Leonidas sighed when Zalaza hit the sand for the sixth time, and glanced over at Cerevil. For all that his raging mana sang, cajoled, and demanded that Leonidas tear her apart—there was a limit to his taste for brutality against someone whose only crime had been pettiness. The first three times he’d knocked her down had largely deflated the mer-elf’s capacity to provide a challenge, and at the current stage of their bout he had gone from fighting her to simply battering her.

It was inordinately one-sided.

Cerevil seemed to notice as well, because the Guild officiant stepped forward into the arena and looked at Zalaza’s struggling form with a mix of pity and consideration. “{Do you wish to continue, Aspirant Zalaza?}”

“{Yes! I can still f-fight!}” Zalaza rasped around a mouthful of blood from Leonidas’ last kick to her abused sternum.

Leonidas sighed when Cerevil turned to him with a grimace.

“{She wishes to continue,}” Cerevil stated stoically.

“{You know how this will end,}” Leonidas replied flatly.

“{Nevertheless, she has made her choice. As an aspiring Guild member, you must honor her courage.}”

“{Then I will end it,}” Leonidas said curtly, and turned away from the Haelfenn proctor.

Zalaza pulled herself to her feet at his approach, and Leonidas looked down at her from behind his helmet.

“{Yield,}” he said with no real expectation of compliance. “{I will only offer once.}”

In response, Zalaza rose to her feet unsteadily, and raised her rapier in front of her.

“{I will ne—}”

Leonidas thrust forward with his Psiblade the moment she started to speak, and rammed it home into her gut.

Quiet gasps of shock echoed from the stand, and he heard more than one person shouting for a healer or intercession when he did. Nothing happened, however, and Leonidas frowned grimly under his helmet.

Had they all so easily forgotten what Cerevil had said? Anything short of death, including dismemberment or disembowelment, was allowed.

Zalaza vomited bluish blood and bile, and the frantic voices in the crowd pitched upward in hysteria. Still Cerevil did nothing, and neither did any of the other Guild officiants—including Celia.

“{Next time,}” Leonidas said softly, “{take the surrender.}”

Before Zalaza could do more than to stare at him with glazed eyes, Leonidas shifted his grip and tore the blade out of her left—his right—side in a spray of gore and viscera. Screams tore from the throats of several watching members of the crowd, and Leonidas heard others among them vomit loudly in response to the sight, and much to the annoyance of their contemporaries.

“{Mender!}” Cerevil called with remarkable steadiness after Leonidas stepped back. “{We need a Mender!}”

One of the green-uniformed elves at the edge of the arena was already running forward, and Leonidas re-summoned his sword to his hand while he turned and walked back toward the stands. The blood that had stained it moments earlier vanished when he did, and it reappeared in his hand as if the stains had never happened.

It was a useful trick of the summoning, and one that made keeping the sword clean relatively simple. Once it was back in hand, he sheathed it on his right hip and ascended the stairs to rejoin Bardulf.

Eyes followed him while he walked, and nobody was laughing this time. When he reached the Shadowblade and sat down, the blond turned to him with an appraising and wary look, and Leonidas simply shrugged in response.

“{She would not yield.}”

“{As I saw,}” Bardulf confirmed slowly. “{Though your particular act of telling her to get up was…}”

“{A show,}” Leonidas said quietly. “{One that worked. I have no time for this trial to drag on, and now they will see what I am like as an opponent. Many of the Aspirants here have never seen true death.}”

His eyes moved across the crowd and settled on the mer-elf, who was still alive, though the Mender seemed to be working overtime with warm green light and applications of a Health Potion to keep her that way.

“{You think some of them will drop out, rather than face you?}” Bardulf queried.

“{No. I think some of them will drop out rather than risk the same result against anyone including me,}” Leonidas clarified. “{It is one thing to lose, but to be so thoroughly handled will shatter their confidence. Many of them cannot face the prospect of that pain nor that defeat psychologically, and I doubt I am the only one here to be feared.}”

Leonidas turned his head when he said it, and fixed his gaze on the woman that looked like she was Sinalthria’s younger sibling, seated in the stands to the right of their own. The redhead, it turned out, was staring right back at him—and when she saw him turn toward her, her burning golden eyes narrowed and her lips curled downward into a frown.

Leonidas raised his eyebrows under his helmet at her expression.

“{Ah.}” Bardulf said with a wry chuckle, “{I see you’ve caught the attention of the Guild’s Princess.}”

“{Princess?}” Leonidas asked without taking his eyes off the redhead.

“{You didn’t know?}” Bardulf asked with a laugh. “{Oh, my friend, that woman right there? That is Sinalthria’s daughter, Synthra.}”

“{I see,}” Leonidas said while matching gazes with the disapproving redhead. “{I can see the resemblance, at least.}”

There was no lie in that statement, of course. Though Synthra lacked the overt scales and more draconic features her mother held, the pair of golden horns topping her head were matched by a body that men would walk into walls for, which was very much in keeping with what he recalled of Sinalthria.

The overall effect of her beauty was only enhanced by her attire; a set of crimson robes that flattered her figure, and which were gilded by golden adornments for pauldrons, vambraces, and the lining of her robe.

“{She may look nice to the eyes, friend Achilles, but that is not the kind of temptation you want to risk. Synthra’s every bit her mother’s daughter, and she’s brutalized plenty who’ve mistaken her pride of appearance for a a salacious invitation.}”

“{Noted,}” Leonidas said seriously, though he didn’t take his eyes off of Synthra. There was something about the woman, beyond her shining topaz eyes or the way her faintly sunkissed skin seemed unreasonably smooth, which trapped his attention. It wasn’t lust, nor desire—though she was both beautiful and alluring. There was something else about Synthra that Leonidas couldn’t name, a quality that kept his focus and stole his attention from everything else.

It was like he was missing something in plain sight, and couldn’t figure it out.

“{Ah. It looks like they’ve finally sorted poor Zalaza out,}” Bardulf said from beside him. “{Quite a number you did on that one. The ‘get up’ performance was very appropriately menacing.}”

The redhead turned away when Bardulf spoke, and directed her gaze back toward the arena floor with an air of contemptuous dismissal. Leonidas let his own linger for a moment longer, and then with a twinge of regret turned back to the arena as well, where Zalaza was being assisted out of the ring by a pair of staffers.

“{Looks like we’re going to continue!}” Bardulf said cheerfully, and rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

As if hearing him, Cerevil spoke.

“{The matches will continue! I will—}”

“{Hold on! You have to punish that motherless bastard!}” One of Zalaza’s mer-elf companions said, while standing and pointing angrily at Leonidas. “{That brute ravaged her! This cannot stand, proctor! There must be—}”

“{The rules clearly stated that anything but death was permitted,}” Cerevil cut across her firmly. “{Aspirant Achilles offered Aspirant Zalaza the right to surrender, and she refused it. The consequences of that refusal spoke for themselves.}”

“{But that’s—!}”

“{Did you think this was a game?}” Cerevil asked in a harsher voice. “{Did you think this would be a simple matter of idle sparring and amusing exchanges? This is a Trial of Worth! This is an Adventurer Guild License Test!}” Cerevil’s gaze swept over the stands, and Leonidas shifted his eyes to take in the reactions of the observers.

There were some, like Bardulf, Synthra, and himself who were visibly excited, bored, or unreadable in that order—but so too were there many that suddenly looked nervous, and perhaps more than a little uncertain.

Leonidas looked back down at Cerevil when the elf resumed speaking, and he smiled at what he discerned was happening.

“{There is no room out there, in the wilds, for cowardice! If you do not have the stomach to continue, then announce your surrender when I call on you. You will give your place to your opponents, and we can only pray that they, in turn, do not prove to be as weak-willed as those of you that thought the Adventurer’s Guild—}” he emphasized the words with a growl “{—induction would be a walk through the grove!}”

Cerevil’s right hand raised, and he slammed his armored fist into his breastplate while he continued.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“{Adventurers deal with life and death every single day that they leave the safety of Dawnhaven’s walls, and if you are not prepared for that responsibility, then it is better for us and everyone else that you be honest about it! Preferably before you run screaming from combat, and leave your Party to die!}”

“{How cunning,}” Leonidas said with a chuckle. “{Cerevil used me to cull the ranks.}”

“{Ah…}” Bardulf said with a sound of realization, and a subsequent grin. “{How cheeky of him.}”

“{It makes perfect sense, though, does it not?}” Leonidas continued with a nod around at the stands nearby. “{What he says is true, after all. These are the peers we will look to for the formation of parties during Delves. It stands to reason that the Guild would want to maximize potential survivability, especially with how new the Incursion is.}”

Bardulf let out a hum of agreement, but didn’t speak, due in large part to Cerevil continuing.

“{Now! We have our next match. Alexander against William!}”

“{I up give! I up give!}” one of the named men, a young human—likely a native, from Leonidas’ interpretation of his clumsy Haelfennyr—with brown hair said immediately. “{I no fight. Back next time!}”

Leonidas shook his head at the teen’s overt cowardice, and then caught himself.

It was easy for him to dismiss the comparative child, after five years fighting the forces of Hell—but would he have truly been so different were roles reversed? Could he throw the brand of cowardice on another, instead of recognizing the courage it took to admit you were in over your head?

If more had been like him on Elatra, he thought to himself silently, there would have been far fewer losses, and far fewer grieving families.

When the jeering started, Leonidas turned his armored head to glance across the stands, and then promptly spoke up.

“Good on you for knowing your limits!” he proclaimed clearly, loudly, and firmly. “I say this with sincerity: it is a fool that walks into danger, knowing he is unprepared to face it. It is a courageous man that admits when he is weak, and strives to better himself and prepare for the task at hand.”

Leonidas felt a flush of embarrassment fill his cheeks at his impromptu speech, and he heard Bardulf holding back laughter at his side, but soldiered on. It had to be said, and even if he sounded like he was indulging in the LARP his damned parents had named him for, he knew it was the right thing to do.

“Failing to prepare is preparing to fail and you, friend, have avoided that common error! Well done, I say, and shame on the rest of you that cannot see his wherewithal for the valuable insight it is!”

Leonidas promptly sat down after that, and a ripple of murmurs spread through the assembled, with several of them snorting in derision at what he said.

“{...a self-righteous blowhard…}”

“...melodramatic loser, dude, what the f…”

“{...believe he’s so full of himself…}”

“...commander roleplay over there…”

“{Don’t let them get to you, Achilles.}” Bardulf said bracingly, while the boy who’d called out his surrender settled back into his seat, and gave Achilles a nod of thanks and an awkward wave of his hand as well. “{They know you’re right, it’s just hard to admit it. Trust me, I get—}”

“{Achilles spoke the truth,}” Cerevil cut in and silenced the dissenting crowd. {“Perhaps out of turn, but the truth nonetheless: this path is not for the ill-prepared. Courage alone will not let you survive the perils of an Adventurer’s life, and you must be aware of your own limitations.}”

The elf turned toward the brown-haired boy, and gave him a bracing thumbs up—clearly something he’d learned from the natives, given how weirdly awkward its delivery was. “{William may have chosen to surrender, but he did so in full awareness of his own limits and that, Aspirants, is the mark of a good Adventurer.}”

Silence followed Cerevil’s words and Leonidas observed the stands for the reactions. Expressions ranged between thoughtful, bored, considering, and even worried while he looked around, and he wondered whom it was that would break first.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

“{I withdraw for this round!}” A pretty blonde said in his own set of stands from behind him.

“{Me as well!}” A black-haired Haelfenn declared in the stands opposite.

“I withdraw!” One of the only other Terrans called out nervously.

“{And I, too, withdraw!}” A cultured looking gentleman with cat-like features declared solemnly. “{At least for this year.}”

Several more voices joined the rest, and Leonidas resisted the urge to chuckle. It certainly made his life easier to not have to sit through pointless bouts, but there was something to be said for too many people dropping as well.

Of the close to fifty that occupied the stands, less than thirty remained in contention after all was said and done. There were less than thirty matches remaining as a result, even while including the very likely winner versus winner rounds, where before there had likely been close to sixty.

Cerevil was silent as if tallying after all the surrenders, and then finally spoke when he seemed to be done.

“{Your surrenders are noted, and your self-awareness does you credit.}” The elf nodded firmly around the stands, and then let out a sigh. “{Now, back to business! For the next match for the remaining Aspirants, we will have… Balthazar against Synthra!}”

Leonidas raised his eyebrows, and Bardulf sagged in the seat beside him.

“{I was worried I’d have to fight her!}” the Shadowblade said with notable relief.

“{Are we really out of any names starting with something before ‘S’?}” Leonidas asked in genuine surprise, and blinked when a massive Orc hit the sands after jumping from the stands. He was wearing massive plates of reinforced steel, and wielded one of the largest axes Leonidas had ever seen. The big green bastard had to have been easily over seven feet tall, too.

“{There were a lot of surrenders,}” Bardulf said with a shrug and no further questioning. “{This match should be good, though. Balthazar’s been making a name for himself in the pre-show games at the Arena. He may give the Princess a run for her money.}”

Leonidas’ eyes moved to look at Synthra at the same time as Bardulf spoke, and he watched the redhead languidly stride to the steps of her seats—her entire row was deserted, he noticed immediately—and descend them amid the movements of her silken attire. The red fabric swished with each movement of her generously toned legs, and bared enough skin with each step to almost be distracting.

That was very likely a tactic, Leonidas noted to himself. It was easy to underestimate an opponent that seemed vulnerable, exposed, or otherwise superficial. There was always the possibility Synthra was simply an exhibitionist, but he suspected differently.

The woman seemed far too cold for that.

When she reached the Arena, Synthra took up position opposite the orc, and the material of her clothing fell into a more conservative pattern of obfuscation, veiling her body all the way down to her golden sandals.

“{Mobility,}” Leonidas said suddenly. “{She wanted mobility.}”

“{What?}” Bardulf asked at his side.

“{Just watch,}” Leonidas said while shaking his armored head.

“{Aspirants ready!}” Cerevil called loudly once both Synthra and Balthazar had taken position.

Balthazar hefted his immense greataxe and held it up before him in a two-handed grip, while settling his weight into a low stance. Synthra extended her right hand, and pulled what looked like an elaborate cruciform sword-hilt from her waist. A moment later, a conflagration of fire erupted from its length and formed into a thick and radiant broadsword.

Despite being made of flames, it maintained its shape with perfect adherence.

“{Aspirants salute!}” Cerevil barked at them both.

Balthazar lifted his greataxe high in salute, and Synthra snapped her firesword up in a pose-perfect salute, which strangely seemed entirely sincere. Despite her air of haughty disinterest or cold superiority, there seemed to be a genuine belief in the honor of what was to happen when Synthra gave her respect to Balthazar.

Leonidas filed that away.

“{Aspirants begin!}”

Balthazar erupted forward with an air-shaking roar the moment that Cerevil gave the command, and moved with respectable speed despite his immense size. The armored orc swung his greataxe overhead and, with a veteran’s accuracy, slashed down toward Synthra in a clear desire to bisect the woman at the waist.

Except Synthra was already gone before the greataxe made contact.

The redhead’s silks fluttered around her body while she smoothly danced away from the descending weapon toward Balthazar’s rear, and scored two red-hot lines of damage on Balthazar’s rib armor for his trouble while she passed.

The orc roared again and turned, attacking her with a backswing that used the flat of his weapon’s head like a bludgeon.

Synthra bent backward with incredible control to let the greataxe pass her by, and thrust her left hand outward. A jet of compressed flame erupted from her palm, and she boosted away from the inevitable return swing to flank Balthazar’s back side once again.

Another pair of slashes crossed the back of his cuirass, and the orc howled at the stench of his own skin burning under the superheated plate.

“{I didn't suspect she’d be an Agility type,}” Bardulf said with interest.

“{She is not,}” Leonidas said while focusing on the fight. “{Not even close.}”

“{What do you mean?}”

“{Just watch,}” Leonidas said simply.

Balthazar staggered around in the sand to try to find Synthra, and the redhead dodged nimbly away each time he did, and left another line of heat on his body with every movement. The pair were less fighting, and more playing a delicate balance: Synthra only needed to take one hit for it to do extreme damage, but Balthazar needed to land that hit—and that, so far, was proving unfeasible for the orc.

“Gorok nik var’thos!” Balthazar bellowed abruptly, and discharged a wave of brown mana into the sand. The moment he did, it caused the grains around Synthra’s feet to suddenly snap together into a prison from one second to the next.

Leonidas’ eyes narrowed, and Bardulf cheered beside him.

The look on Synthra’s face, however, told him the result was already decided.

The redhead, for all her elegant movement, was bored.

Balthazar lifted his greataxe to swing, and Synthra raised her left hand.

“{Fourth Draconic Art,}” she said in a voice that was one part sultry sorceress, one part cold noblewoman while staring up at the descending greataxe, “{Infernokill Pyrebloom.}”

Synthra snapped her fingers.

Balthazar didn’t have time to do more than grunt in surprise.

A sudden whine of noise filled the air, each of the burning sword-strokes on the orc’s armor flashed white, and then a pillar of flame consumed the towering warrior in an explosion of power. A blast wave hit the stands with thunder and force, and Leonidas felt himself pushed back in his seat by the expulsion of primordial fury.

Balthazar screamed in a voice that was far too like a towering pig for Leonidas’ liking, and he heard cries of terror echo across the stands as others felt both the force and the heat behind the attack.

Synthra, meanwhile, simply extricated herself from the sand and dismissed her flaming blade with casual disinterest. She turned away as the flames cut out, and Balthazar collapsed onto his back with an echoing boom of impact.

His armor had been scorched, his axehead had melted, and his flesh—where it was visible—had been blistered and cracked. Interestingly, the sand below the orc had turned to glass—which implied, at least to Leonidas, that Synthra’s actual power had been held back.

“{Mender! Summon the Menders!}” Cerevil shouted, while staring at the ruined remains of the orc. “{Summon a Mender!}”

Most importantly, though, the orc was still alive. Leonidas could tell from the subtle glow of his mind, which had yet to fade. That inferred something even more worrisome about the buxom redhead sorceress: she was perfectly in control of how much damage she had dealt. If she had wanted to kill the orc, the glassed sand and melted weapon was proof enough she could have.

While the Menders attended to the now-spasming orc, Leonidas followed Synthra while she languidly made her way back to the stands, and nobody would meet her gaze.

The Guild Princess’ topaz gaze turned to him, and their eyes locked for a moment.

The message in her stare seemed simple enough to understand.

You’re next.

image [https://i.imgur.com/pfyd8cz.png]

Rough Concept Art of Synthra