was her eyes that held the attention. Eyes wrapped in pure gold stared daggers at Mordecai, but she did not care if he was looking, because her sword spun as she sliced at his armor, so harsh and forceful that Mordecai felt the dulled blade cut into his shins. He cried out as he twisted to his side, hoisting his legs up against his chest to avoid the next attack. As his eyes lifted to meet the specks of gold, a vision flashed in his mind, one that cleared when he reached into his boot and pulled out his knife.A lean figure, coming in from the left...distracting her...

Mordecai obeyed his vision, gripping his knife and taking a swing at her leg, causing her to take a step back and glance down at herself. The figure from the left came with grace, like it was just an one of Mordecai's fleeing visions, and not real. However, the figure attacked the golden-eyed warrior, swords swinging and distant cheers from the crowd giving the extra adrenaline both of them needed. As Mordecai stood, wincing as the blood from his shins ran down his legs and splattered onto the sand, he caught a fair glance at the opponent whom he envisioned. He was shocked that he recognized her, but Aurelia's name was often shared down the grapevine of Nuhan. No wonder the crowd had cheered for the girl whose life had been dedicated to the Kingdom.

As the fight ended with the both of them side-stepping away, turning to their own goal of returning to the middle of the Pit, Aurelia looked over at Mordecai, eyeing him up and down before rolling her shoulders back, regaining composure.

"Surely you don't see an outcome with you as the hero, hm?"

It seemed natural for her to know the details of those in Nuhan; Mordecai had been a familiar face with his arrival, exposing his magical ability. Aurelia was keeping tabs on her competitors, but Mordecai wanted to be off her radar. Flashes of pictures appeared in his mind, most outcomes with the final moment being her sword in his body. He stepped backward and fled, exhaling as the pictures faded. She would not follow. Maybe she didn't feel the need to compete with a panicked opponent like him.

The timer declared only a few minutes left of the chaos. As fewer people remained on the Pit, there were still plenty to go, and Mordecai didn't know how he could keep up his avoidance of others. He had his weapons, and he had been physically training for months, yet he was no fighter at heart.

However, he pressed onward and crept towards the middle, but as he did, a wave came over him. Something familiar, something he had known. Home. Home had been at the forefront of his mind inside the Pit, but as he stepped closer and closer, the feeling grew in a way that pinched his nerve like no other.

His mentor had told him whenever this feeling arose to sit with it—feel the pressure, learn where it goes and why it's going there. What he hadn't put in mind was the distractions around him. Whenever Mordecai would try and close his eyes or let go of the tension in his brow, the crowd would uproar in response to an exciting fight, or someone would get a little too close for comfort.

Why couldn't his power be more accurate? Why, out of the outcomes he saw, can't he know the right one? Every time the future became clear, it was either just in time or too late.

No, he thought. Not always the case. The memory with Cain, the outcome that he so selfishly avoided, for the sake of—of what?

That was all gone, now. He was gone now.

"Damnit," he whispered as thoughts became bland, broad. "Damnit, damnit!"

He glanced down at the grains of sand, some spots emptied from boots and bodies that moved them, some spots of spilled blood. Mordecai leaned down, his shins aching from the effort, but his hand reached down to touch the familiar scratchy texture. The sounds around him stilled as he gripped a handful of sand in his hand. What was expected to be dry was a bit damp, and not by blood or sweat. Mordecai tilted his head as he let the sand slip through his fingers, and they glided off like droplets of water. The light blonde sea of grains turned a dark brown in his mind.

Sand falling into water. Bodies crashing into waves. Familiar. Home.

Mordecai used his hands and feet to back away from the middle, with no time to get himself onto his feet as the sand dropped below. Bodies fell, some with no time to think, while others attempted to jump towards the side, but the sand slipped far too quickly. Mordecai tucked his legs into his chest as he glanced downward at the body of water where the heroes had fallen, stunned as they looked up at the Pit, which had remained stable only by the outlines. The lucky ones on the sidelines remained still, some wide-eyed and some with cheeks pulled high into a mighty grin.

The timer rang. The crowd cheered as King Charles IX arose, arms lifted outwards. Mordecai couldn't help but look down at the water, at where he thought he always belonged. But he would not succumb to the waves today.

Marina Santana

Log Book 1: New Moon

No sub 24-hour view, visibility low

Weather is cloudy

My dearest Emilia,

I miss you. A million words on a piece of parchment cannot make up for my absence, this I know. It is my hope that someday you will understand. I want you to know how I tried to find my way back to you and see to it that when this is all over and done, we will be reunited at last.

I have imagined writing this letter to you a thousand times but I have never found the right words. I keep seeing your face in the mirror, for the mirror plays tricks on me. If you can imagine a never-ending dream filled with pools of images, most of which are fictitious and only some of which are real, then you will have gotten a glimpse into what I have seen and not seen for the past ten years. As I write this to you now, I recognize that you are now eighteen and look very different from the girl's whose hair I once combed. I imagine that much like your father, you have a boisterous laugh and curls even wilder and more untamed like the wildflowers on the beach. Of course, the last time that I saw you, you were a spitting image of your father. He too had skin kissed by the sun and beautiful gray eyes the color of moody seas. Much like him, you looked vaguely like you are from both West and East, everything yet nothing at the same time. No matter what anyone tells you, you are beautiful, and the darkest of seas haunted by the unknown still shimmer in the moonlight.

With a heavy heart, I hope that in being away from me, you have turned out neither like me nor your father. I do not know where he is and I'm sure someone has told you by now that he was not a boto encantado. In fact, he was as human as he was a pathological liar. He never saw you, he hardly knows you exist, and I cannot tell you where is from because I doubt even he knows where he is from. The truth is, he was a miserable man searching for a magical cure for his unwellness with a defeating prognosis of never being able to find it. He was unwell because from the bottom of his heart, I think, he truly believed the things people said to him. In the stories, the charming con-artist told he would never amount to anything by the nature of his existence would be heroic.

But we do not live in stories and fables.

A life of a petty thief, scammer, or any type of criminal is a lonely and terrible life that is far removed from what fables and literature may tell you. The chorus will scream that I am wrong and say that I speak from a place of nothing but bitter contempt for the very circumstances that imprisoned me in the mirrors. But, my dear, art rarely imitates reality as much as it does reflect the innocent wishes and dreams of those still bold enough to have them.

The absurdity of a peasant being heroic, in any context, for conning—or worst of all—murder, is exactly that. Absurd. I know this and so do you.

They are villains simply because their actions are not respectable. To be heroic, your actions must be respectable whereas a villain's actions are not. The hero gains his respect because he is trying to save the world whereas the villain—she does not care for it. Almost paradoxically, you will soon discover that very few act heroically. For although you may only be eighteen, you know, and I know, the world has always been ending.

As I write these last words to you because I am running out of time, know that you are loved and that I will come find you. This may feel like the ending to the story before it has even begun but the empires have not even been set on fire.

Until we meet again, my dearest Emilia.

Your mother,

Marina

Will Rose was one of the powerful sorcerers in Nuhan. He was a threat that hardly anyone had seen coming because by the time their gaze had fallen on him, he was already a bundle of brown and white feathers. When he sensed danger, he transformed into an owl and took to the skies, leaving the holy in a mass panic at the first sign of witchcraft. Those who feared witchcraft had probably never had the ability to perform magic in the first place and while he believed the fearful to be quite pathetic, he left them alone and they left him alone. It was better that way.

Currently, he was perched on a branch near the stadium below. The match hadn't even started and already crowds had poured in hours ago. It was a complete madhouse of sweat and cheers so loud the event could probably be heard halfway across town. A full stadium that smelled like beer and piss, even if it was taking place outside. It was complete chaos just to see minor bloodspill and a few punches to the jaw thrown by what appeared to be mostly women.

Simply put,

It was unbelievable.

On a normal day, Will would not have taken an interest in such an event because such an event, in all honesty, was for lowlives. It was no different than the street fighting that happened outside of pubs where the chorus cheered, secretly hoping somebody would die. The only difference was King Charles' name was slapped on it. To be recognized by a king, an allegedly honorable one at that, was a peasant's wildest dreams and a spectacle that the masses craved. An old and senile philosopher had once told him that people craved violence during times of peace and wanted peace during times of violence. He wasn't sure how true that was and he hadn't really thought about it in-depth, but for the moment, it definitely seemed true.

Nevertheless, he moved up one branch, hardly spreading his wings. From this angle, he could get a better look at the competitors. They were lining up as though the brawl was a race where the prize was immortality or something grander than the actual prize being offered. The king's bribe was mostly mediocre with only a hint of intrigue with the scrolls, and anyone signing up was either desperate or a narcissist or both.

According to some of the spectators he'd overheard from below, some of the competitors had the gifts of Gods and magic so powerful that even King Charles himself would be quaking.

At best, this was highly exaggerated and unlikely.

But he was intrigued by the potential of the scrolls nonetheless. Which is why, with sharp eyes, he honed in on his hired hand who was certainly desperate and for lack of better words, had no other choice but to help him. If she didn't, she could simply go back to the mirrors where she belonged. A type of community service. He was a community member and, well, she was a prisoner.

Marina Santana was not a good person according to the many myths he had heard about her. Whether or not any of them were true hardly mattered in the long term. The truth of the matter was he didn't want to risk joining the brawl himself. He was a powerful sorcerer, it was true, but the sun punishes those that fly too close to it. Besides, he had convinced himself he felt sorry for her and was doing her a favor. She was a young and attractive witch who had carelessly thrown away her life over petty vendettas and troubles. Perhaps a mistake he would've made when he was younger, and less in control of his emotions.

She deserved to be free. Maybe. At some point, and if she paid her dues.

As the crowd roared louder, he took his cue that the match was about to start. The prospective champions had gathered on the edges of the platform, their bodies locked up with tension. A few shuddered with anticipation and when a gong sounded, cheers and violence enveloped the stadium. A flash of red and the brawl had started. By the time Will spread his wings to circle above the platform, nearly half of the competitors had already disappeared to a mix of powerful winds and the erratic thrashing of some blonde. He'd lost sight of Marina for one—two seconds before locating her among the horde of bodies slamming into one another.

For a moment, she stood there frozen on the platform, still as a deer trapped under the piercing gaze of a hunter. He considered swooping down to remind her of the fight raging on beside her but stopped himself short when he sensed a danger. Something instinctive. His feathers ruffled and the gentle current turned colder, making him more alert. Suddenly, his eyes fell on everything at once and that was when he heard it. A faint sound. Too far to be heard in its entirety but what sounded like singing. Marina moved her lips and a melody came from within.

The voice was beautiful. Mesmerizing. Except that it swallowed some competitors whole as blood trickled down their ears and their bodies collapsed on the platform. Unconscious or dead. It was hard to tell. But just as quickly as the song had begun, the platform flipped over. And just like that, she had vanished. 

RUNE

When Rune set out for this faraway land, she'd been told that the Nuhan were advanced in every way. That their king was renowned for his purity, his knights for their bravery. That the kingdom was by far the most advanced and civilized of any on the continent. Yacob had promised her that she could make a life here far removed from the blood and sweat of her upbringing. All she had to do was earn the king's favor, and the life of quiet she'd always dreamed of could finally be achieved. If she ever saw Yacob again, she would cut his lying tongue from his mouth to stop him spreading anymore falsehoods. Because despite how he boasted of their civility and intelligence, even here, in a maze of twisted corridors and hallways miles below the ground, she could hear the screaming of a crowd thirsty for blood.

Rune sat with her back against the cool stone wall, leather clad legs splayed before her as she ran her fingers through the fur lining her left vambrace. It was tradition before a bout, to listen with practiced ears to the roar of spectators while she ran her hands over Kal's razor-sharp edges. Unfortunately, he'd been taken from her by an older looking knight before she was ushered into the tunnels with the promise he would be returned as soon as the match concluded. Rune had been given a choice of weapons of every sort and had chosen the quarterstaff for its reach, but the texture of the wood felt wrong underneath her fingers. Fur was the next best thing, soft, warm, perfectly textured and soothing to her calloused hands. The small, repetitive motions soothed the panic that threatened to rise into her throat as the crowd screamed again, louder this time. They'd been steadily rising in volume for the past few minutes, and a lifetime of fighting told her that the match was nearly over. Any second now a messenger would appear to usher Rune into the arena proper, and it wouldn't do to get caught performing self soothing gestures in front of the king's couriers. She stood and slipped the vambrace back onto her arm mere seconds before footsteps echoed through the tunnel, and a small boy turned the corner.

Her heart pounded in her ears as Rune feigned a look of disinterest at the messenger, free hand already pulling at the laces to her vambrace. As far as the boy could tell, he'd interrupted the warrior as she'd finished assembling her armor, left arm propped on the wall behind her to stay its shaking. The boy waited with his head bowed, staring at his bare feet while Rune finished tying her laces and grabbed the quarterstaff that had been leaning against the wall in front of her, pushing off from her own wall with her leg and coming to stand in front of the boy. His dirty mop of dark curls bounced as he raised his head to look her in the eyes and wordlessly gestured for her to follow and darted back the way he came. Rune followed, jogging quickly after the messenger as he followed a path so convoluted that she would have no hope of finding her previous resting place. She did notice that the paths steadily sloped upwards until at last they entered a large tunnel barred by an iron gate.

Several combatants eyed her warily as she approached, no doubt trying to guess her skills and combat experience. She saw several raised brows at her choice of a cropped leather breastplate and a few nods of acknowledgement of the scars she bore. None spoke to her, which was expected, but a few seemed familiar with each other already, namely the tall man dressed in black leathers and a slim woman with long dark hair. Rune marked those two in her mind as opponents to be avoided. Familiarity bred friendship and friendship bred strong emotional responses to said friends being defeated in combat. She had played such a game with Osk many times, combining their strength in group settings which allowed them to easily defeat opponents much bigger than them. Rune did not look forward to getting caught fighting two against one, and so her eyes slid on to more promising prey.

Many of the warriors seemed the magic practicing type, and Rune also vowed to stay away from them. While her rage might give her the strength and speed to defeat such opponents, it also took a heavy toll on her body and mind. In timed fights such as this, Rune's only aim was to stall for time while putting on an impressive show. She would not injure if she could avoid it, but her rage narrowed her vision and called for the kind of carnage she was not willing to satiate. The quarterstaff was meant to keep her opponents far away from her body as she knocked them out of the ring, in order to minimize the amount of blood she would otherwise spill. Her heart pounded in her ears as the announcer called an end to the previous match, and she clutched her staff tighter as the iron bars raised and she stepped into the pit.

The arena was very different from the one at the Citadel. Instead of a sandy colosseum open to the elements, the pit was built more like a wooden stage surrounded by a shallow moat. The room was closed off and dim, lit only by a multitude of torches and surrounded on all sides by rows of benches that housed screaming spectators. Rune only had time to glance at the king's royal box before she was pushed onto the circular stage with the rest of the combatants and the wooden walkways were raised, trapping the seven of them on the large wooden platform. The king was saying something, but his words were too quick and quiet to be translated over the cries of his subjects and the pounding in her ears. The others raised their wooden weapons or hands respectively, and Rune followed them, planting her feet in a wide stance and raising her staff in front of her face. The king's words were slowing now, signaling the end of his speech. Rune's eyes darted around the pit. She watched hands tense and faces steel themselves for battle and felt herself do the same. It was now or never. She must win this match, or kiss her freedom goodbye.

The sound of a gong signaled the beginning of the match and Rune leapt away from the edge of the stage. The middle was more dangerous, but she would rather lose through combat than by getting pushed off the edge. It seemed she was not the only one to have that idea as four of the seven combatants followed suit, including the black knight from earlier. He landed almost perfectly in front of her and raised his wooden sword in question. Rune responded with a swipe at his legs with her quarterstaff which forced him to jump to avoid. While in midair, the knight cut his sword in a downward motion and Rune rolled, narrowly avoiding a crack to the head.

She ended in a crouched stance while the sword landed in the same spot she'd been merely seconds before, hitting the ground with a low thud as its owner twisted in midair to face her again. Rune stood from her crouch, now aware that she'd switched places with her opponent. She now stood closer to the edge of the stage and her rival was placed more securely in the center. The sounds of wood on wood clashed around her and Rune steadied her mind with a few deep breaths. While it was important to keep an eye on the others, she could not afford to be distracted from her primary target who was now rushing at her. She sidestepped him and he swung to face her yet again, sword slashing through the air almost as gracefully as if it were made of sharpened steel. Rune longed for Kal and his familiar weight as she parried an overhead strike, but she would have to make due with the clunky staff until the challenge ended.

Rune's palms shrieked as she blocked another blow from the knight, splinters digging into her fingers from the unpolished wood and setting her teeth on edge. She'd promised herself she would stick to defensive fighting, but the wrongness of the weapon in her hand was causing her to lose focus. The knight was preparing to rush her with his sword held low, aiming to strike her side or pierce her stomach, leaving his head unprotected. Rune backed away from his steadily advancing form, eyes focused on his sword and staff held protectively in front of her bared torso. Mere seconds before he reached her, Rune swung her staff upwards instead, feet sidestepping of their own accord as her weapon collided with the side of his head. Although she wasn't using her full strength, the black knight was too momentarily stunned to realize that she'd drawn him to the edge of the stage. While he shook his head to no doubt clear the ringing in his ears, Rune once again swiped at his clumsy legs. This time, her strike hit true and his feet were swept out from under him, causing him to slip and fall off the side of the pit.

Rune glanced back at the other combatants from her place at the edge. One magic user had disappeared from the platform while a blue skinned man lay bleeding from a head wound. The rest were locked in combat with each other. Rune let out a satisfied smile. The crowd seemed sated and happy, the king in his box smiled down upon the bloodshed. In her many years of combat, Rune could gauge when a match was reaching its end. This fight was nearly over, and the sooner she could rid herself of that damned staff the better.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, the wooden stage creaked and groaned just as a hand grabbed her ankle and pulled her down. Momentarily shocked, Rune slipped and caught herself with one hand on the edge of the platform that was beginning to shake, staff tumbling into the shallow waters below. Rune cursed herself as the black knight stood above her, feet planted in front of the only hand saving her from hitting the water. He kneeled before her, smile self assured but not cocky.

"Better luck next time," he said, right foot moving to step on her left hand. Rune grunted, clenching her stomach and swinging her body upward in an attempt to grab onto his unoccupied leg. Before she had a chance, the middle of the platform opened its maw and the arena was thrown into chaos, unsuspecting combatants being swallowed into the center like the monsters that came for sailors on the high seas. The shifting of the stage caused the black knight to falter and reposition himself just long enough for Rune to grasp the lip of the platform with her other hand and haul herself up in one smooth motion, rolling to the right of her opponent as the gong signaled an end to the match.

Rune was momentarily surprised as a black gloved hand made its way into her field of vision. She grasped it a second later, still wary of the black knight but assured that he wouldn't resort to petty or juvenile tricks now that the match was over. He pulled her to her feet and she nodded her thanks, surveying the reduced number of combatants. Rune counted two, not including her and the black knight, the long haired woman and another woman that looked much softer, but no less dangerous than the rest of them. She absentmindedly picked the splinters out of her hands as the wooden walkways were lowered and the announcer rushed onto the stage, crying, "Citizens of Numeh, welcome your champions of the ring!" More civilized indeed, she thought while the "champions" were ushered off the stage and into the catacombs. No matter how advanced they pretended to be, the roar of the crowd sounded just the same as it had back at the Citadel. And no matter how much she assured herself that things would be different now, Rune couldn't deny the sinking of her stomach. One last fight, and she would never be forced to kill again. That was what Yacob had told her. Then by the gods she would win this fight, or die trying. 

Captian Odette Rainmaker

Here is how the bards will tell it: They fought. She won. A legend was born.

Here is how the Captain will tell it: We fought. I won. A hero prevailed.

Here is how it happened:

"Cut that out. It's fucking annoying."

Captain Odette Rainmaker, former pirate leader of the Serpent's Pride, stood facing what appeared to be a solid stone wall. It stretched up and above her before jutting out to both sides, entrapping her in what felt, to Odette, like a cage. Gods above, she hated enclosed spaces.

Directly to her right stood the man who had, by default, been promoted to first mate. Yurie was human, light-skinned enough to stain red when he burned, with salt-and-pepper scruff hugging his chin. He spoke with the accent of Cravenhold, although he always claimed he'd never been. He was a decent man, which made for a shitty pirate. Still, he'd stuck with her through everything, which was more than anyone else could say.

But right at that moment, he was being fucking annoying.

"Sorry," Yurie muttered, no real apology in it, as he worked the nail of his left thumb between his yellow teeth. "Didn't mean to worry you."

"I'm not worried," Odette retorted too quickly. She wasn't. "It's just fucking annoying. Makes you look like a bilge rat."

Yurie, who had been rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet, halted his processions, though he looked quite displeased about it.

As annoying as it was, Odette could understand Yurie's restlessness. The two pirates awaited the beginning of King Charles's Very Professional Fighting Tournament, which would determine whom among the many hopefuls of the land would be allowed to compete for the title of the land's mightiest hero (and, more importantly, several dozen chests full of gold). Odette wasn't entirely clear on the details, but in her experience, those pesky things rarely mattered anyway.

The one slight issue with King Charles's Very Important Tournament was that bladed weapons were strictly prohibited. Odette felt rather off-kilter without her sword in her hand and a dagger in each boot. (She had tried to smuggle in an unsheathed knife beneath her shirt, but the guards who had searched her had been very thorough indeed—both in their search, and in their subsequent lecture about proper safety and storage procedures.)

Sans bladed weapons, the tall wooden stick they'd called a quarterstaff would have to do. It felt awkward and clunky in her hands, hardly the extension of her arm that her sword was. What was she meant to do with such a thing—thump her enemies clumsily about the head?

"We'll stick together out there," Yurie said, a vision of uncertainty, "won't we, Captain?"

He never said that word like he meant it. Captain. To Yurie, it was an inside joke, a shared secret, a note passed between siblings behind their parents' backs. To him, it wasn't a title.

Odette would add it to her endless list of annoyances.

"Of course," she replied, with more flippancy than confidence. "What sort of captain would abandon her first mate?"

"A pirate captain," Yurie muttered in response.

Odette bit her tongue. It was a fair enough remark, but it wasn't her own fidelity that gave her pause. Oh, Yurie would stay with her in the battle, to be sure—just as he'd stayed with her after the wreck, during their seemingly endless trek to the Capitol, and during a string of ill-fated and eventually aborted attempted burglaries. He was a loyal son of a bitch, Odette would grant him that.

Still, there was something akin to doubt inching its way through the back of her skull. The doubt asked her: If Yurie won this battle, where would his loyalties lie—with his captain or with his king?

Odette's thoughts were interrupted by a great roar from the many citizens of the Capitol who awaited the tourney. There were several bloodthirsty shouts and a great deal of foot stomping involved, which Odette found quite promising. It was a good turnout, then—all the more people to see her emerge victorious among heroes and thieves.

The wall before her rose slowly upward, revealing an arch etched into the stone. Odette exchanged a sideways glance with Yurie before taking several determined steps forward and assessing the terrain.

In truth, she'd never been much good at assessing things. To her, the terrain looked quite plain. It was a level, oval-shaped playing field, about three ship-lengths across and the color of desert sand—not the sand of the shore, dark and welcoming when kissed by the waves, but the sort of sand which, despite the heat of the high noon sun and the scent of the sea not far to the east, managed to make the color yellow look cold.

A wall about seven feet tall surrounded the mightily heroic sandbox, with the chambers' gaping maws carved into its flesh. Raised further above that was what, to Odette, constituted the real spectacle. Noblemen and commoners alike lined similarly-sanded seats with garish dresses and jewelry or homely bonnets and rags, each with a hand raised above their eyes to block the midday sun. The King himself was watching, no doubt, though Odette couldn't see him among his people.

"Welcome, heroes of the land," a voice boomed out from above. Odette was tempted to call it disembodied, but surely it belonged to one of the most hidden elite. "You have been summoned here today for a purpose that has been made abundantly clear both to you, our competitors, as well as to the fine denizens of our city." Cue cheers and foot stomping. Odette felt her lips pull around her teeth in a grin. "This tournament has only three rules: Firstly, you are not allowed to kill your fellow competitors." Someone booed. It was not clear to Odette if said booing came from one of her fellow heroes, lined up beneath the seven-foot wall, or from one of the allegedly protected citizens far above it. "Secondly, you are encouraged to stay in the center of the ring to prove your might and mettle. And finally, you will have but an hour to prove your skills to our great and worthy leader, King Charles." More cheers followed this declaration.

Two guards stood on one of the longer sides of the ring, stationed on either side of what appeared to be an overly large hourglass. On some unseen signal, they flipped it over and the sand inside marched downward, following the orders of their shadowed king.

"Your time," the disembodied voice proclaimed, "starts now."

Odette surged forward, Yurie no doubt following suit. She really wasn't sure how to use a quarterstaff beyond bonking things with it, and to be perfectly honest, she hadn't actually seen battle in quite some time. Still, the roaring of the crowd matched the rushing of blood in her ears as her staff met with what looked to be a decapitated javelin in a disappointingly anticlimactic battle of sticks.

The person she faced down was half her size, thin as the rod they carried, with bright blue skin and a tongue that was forked when it darted out of their mouth. Their eyes blazed fury, and it was that which shook Odette more than anything. She loosened her grip and fell flat to the ground as the staff swept her feet out from under her.

Two seconds later, her opponent fell beside her, with Yurie standing victoriously above them.

"Well fought, Captain," he acknowledged, sarcasm dripping from the words. Damn it.

"I was testing you," she spat out. Already, her hip felt bruised. "You passed."

He held out a hand to help her to her feet and they stood back to back as another opponent came at them—this time a goliath whose only weapons were his fists. The first of them struck the side of Odette's face; the second, the solid bone above her breasts. Winded, she staggered back into Yurie, who righted her before striking out at his own assailant.

Grunting her frustration, Odette dropped her weapon and drew her own fists close to her chest. She had never fought with a quarterstaff, it was true, but she had engaged in many a bar fight in her time. Her fists were familiar weapons. She was faster than the goliath, ducking beneath his next swing, looping around him, and delivering a solid blow between his shoulder blades that sent him toppling forward into Yurie's waiting grasp.

Together, they shoved the goliath through one of the arches and into the chamber beyond, where the ground beneath him immediately gave way to rushing water. Yurie yanked Odette backwards before she could lose her balance and follow him in.

"It didn't do that before," Odette said, astute as ever. Then, after a brief weighing of concerns: "Get to the center."

"Captain Rainmaker, the rule follower," Yurie mused. There was a waver to his words. "Who would have thought?"

"Follow me." Odette slipped between two pairs of tourneymen as she headed for the elusive center of the ring. When she turned to hurry Yurie along, he was gone, no doubt still stuck to that damn seven-foot wall. To no one in particular, she muttered: "Coward."

Odette fought. She did, despite what others may have perceived. She was a fighter, a pirate, a captain, damn it. She was the land's mightiest hero; she would not let that honor go to Yurie, who would rather spill her secrets than his blood.

Her bones were weary. Her bruises ached. At one point, she was knocked onto her back and stayed there for an indeterminate length of time before someone pulled her to her feet again. Against the sun, she squinted.

"Yurie?" Crimson pooled in her mouth as she grinned and slapped him on the back. "I knew you'd make it to the center, you bastard."

He didn't smile back. "We have to go."

"Oh, fuck that."

"Odette—"

"Fuck you, pulling me out of this. You think I can't handle this? I wasn't knocked out, by the way, I was—"

"I don't care what you were doing. We have to leave now."

Odette glanced around quickly, trying to take in a dozen battles at once. Several competitors had fallen as she had, without loyal first mates to revive them. Others continued to spar, their motions lagging with the strain of maintaining an hour-long fight. The last grains of sand lingered in the hourglass. She was so damn close.

"Stay here, Yurie. That's an order."

He gritted his teeth. He had two black eyes and his lip looked busted. "Fuck your orders."

That precise moment was when she felt it—the shaking of the earth beneath her, a tug like sand spilling to the bottom of an hourglass while she still stood atop it.

"Go," Yurie urged her again, pushing her towards the seven-foot wall, which was suddenly not so far away.

Another competitor leapt onto the top of said wall in an improbable display of strength and agility, and Odette turned disbelievingly toward her ally. "I am not doing that."

Yurie muttered a curse and knelt on one knee to offer her a boost. Odette accepted it; she did not express her gratitude in words, but she hoped her lack of snarky retort conveyed it for her.

Once she had cleared the wall and taken a few steps backward, where the edge of it stretched out behind her, Yurie, with a running start, jumped and grabbed the ledge.

As he did so, the last grain of sand hit the bottom of the hourglass and the ground of the ring collapsed beneath them, sand spilling into the sea below. Waves churned blue and black, swallowing the strongest competitors who had cemented their places in the center of the ring. Screams faded into air bubbles as they fought the water.

Yurie's fingers gripped tightly to the edge of the wall, his feet dangling below, boots just barely grazing the ocean's tongues.

"Captain," he said, blood dribbling from the side of his mouth. There was no sarcasm or frustration tinting the word—just desperation. Fear. "Captain, help me. Please."

Odette lurched forward, hand outstretched.

And the sole of her dragon-leather boot smashed against his knuckles, sending him down into the murky abyss.

Yasmin Aziz

Yasmin paces the length of her chamber, the gated windows at the top letting in the crowd's rumble. Her heart races faster than the beating drums, swirls of dust rising off the ground in response to her agitation.

The Pit Fight. A challenge that Yasmin would prefer to avoid joining. This only makes it worse: all of the judging eyes on every single misstep, every possible fumble.

Although Yasmin expected a pre-qualifying round before entering the dungeon, she hadn't foreseen such a bloodthirsty audience.

Their cheers practically shake the ceiling as they stomp and roar in anticipation.

Taking in a deep breath as she comes to a halt, Yasmin inspects her shamshir, the thin steel blade glinting in the rays of sun streaming through the bars. Focusing on the ivory of the grip, she lets her breath out, accepting her fate as another pawn in a king's game.

She slides her beloved shamshir back into its sheath, placing it on the floor of the chamber, and clambers up the stone wall (to the best of her abilities) to peek further out. Across the stage, she can see the hungry eyes of the other contestants: hungry to prove themselves, hungry for riches, hungry for blood.

Yasmin gulps. She lowers herself once again, her leather boots pacing around the enclosure once again. The stone seems to close in on her, crushing her beneath the bloodlust and craze above. How could she have agreed to such a challenge?

A booming voice breaks through her thoughts. "My beloved citizens, welcome to the Pit Fight! Here, we will find out who is worthy to enter our dungeon. We will discover what power, and luck, looks like! May the greatest hero win!" The King's voice reverberates throughout the entire arena, quieting the rambunctious crowd.

Yasmin's breakfast, merely a few dates, threatens to reappear on the stone floor.

Squeezing her braid once, Yasmin double-checks that her head wrap is firmly knotted and that her baton, made of wood, is still a baton (Once, she picked up a stick that turned into a serpent. Needless to say, it had been enough to traumatize her for life).

The drums, which had ceased under the King's introduction, start up their incessant noise again. They take up a faster, more anticipatory beat, clearly meant to rile up the crowd again. And rile up the crowd they did.

A horn blows, and all of a sudden, the wall that separated Yasmin from the stage, from the competition, begins to rise. Terrified, she nearly leaps back to the opposite wall, but she barely manages to catch herself. No matter how far she's fallen, she still has not lost her pride (a slightly twisted version of it, anyhow).

Amid the cheering of the crowd, Yasmin cautiously makes her way to the wooden stage, her feet longing to stay within the relative safety of the stone chamber. Under the glare of the sun, she can make out other figures hopping onto the stage, their swagger and arrogance oozing off of them like black tar.

Flexing her left hand and feeling the reassuring wind swirl through her fingers, Yasmin jumps on quickly, the noise of the crowd fading into the background as she observes her opponents.

Nearly all of them are taller and broader than her. Surprise.

A few brave, or foolish, souls charge directly into the center towards each other, aiming to draw first blood. Yasmin hangs back towards the stone walls, glaring at the person nearest to her right as she makes to engage her. With a gulp of cold air, Yasmin grips her baton, dancing back from a slash of something glinting metal.

A blade?

Indignation roars in her ears, and Yasmin spares nothing as she slams the woman into the wall of the stage with a blast of wind. Even with that rather paltry summoning of air, she begins to feel the strain in her body.

Racing over to the limp body, she clocks the lady in the head once more, just to be sure. Whirling around at the sound of feet stomping over, Yasmin rolls aside as a hammer appears where she once knelt.

Interesting.

Back on her two feet, Yasmin parries with this hammer-wielding newcomer; a jab here, a block there, violent attacks everywhere. The man swings down from above with one hammer, and Yasmin barely manages to catch it with a cushion of air. Still, powered by the man's brute strength, the hammer breaks through the barrier and the long handle catches her left arm as she yanks it up to protect her face.

"Oh bleeding gods," Pain reverberates through her arm, though luckily not breaking it.

Yasmin wrenches her left arm, and offending hammer, to the side, and sweeps her right arm forward with the other hammer that had been thrown on an offering of air. She doesn't stay long enough to double-check that it hit its target.

Her left arm throbbing, Yasmin skirts along the wall, avoiding contact as she tries to regain her breath. Regrettably, others on the stage have different ideas.

Jumping back to avoid a fist, Yasmin swings the baton at a bicep, the fast snapping motion rendering the arm useless for a while. Unfortunately, another person crashes into her from behind. Yasmin nearly slams into the wooden stage, only splinters away, as she just barely manages to cushion the blow with a soft summer breeze.

Cursing, Yasmin struggles to twist underneath this new adversary, his legs forming a vise around Yasmin's middle and his fists pummeling her back and head. Between the nearly constant punching and trying to cradle her head from his blows while clinging onto her baton, Yasmin scrunches her face in concentration, focusing on his breaths.

One breath. Two.

Yasmin calls on the air to stop. Unfortunately, Yasmin isn't quite good at multi-tasking, so her face slams into the ground as her concentration on holding the air beneath her is diverted.

No breath.

The fists stop and claw at his own throat instead.

Yasmin finally manages to break free from his legs, pulling her braid from where it's caught on his boot. Crawling away, she pulls the air out of his lungs along with her, pulling and pulling until he keels over blue. That's when she releases. Death, though tempting, isn't always necessary.

Once she's finally back up, Yasmin plants a kick on his head. See how that feels.

Wiping away the blood from her nose, she gingerly prods the bone. The dates nearly show up again as pain wooshes through her nose and into her very soul.

However, the fight has not stopped.

She jumps over a leg and nearly hits the barrier stone wall; spittle from the audience flies over her head, narrowly missing her linen wrap. Twisting so that her foot lands on the wall, Yasmin pushes off, utilizing a gust of wind to leap towards a wrestling duo near the center of the stage. She whacks them both unceremoniously on the head with the baton, smiling a little as they slump unconscious. Risking a glance upwards, she can see the ignited crowd, cheering on hastily picked favorites. A spark of something glints in her eyes as she sends a quick blast of wintry air above, packaged with a wink, watching with satisfaction as it nearly knocks out the few in her direct line of sight.

Dignity on the battlefield, once so important to Yasmin, melts in the face of such cruel circumstances. Fighting for amusement, only thinly masked by the promise of riches and magic unimaginable.

Panting from exertion, Yasmin readjusts her head covering so that the fabric that was once slipping down her nose is firmly reattached. She jumps back to avoid a falling body, then ducks to avoid a flying rock. Peeking up again from behind the body, Yasmin notes with relief that the rock assailant is also lying prone on the floor, a piece of rope around his thick neck.

She surveys the stage again. Two duos of opponents are locked in fierce hand-to-hand combat with each other near the other edge of the stage. Propelled by the hecklers above, Yasmin is about to head towards this spectacle and add some spice to the entertainment when the floor creaks.

A piece of the stage falls away with a splash.

With a yelp and a glare up toward the King's box, Yasmin balances on a patch of pressurized air as more and more pieces, and the bodies that once rested on them, disappear into the dark waters below. With a shudder from exhaustion and fear, Yasmin alights onto a stable-looking portion; she barely manages to catch herself as this part, yet too, falls into oblivion. Controlling this much air becomes hard to maintain, and its pressure begins to show as Yasmin struggles to stand upright.

Looking across, she sees that only one of the heroes survived the splashing down; a slimmer man hanging onto the bars of one of the gated windows. A clever hero.

Yasmin glances down at the baton in her hand. She looks back up at him. Back down at the baton.

She chucks it across the stage, watching in silence as it hits the man's hands and loosens his grip a little. Only a little.

He looks over his shoulder at her, a smirk painting his lips.

Yasmin curses under her breath, embarrassment shrouding her features, and she flips him off. He adjusts so that he's hanging by one arm, and the other disappears into his jacket pocket.

Calling on the winds, she slams ice-cold air into his body, and he slips off, yelling as he falls and as she, too, falls onto her knees. But he twists in mid-air, sending a last-minute (and very unnecessary and very illegal) present her way.

A dagger.

It embeds itself in her thigh, the handle etched with a lovely pattern, as the crowd, stunned into silence, erupts at such an anticlimactic end. More than one person seems to laugh at Yasmin as she stares at the weapon in her leg. Blood rushes throughout her body as if confused about where the injury is and Yasmin nearly passes out.

"Bleeding gods."

Only after she, quite expressively, conveys her feelings does she allow herself to faint.

The King's guards barely catch the young hero before she follows the rest of her opponents into the icy waters below.