It was raining the day I killed my first man.

He stood a dozen paces from me, across the white sand of the auditorium. He was a scrawny thing, so thin and tiny I surmised he must be just a few years older than manhood, not much older than me. It was evident that the years had not been kind to him. Meager, rusted armor covered his bodice, so worn and pitted my sword would pierce through his breastplate like butter. His helm slid down his tiny skull, and he continuously shoved it back onto his head, blinking away the rainwater that trickled from the helm and down into his eyes. He would look at me, shift slightly, and then his eyes would dart away, as if terrified of my presence. It was an odd feeling. I don’t consider myself an intimidating man, if I can even be called one, but my armor and weapons do the intimidation for me. Even with the gray clouds overhead, my armor shines with new polish, plates and helm and vambraces intricately woven and gilded. The sword in my hand shines like a beacon of light - all white blade and dark hilt. From my belt dangles a short sword and a dagger, with edges as keen as any. The jade Kalidii crest donned on my left breast glints. My armor is worth a hundred of his. My eyes flicker to the old sword clenched tightly in the man’s hand, and wonder if it is even sharp enough to pierce my plate.

No matter. There is only one way this can end.

Rainwater trickles through the chinks of the armor at my joints, but I am not cold. I am the opposite - my body burns with anxiety, with excitement, with anticipation; I can hardly stay still, yet I make myself like a stone statue. A few meters to my left, Priest Tarys steps forward and begins his commencement speech, droning on and on about the regulations and rules of single combat between Astoma and Kalidii. He thanks the Order, he thanks the Priesthood, he thanks my father, the Lord Protector, and he thanks the commonfolk, abundant in the stands of the auditorium; but his words have miniscule importance to me. I can’t focus on him. My eyes drift upwards towards the box, where my family watches. Even from a distance, I can feel my lord father’s eyes burrowing into me. He sits on his throne, up in the platform that juts out precariously over the floor of the amphitheater. My brothers stand beside him, and my sisters, and my extended family below him, all aunts and uncles and cousins. My shoulders sag from weight not from my heavy armor. I pull my gaze away from my father’s face and fixate them upon my enemy.

I study the man as Priest Tarys continues his droning. My fingers grip hard leather. He does not look like a frightening opponent, but I know that even the simplest of mistakes can lead to demise when you partake in dueling. This Astoma man is no warrior, but I am sure he can handle a blade at least with some decency; he will not go down without a fight. I can see it in his eyes; his demeanor has changed. His fear has changed to a blaze of focus and determination. He does not look away from me anymore. His eyes meet mine.

A flash of blue.

He stands still and wary. Ready.

He does not want to die today, but he will, because I am his opponent.

The priest shouts, and my father rises to his feet. The murmurs and conversation of the amphitheater fade to naught as Matyx Kalidii rises to full height, clad in a brilliant white coat overlaid with dozens of precious jewels upon his breast. A golden brooch secures a flowing cloak to one shoulder. He’s trimmed his beard today, down to a proper length, and his lined face is set in a grim expression. He looks over the great crowd of the amphitheater, then to his sons and daughters at his sides, and then finally to me, his lastborn son, and gives a nod.

Carnage.

The amphitheater roars as the Astoma plants his foot into the ground and charges, sending a wild slash aimed at my face. I dodge, and the sword flits harmlessly past my face, but the blade was much too close; I felt the blade pass through the air just inches from my skin. He’s fast. Faster than I had thought. I hurriedly pull my visor shut and sink my peripheral to darkness. My vision narrows to the sandy pits of the theater, to this one Astoma standing before me, and to the sharp edge of cold steel that could end my life.

We pace around each other like caged animals, each studying the other, rain and sweat mingling together beneath metal plate. The Astoma rushes again, but this time I do not backpedal into a retreat; I rise to meet him. Our blades meet with a resounding clash, my shoulder jolting from the contact, but his blade stalls before my own. I push back on his sword, and the Astoma staggers backwards, sudden panic flashing in his eyes.

I’m much stronger. I pushed him aside like a wet piece of paper. He’s skinny and malnourished, and probably struggling with fever. Drakos had winked at me before I had entered the pits. It was likely the Astoma had been drugged. Some concoction slipped into his drink when he broke his morning’s fast. Weak, small, untrained, and intoxicated - it is no contest. Calling it a duel would be insulting the very premise of the confrontation.

I must toy with him. The crowd enjoys such things…

I press forward, relishing in the sudden surge of confidence as my sword cuts and jabs and slashes and thrusts. The Astoma hastily retreats, his blade just managing to parry my strokes, just intersecting my own before his blood is spilled. Our boots create deep imprints in the wet sand as we encircle each other in a strange dance, locked within a deadly embrace of grunts and steel. The roars and sighs of the crowd vibrate in the close confines of my metal helm, rising and falling when, for the slimmest of moments, it seems I’ll pierce through the Astoma’s guard; yet it never comes. His defense somehow always intercepts my own, and my shoulder quickly tires from the constant onslaught. I break off the attack and retreat back a few paces, regarding the Astoma with renewed interest. I did not think he was a warrior, but it appears he certainly is. Not many Astoma slaves last long during a Kalidii’s Enlightenment.

I risk a glance upwards, where my family sits, and I see their smiles and laughter as they watch the duel with pleasured intrigue. My eldest brother Drakos claps a hand on Clydas’ shoulder, pointing at something down in the amphitheater. My brothers roar in laughter. Only my father is unsmiling; his face is like stone. He watches me from his throne, a silent man amidst drunken youth.

Impatience surges through me.

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I must end this quickly. An Astoma should not be able to ward off a Kalidii for long - and much less one of Matyx’s own sons. I glare at the Astoma and feel a surge of energy pass through me, and I sprint at the man with reckless abandon, the delighted screams of the crowd heating my bloodlust and amplifying within the close confines of my helm.

It ends soon after that.

I smash through the Astoma’s defense, my sword swinging wildly, but with obscene strength behind it; I catch the blade and left shoulder in one singular blow. Bits of metal chip off from the Astoma’s plate, and my blade bites through old metal and into soft flesh. The Astoma doesn’t scream, or cry. His face screws up in pain, but he does not emit a sound. He jerks free of my blade and hurries away, his free hand coming to his shoulder, where it comes back red and bloody. His arm sags, lolling at his side, and I know I’ve rendered that arm useless.

I do not give the man time for respite. I press forward, and the Astoma blocks two strokes before my third punches through his breastplate, just above his sternum. The slave stumbles forward, his eyes widening in the prospect of death, and his sword falls to the sand. His free hand grasps at my blade, buried in his chest, and futilely tries to pull it out. His gauntlet scrapes against my sword, the sound of steel-on-steel ringing loudly inside my helm. I’m close enough to the Astoma that I can feel the heat of his breath, see the glossy look in his eyes, and smell the oils of his hair.

I realize with a start that this man is not a man at all, but just a boy, probably no older than me. Hunger had hollowed his cheeks and given him an aged look, but his youth is clear from this short distance. A rush fills my head, and it’s not adrenaline or bloodlust, but the rush of sickness, and I have to set my jaw to keep myself from retching. Blood pools from the boy’s breastplate and drips down my forearm and sword hand, staining my green vambrace. I stagger backwards, pulling the sword from the boy’s chest, and he falls to his knees. His head droops, and his eyes darken, and I see his resignation in accepting death.

The roar is deafening, and I’m shaking. Why am I shaking? I don’t understand. I have won. The danger has passed; but yet my body rejects the notion. My breath comes fast and shallow within the confines of my helmet, and I pull free the helm, tossing it across the sandy arena and letting my hair fall loose against my gorget and shoulderplates. The crowd roars in delight; they think this action was premeditated, that I’m appealing to the lust of the crowd in my victory. They are wrong. I just couldn’t breathe. I gulp down deep breaths and force myself to calm, lest the whole arena see the panic on my face. That cannot be. Calix Kalidii, the youngest son of Matyx Kalidii, cannot be branded a coward.

The priest comes forward, between me and the Astoma, and hands me the ceremonial knife made for the intent of extracting the life of Astoma slaves. It is meant for this boy before me. I take the knife, and despite my misgivings, I admire the gold sheen of the cutting edge, the ornate jewels in the hilt, and the solid weight of the weapon. A truly beautiful creation. It would be useless in a melee - far too heavy and cumbersome, with the blade a complete contrast, being too thin and long. But that is not its purpose. I wonder how many lives this knife has claimed. Dozens, at least; I have four brothers, and more than ten male cousins. Now, I will add another life to this golden blade.

“Calix Kalidii, the fifth and youngest son of Matyx and the late Herra Kalidii, has won his Duel with valor and honor,” Tarys says, his powerful lungs radiating all throughout the amphitheater. The priest smiles at me for a split second, pride showing in that thick-bearded face of his, and then he directs his attention back to his lines. I wonder if he looked at my brothers in that way. “The Astoma warrior has been felled in a fair contest, marking Prince Calix the victor. The Order looks down favorably on this boy, now made man - your prince, the fifthborn son of Matyx Kalidii, the Lord Protector!”

The crowd roars my name. I feel sick. The dagger nearly slips from my hand.

Tarys continues. “Now, I call for Matyx Kalidii; I call upon his Lordship, the Lord Protector, the Merger of the Free States, the Maker of the Realm. What should be done with this rebel?”

A hush falls across the crowd, and the bailiff steps backwards, putting the spotlight squarely on my father’s shoulders. Matyx rises and steps forward to the railing, peering down at the Astoma boy, whose lifeblood slowly darkens the sand around him. Matyx’s dark eyes turn to me, and search me, and I faintly hope for some vague vestiges of pride, but my father is unreadable. My father raises his right arm and gives a nod, and the crowd erupts in chants and calls.

“Kill him!”

“Kalidii, Kalidii, Kalidii!”

“A thousand years to the Holy Reign!”

“End the traitor!”

I force myself to walk towards the defeated boy, who seems mute to the cries all around him. Briefly, I wonder what it must be like, hearing a thousand voices come together to scream for your death. The boy hears my footsteps and raises his head, locking eyes onto me. His eyes are clear, free of the glossy look from earlier, and full of stubborn pride.

I hesitate a few paces before him, shocked. How can this boy radiate pride? He kneels before me, his lifeblood leaking out from where my sword punctured his breastplate… and now the Enlightenment blade will stab his heart and end his life, and yet he looks on at me with that prideful, stubborn look, and I don’t understand. What is there to be prideful about? He is an Astoma; a rebel! A line of bastards and traitors that tried to seize my family’s throne during the war. How can he look upon me like that?

I hear a murmur pass through the crowd, and I realize I’ve come to a full stop before the boy. I continue my steps, and the murmurs resume, swelling in excitement, and I feel a faint trickle of disgust worm in my stomach. Cocksuckers, all of them. I kneel before the boy, seeing the pale skin of his face, the resolute expression in those blue eyes of his. The eyes are familiar. They remind me of my own.

The roars have become deafening, and yet I don’t hear them. The only things that exist in the world are me and this boy. I wait for the boy’s expression to break, for him to sob and plead for his life, like so many Astoma before him, but he does nothing of the sort.

“Will you cut me, Kalidii?” he asks, and his voice is thin and reedy, betraying his young age. He’s younger than my own age of seventeen, that much is sure. I shake my head at him, and a flicker of relief shows in his gaze. I will not cut him and give him a slow and painful death. Drakos had done that on his day of Lightening, and had Clydas, but I will not. This boy fought well, and he does not deserve such a death.

“You fought well, Astoma,” I say. “Rest in the Order.” I bury the ceremonial knife in his heart. The light in his eyes fades, and he slumps against my arms. I cup the back of his head and lay him down on the red sand. I stand to a myriad of delighted cheers, of excitement and valor; I know I should celebrate. I should retrieve the ceremonial blade and flash it at the crowd, or saw off the Astoma’s head and parade it throughout the amphitheater. Drakos would want me to do that. The crowd would want me to do that; and my father would want me to do that. Oh, how the crowd would love that. How the crowd would love me.

But I don’t. I stand and look at the pale face of the boy I just killed, and I feel as empty as his limp body before me.