"Honoured guests."

Lark's voice was clear and crisp. He was by no means shouting, yet his words rang out and silenced the entire hall.

"This banquet is a gift from the gods," said the Islander. He had stepped off the dais and was now standing within reach of the conflict. "There is to be no violence on a day of sacred feasting."

The Kavtari man continued to curse, his dagger unmoving, while two of his companions dressed in similar garb tried to talk him down in hushed, nervous tones. The man showed no signs of hearing them.

The other man in the vest growled defiantly.

"Bring it on, sand-eater."

The Kavtari lunged forward, dagger glinting, but Lark was faster.

The Islander thrust out a hand, striking the Kavtari square in the chest with his palm. There was a flash of blue light from the instance the blow landed, causing everyone to momentarily avert their eyes. The Kavtari flew backwards and careened onto the floor. He remained there, unmoving. His companions rose from their seats, rushing over to the body, but two Islanders were already dragging the Kavtari’s limp body away. Lark turned towards the man in the vest, whose expression had changed from smug indignance to bemusement.

"Sit," said the Islander.

The man sat. The feast went on.

"What do you think they'll do to that man?" Wynn asked, frowning.

"I think I'd rather not know," said Tang.

"That blue light," said Skye. "What was that?"

"They say some of the Islanders wield some kind of special power," Tang said. "It's a gift from the gods, allowing them to carry out their duties without fear. But it only works on the Island."

Skye could understand why the Islanders would need such power. The promised prize of the Festival might seem enticing, but the path towards it was far from simple. Very few even make it off the Island in one piece, let alone reach the Godseye. In fact, throughout hundreds of Festivals, only seven participants had ever achieved that goal.

That meant that most participants who set foot on the Island were risking everything for a fever dream. In other words, desperate. And desperation made people dangerous.

Wynn said, "Do you think we should be making friends?"

“We should,” said Skye. Alliances would be important, and now that dinner was almost over, a few individuals had already begun huddling together, forming small groups.

They got up from their seats and slowly made their way down the aisle between two table columns.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“Who should we start with?” asked Wynn.

Skye scanned the room. Between the storm, the test at the threshold and the overwhelming banquet, she had barely had any time to observe the other participants. A majority of the Festival participants seemed pretty average. Skye had no doubt that many of them were criminals: cutthroats, bigrands and petty thieves. Or simply folks who had no other choice but to be here.

Desperate.

But there were a few individuals who stood out.

At the other end of the room, occupying an entire table by himself, sat a man dressed in pelt and raw hide. The man was huge, far larger than even Ogred had been. His hair hung in messy, oily clumps, obscuring his face. Participants and Islanders alike held their noses as they passed him by, and now that the sweet odours of dinner were abating in this enclosed space, Skye could catch the lingering stench of human waste and blood even from across the hall.

Two tables from the large man, a Sennese woman with dark brown hair sat eating a turkey leg, dressed in a sleeveless silk vest. Bandages coiled around her arms, and a broadsword sat strapped to her back. The woman had a warrior's posture: elegant, relaxed but certainly not vulnerable.

There were a few noteworthy others: a man in a turquoise robe who sat next to a mummified puppet (or at least Skye hoped it was a puppet); an older woman with a monocle, who hadn't seemed to touch her food, and was raptly reading a thick leather-bound tome; a young man with a shaved head and a warrior's body, and countless runes carved into his face, arms, chest and back. Several men in armour, brandishing swords, axes or polearms. Mysterious figures in masks or hooded robes. Sorcerers and their various arcane tools.

And there was one other woman who caught Skye's attention. She sat at the head of the next table, and wore a glossy, scarlet dress with a plunging neckline. It would have been a tad too revealing for Skye’s taste, had she not worn it over a white dress-shirt with a rounded collar. The collar sat, perfectly starched, beneath a jewel-encrusted choker. The woman's skin was so pale that she seemed almost translucent, and her auburn hair was held immaculately in place by an array of golden pins.

Skye noticed that people seemed to be avoiding her, making a concerted effort to distance themselves even if they were just walking by. But it wasn’t her they were trying to keep a wide berth from.

Her entire table was empty, save for a tall, foreboding figure that sat to her right, clad entirely in a sleek suit of armour that was black as pitch. His face was obscured by a hood of dark chainmail and a golden faceplate designed to look like a human skull.

But the skull was not the most disconcerting part of the figure's getup. Around his head, holding the faceplate and hood fast, was a crown of crude long spikes that jutted out in all angles. It was made from the same black metal as the rest of the man's armour, but had tendrils of gold snaking around each spike.

Skye froze. Her blood went cold.

"What's wrong?" said Wynn. She had nearly crashed into Skye when the latter abruptly stopped walking.

"His head," said Skye, her voice soft. "His damn head, Wynn."

Wynn took a look at the armoured figure and gasped.

"It's okay, Skye," she said, stroking her friend's arm. "It's not him."

Of course it wasn't him. Skye knew as much. Her father was still in Azura, doing gods knew what for Boss Mandra and his Reavers. But this man wore a Circlet. That meant the woman beside him was…

Skye said, "Why is he wearing that?"

The woman looked up. Her eyes were a strange shade of brown. They reminded Skye of autumn leaves and dried blood.

"You'll have to be specific," said the woman. Her voice was cool and oddly refreshing, like water from a wellspring.

“You know what I'm talking about,” said Skye. “Why does he have the gods damned Circlet?”

The faintest ghost of a smile flickered over the woman's immaculate face.

“Why?” she said. “He's my slave, of course.”