The sun has gone down. Light no longer illuminates the dregs — only torches of crystal that glow with the fading light of the sun. The tomb is behind me, and a man stands in front. He’s taller than me, bigger than me, and he’s covered head-to-toe in what looks like thick, heavy armour. But when he moves, it is like the armour does not exist. It must be Hardlight, made to look like steel. A way to deceive; a way to gain advantage over your opponent. He speaks in a clear, hard tone. He is not my friend.

“Are you the boy of the Bluefeathers?” he asks, then looks me over. The cloak from before has returned, a mass of shadow that seems to silently scream wordless echoes. Somehow, it is a comforting presence. Is it from the Gods? Or something else? Either way, it obscures my body entirely but refuses to get in my way; moving aside when I move. Like a living thing. I shout at him. “Are you who they have sent? An Assassin?”

He doesn’t respond. I imagine him smiling. I rush forward in the blink of an eye, my blade forming underneath the cloak that parts to let my blade slip through uncontested. I cannot see the look of surprise, but he Conjures his own blade, held with two hands to counter my swing. The flash of escaped light rips away the dark for the briefest of moments, revealing the sludge on the ground — and the dagger aimed for my chest. I snap away, Conjuring a small dagger of my own and hurling it at his armoured face only for it to be bat aside with the sweep of an armoured hand. No flash of light comes from his gauntlet — either the dagger did nothing to it or it’s not Hardlight. It doesn’t matter how well you can disguise the Light within the Mould that makes up Conjured items, you can never stop the release of Light forcing itself out of a broken vessel. Or so Father told me. But then again, he also told me that I would be Champion… and I am not. I elongate my blade, bridging the gap between us with sword alone, bringing it down from above once more. He rises to meet it, smacking the blade away before effortlessly using the recoiling momentum to bring a Strike sailing across to me. The Sorcerer-King had done something in our duel; whether or not it was real. He had blocked a strike by making an extremely thin curve of light that was just enough to defuse my Strike. I follow this ideal now; sweeping my hand up, trailing Light behind it and hardening it as I go. It is as though I am Striking with my hand rather than a blade. At the same time, I snap the mould of my sword so that it is shorter. The assassin’s Strike hits, groans against my Light, and then cuts through, forcing me to deflect with my blade. I ready myself for his follow-up, but none comes. He simply stops and waits. That sends a spike of anger right through me and I charge, Enhancing my legs to push myself forward and into a Strike that flies alongside me. He spins around to the side so that he puts my Strike inbetween him and myself, then deflects it — not forward, but back towards me. I panic, bringing my blade just in time to push it up to the sky.

Then I find a blade at my throat. Like so many times before. I feel fear. I fear death. Why does he stop? Am I protected? Do the Gods stay him?

He’s so close I can see his eyes under his helmet. He’s about the same age as Father, with the same sunken eyes. What I see in them is not hatred or coldness; but something else. Something I can’t place.

“Who has instilled in you such hatred, boy?” He says, pulling the blade away. “That is no basis for a good fighting technique.”

I take the opportunity, making my blade almost weightless to me, slashing up to sever his arm as it pulls back into stance. He brings his own blade down like a guillotine onto mine with a single hand, cracking through my sword and tearing it from my grip. I jump backwards, but the sludge gets under me and I trip backwards, saved only by a quick Conjuration of a staff that I plant into the ground and hope it does not slip. When I pull myself up, he is only watching me. “I could have just killed you. What benefit do you gain from attacking me again?”

I roar in frustration, editing the mould of the staff to give it a point, elongating the handle and shoving out towards him in a lightning-quick stab. He puts out a hand and grabs the shaft just below the point, holding it with an iron grip. “What now?” he asks, the mocking in his voice stabbing deep than any dagger. I snap the mold just under where he holds it, then reform it in an instant — his line of sight blocked by his own hand — and stab it forward again. He Conjures a staff of his own, smashing it into the ground and sliding back on the sludge so that my stab barely misses. A second passes as I wait for him to make a move; but once again he doesn’t. Instead, I hear a rumble coming from the helmet. A second later, I parse it as laughter. I ready my spear for another stab.

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“Please! Hold!” he says, laughing. “I am not your enemy.”

Something stays me. Somehow his words convince me. I snap from it, looking around. Magic? How could I be so sure?

He releases his blade, putting his hands outwards in a sign of surrender. “Truly, I’m not your enemy. I was, but now I am not.”

I still hold the spear out, but lower it just a fraction. “What do you mean?”

“I was sent here to kill you. I won’t deny that. Well, I was sent to raid the tomb before you could. Killing you was more… something I’d probably have to do. Way I see it, you’ve already been in. Whatever was in there, whatever the feckless aristocracy wanted — you’ve already taken,” he says, lowering his arms. “That means I have no further objective.”

“You were sent by House Daraas? What did they tell you about this place?” I demand. What did they think they could achieve by coming here?

“They didn’t tell me. Just wanted me to deal this place, mainly, make sure you wouldn’t come to their tomb.”

“My tomb. It is my tomb. I fought their claim, I won.”

“Your tomb, their tomb. Either way, whats done is done. You’ve already gone through. I’ve never seen someone fight quite like you. You’re adaptive, quick on your feet. I’ll give you that. But you’ve been dead multiple times in this little bout of ours, and you don’t even realise it.”

“You didn’t strike the final blow. It doesn’t matter that you put a blade to my throat. You didn’t end it when you had the chance.”

He takes a step forward. “I don’t know what you have been through, but I am sorry for whatever it is. I can feel the hatred radiate off you. You are ruthless when you fight. There is no hesitation. You have so much potential; but whoever has trained you has failed you.”

My teeth press together until my jaw creaks. “Do not speak ill of my Father, or I will kill you.”

He shakes his armoured head. “Whatever training he has put you through; it was not beneficial. That may have been how he fought, but a good trainer would discover how their trainee fights best. These movements you make; they are quick, they are drilled — but they are not yours.”

“Stop!” I shout, then stab the spear forwards. He seems to glide away from it, as though he were floating. I stab again, and it misses — again, and again, and again. He dodges them all like he is a simple butterfly and my spear is a tunnel of wind. I Conjure a sword, Striking in a horizontal arc to catch him as he dodges a stab, but he simply bats it aside like it is nothing. He speaks again. “Your movements are practised, of that there is no doubt — but you do not know how to react to other methods of fighting. You are not trained how to fight, you are trained to counter Nobles. You try to catch them off guard; you break your weapon and reform it with such speed that they couldn’t keep up.”

He forms a spear in and instant, stabbing it out at me. I bring the sword up to slice through the shaft, cutting the end off the spear, and stabbing my own spear out at him to counter. He doesn’t move, letting the spear stab into his armour. “You are used to fighting an opponent that has no other options; no other magic to call on, no other tools at their disposal.”

He Conjures a sword and clicks his tongue. His arm accelerates so quickly it becomes a blur, sailing down to stab into my neck. I react quick; but not quick enough. I make a mould of thick plate across my neck, but I can’t fill it fast enough. It bites into me, digging into my neck and smashing me sideways, makes me lose my footing and I go face-first into the sludge. The smell of shit and blood clogs my nose and I taste it in my mouth. Warm blood drips from my neck.

He steps forward, armoured boot just in front of my face. “You seem to have no fear, on the outside… but right about now, I think you are realising that you might not have enough light to cure a wound so grievous. I’ve hit the artery in your neck. You’ll bleed to death. You have, probably, two or so minutes.”

I put my hand up, over my neck. He kicks it away. “No. I want to see the facade break. I want you to realise that you are not invincible. Your tactics may work against the bickering sycophants that call themselves heir to the Empire, but they will not work against me.”

My hearts racing. I can feel the blood rushing from my body. I can feel the Light leak out. Each second is less chance that I survive. I put my hand up again, and this time he forms a spear, stabbing it hard down into the stone underneath, planting my hand in the ground. I let out a wordless breath of pain. My vision darkens. Is this my destiny? Is this it? My end?

He watches me as I die. How could it come so quickly? I am the Arbiter. I should be… protected. But it is… not… so.