Leonidas snapped back to awareness with a desperate heave of air, pressed his palms against the compact earth, and scrambled to his feet with a surge of adrenaline. His vision was dark with remnant spots from the explosion he had catalyzed, and he could hear a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he staggered upright. His sword was gone from his right hand, and he summoned it back without thinking while trying to force himself to stand upright.

An almost instinctive glance at his HUD told him he’d lost over half his health, and he didn’t need the indicator to know that something was wrong with him. Still, he had a fight to win—and there was no way he’d given up without giving his all. His sword was a reassuring weight in his hands, and he blinked rapidly while trying to use his [Psionic Focus] to supplement his damaged vision.

What he could see of the arena was a small spread of thin columns of smoke surrounding a single larger one at their center, with the smell of burning ozone stark in the area. His vision tilted slightly from nausea, and Leonidas fought to reorient himself when he felt his stance drifting. His eyes blinked rapidly to try to clear the obstructing elements occluding his vision, and he swallowed painfully against the feeling of a heat-scorched throat.

His gaze moved in and out of focus, and Leonidas focused on putting one foot in front of the other while stepping back onto the sand and across the less stable surface of the sandy arena.

A high-pitched ringing in both ears warned him he’d suffered considerable damage to his eardrums, and that it would be affecting his equilibrium; but Leonidas only filed it away and marshaled himself forward with unerring determination. Even in the face of disaster, before this, he’d never let his goals be supplanted by his own failing body—and he wasn’t about to start now.

His eyes moved around the arena, and he saw that the stands themselves were untouched by the explosion he had set off. That was apparently thanks to what appeared to be shimmering barriers of Psi, wrapped over the front of each set of seats in thick enough amounts that even his untrained mind could perceive it with clear ease.

Leonidas momentarily wondered at the source of them, and then chuckled distractedly at his own delirium. There was only one person that could have generated the barriers, and she was standing… Where had she been standing?

“Achilles.”

Ceruviel’s voice pulled at his attention and broke through the ringing in his ears, and Leonidas turned instinctively toward it. He saw Ceruviel moving toward him at a leisurely pace across the sand, with a look of mild concern on her features. The silver-haired duchess regarded him with a raised eyebrow when she drew closer, and her lavender eyes—glowing still—appraised him with a quick once-over.

“Ceruviel?” he asked with a measure of annoyance. “Why are you interrupting my match?”

“Achilles…”

“I have no time for this, Ceruviel,” he said while turning away from her and narrowing his still-afflicted gaze on the arena. “I have to get over there and—”

“Achilles,” Ceruviel said again, “the match is already over.”

Leonidas paused mid-step, and glanced back at the Haelfenn woman.

“What?”

“It’s over,” Ceruviel repeated again, and Leonidas was distantly aware she was speaking English. “The match was called a few moments ago, just before you regained consciousness.”

Leonidas stared at her for a moment, and then turned back to the nearby arena with a frown. The crowd, he noticed distantly, was shockingly silent. “Did I hit her that hard?”

Ceruviel sighed quietly before speaking again. “Look where you were standing.”

Leonidas looked back at her words, and then frowned in annoyance.

“Yes, Ceruviel, it’s grass. I know what grass is. What’s your…?”

His voice trailed off when the realization crashed into him.

He had woken up on grass, not sand. The arena was made entirely of sand up to its boundaries. Beyond that was the grassy earth of the grounds, and more importantly, the elimination zone of the match.

“Fuck,” he said hoarsely. “Fuck!”

Ceruviel said nothing when he raised his sword over his head, and with an angry shout, slammed it against the sand like a club. The anger bled from him like air from a punctured balloon when he did, and he let out a low and discontented sigh.

“What happened?” he asked simply.

“That is something I would like to know,” Ceruviel said in a quiet voice.

“The last thing I remember,” he muttered, “I hit Synthra with an attack—”

“And very nearly blew up the arena in the process, yes.” Ceruviel said with a sigh. “If not for my intercession, you very likely would have killed some of the weaker spectators.”

“I didn’t think it would be that powerful,” he admitted honestly.

“No normal ability should be, when it’s used at level eight,” Ceruviel replied with clear exasperation, “but you are very clearly not just another Untempered Aspirant, Achilles. Whatever you did, it shattered Synthra’s protective shield and very nearly shattered Synthra.”

Leonidas looked up at Ceruviel’s words, and a thread of guilt wound its way through him. He had wanted to defeat the princess, certainly, but not genuinely harm her in any permanent way.

“Is she…?”

Ceruviel shook her head while turning back to look at the sand, and gesturing idly. “Luckily for your immediate lifespan, the girl is a talented magus and managed to expel the vast majority of the reactive force away from herself, though only a second before it would have torn her apart.”

“Oh,” Leonidas said with genuine relief. “Good.”

“‘Good’ he says, as if that covers it,” Ceruviel muttered with a mirthless chuckle.

“Better than the alternative,” he said while glancing at his still-depleted health bar. “And for that matter, probably better than me. I think I’m in shock.”

Ceruviel lifted her hand and a shimmering health potion dropped into it from seemingly nowhere. “Drink,” she commanded simply.

Leonidas wasn’t too proud to accept her offer, and pushed up the shield of his helmet enough to uncork the potion and drink it down. The moment he did, and when the multi-flavored elixir flooded his body, he felt as much as heard bones, tendons, joints, and other parts of himself either repairing, or popping back into proper position from minor dislocations he’d barely even noticed.

“I’m going to need to eat again,” he said after finishing the potion.

“We can deal with that after what comes next.”

Leonidas raised his eyebrow under his helmet and slid the metal back into place when the potion bottle vanished into motes, and his hearing and eyesight rapidly returned enough to normalcy for him to see that several more guild officials had entered the area—and that the audience was both transfixed on him, and on what he could now make out was Synthra and Sinalthria standing with Cerevil at the center of the arena.

“Is there a problem?” he asked with a flicker of anxiety, and a sense of self-preserving caution. “I didn’t break any rules.”

“You didn’t,” Ceruviel said in agreement.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asked warily.

“The problem, Achilles, is that you just forced a prodigy among Sorcerers to the limits of her ability, while not even having undergone your first Temper, and while wielding a magic nobody understands.” Ceruviel said flatly. “Your Affinity is supposed to be Psi.”

“It is Psi,” Leonidas grumbled while looking down at his cracked and scorched breastplate, and realizing how lucky he had been to be wearing the armor in the first place. In something less durable, he’d probably have lost a few vital organs from the damage of the explosion.

“And while that is true,” Ceruviel continued sharply, “Psi doesn’t react with enough volatility to other magic to shatter Draconic Manaforce.”

“What about my identity?” he asked finally. “Am I still—”

“No, you can forget about hiding it. At this point it’ll just be idiotic, and besides, it’s a better debut than most could hope for. The drama of it will cement you in the minds of all present, too.”

“I thought you wanted me to keep our association a secret?” Leonidas asked while Ceruviel started walking, and he fell in behind the shorter—though still tall for her gender—Duchess.

“I did, to avoid the others pulling punches for fear of reprisal. Now, though, it’s moot. You’ll likely never see most of these Aspirants again, given your potential.”

Leonidas sighed at Ceruviel’s words, but couldn’t fault them. She was right.

Most of the people that had participated, with barely a handful of notable exceptions, had been strong speaking relatively—but he had seen firsthand that they lacked meaningful combat experience, and that alone made them a liability in situations he was likely to find himself in as Ceruviel’s Squire.

When the two of them approached Synthra, Sinalthria, and Cerevil; all three turned to face them, and several of the other guild officials almost seemed ready to step forward—until they saw Ceruviel. The moment their eyes fully focused on the Dusk-Lord, all of them went still again, and at her approach even the crowd quietened down rapidly.

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Nobody spoke during their walk over, except for Sinalthria.

“{Is he alright?}” she asked simply, and drew a surprised glance from Synthra when she did.

“{He’ll live,}” Ceruviel said with a slight shrug. “{As expected.}”

Sinalthria turned to Leonidas after Ceruviel’s words, and her eyes were unblinking and intent. “{You nearly killed my daughter, Achilles.}”

Leonidas grimaced under his helmet, and settled into a parade rest instead of bowing or asking for forgiveness. He had a feeling the half-dragon guild mistress wanted neither, and he wouldn’t give it to her even if she did—weak or not, he was nobody’s stooge. Ceruviel’s mentorship was a mutually beneficial arrangement, but this would be different.

“{It was never my intention to do harm to your daughter, Guild Mistress.}” Leonidas said honestly. “{Pinning Synthra down was my only objective, not killing her. Having her on her back would have more than achieved the victory I sought.}”

It was very true, of course. He’d considered that the only way to truly defeat Synthra was through physically overpowering her, or backing her into a completely no-win scenario with his sword at her throat. Pinning her down, in that case, was the only reasonable way to expect that to happen.

To his momentary surprise, Ceruviel, Sinalthria, Cerevil, and every eye in the crowd focused on him at his words—and before Leonidas could say anything more, Synthra broke the silence.

“{You dare?!}” the redhead said shrilly.

“{I only spoke the truth,}” Achilles responded with a flash of irritation, and a surge of annoyance at her continued attitude. She’d already won, whether by technical knock-out or not. It seemed downright ridiculous to keep acting so haughty after the fact. “{Conquering you would have been poetic justice, princess. Your indignation is not and was not my concern, only your surrender to me mattered.}”

“{Oh?}” Sinalthria cut in intently. “{Is that your truth, Achilles?}”

“{Of course it is!}” Leonidas said without hesitation. “{Your daughter, for all her prodigious strength, is too haughty by half, Guild Mistress. Forgive me for saying so, but putting her in her place would have been a satisfaction beyond description.}”

“{Hm...}” Sinalthria said thoughtfully, and while looking at Synthra, who was of a height with or perhaps even slightly taller than her mother. “{Very well. I’ll allow it, if that is your decision.}”

“{MOTHER!}”

“{Thank you, Guild Mistress.}” Leonidas said with genuine gratitude. He hadn’t expected Sinalthria to be so willing to allow a potential rematch, given how overprotective Bardulf had made her out to be, and from what Ceruviel had inferred about his life expectancy as it related to harm befalling Synthra. He wasn’t about to look at a gift dragon in the maw, though. “{I will pursue the matter with absolute dedication. You have my word.}”

A wave of gasps went through the crowd at his declaration, and Leonidas shook his head. If the idea he wanted a rematch shocked them that much, it only further proved their lack of meaningful experience. The idea of so easily letting go of the pounding he owed the redhead Sorceress was antithetical to him. Call it competitive spirit, or simple pride: he wouldn’t be satisfied until she was firmly pinned beneath him.

“{Before we go any further,}” Cerevil cut in a little hesitantly, “{I will now announce the official result.}”

Leonidas sighed at Cerevil’s words, but braced himself without comment.

“{Achilles has lost by ring-out, and despite a mutual loss of consciousness, Synthra is the victor by merit of staying inside the ring in the immediate aftermath of their final clash. As such, I hereby declared that Synthra has taken first place in this year’s Elite Slayer License Trial!}”

A wave of cheers and applause rolled through the crowd, and yet to Leonidas’ surprise, Synthra remained unfazed by the recognition. Instead, she was staring at Leonidas with what he might have charitably called a mix of indignation and, perhaps, overt loathing.

She was so angry, he realized, that her face had turned bright red all the way along her long not-quite-elven ears.

“{As the winner and runner up, it is tradition that you properly introduce yourselves, so that your soon-to-be peers may know you and seek you out in future should they wish to join your party.}”

Leonidas raised his eyebrows at Cerevil’s words, and glanced at Ceruviel, who spoke to him directly in his mind.

+{Name yourself as Achilles, and tell them you are my Squire. They need not know anything else.}+

Leonidas nodded slightly to show he heard her, and walked toward Cerevil.

When he did, he let out a breath and with a flash of Intent, dismissed his [Archon’s Warplate].

The reaction that followed was not what he expected.

* * * * *

Synthra stood in mortified silence while Cerevil spoke, and fought against the furious blush that warmed her cheeks and ears. How her mother had ever entertained the notion of allowing the arrogant imposter to pursue her was beyond her comprehension! Sinalthria had, with no hesitation, given her blessing for a complete stranger to chase after Synthra like it were an arranged betrothal!

Her fingers itched to slap against her cheeks in embarrassment to hide the blush, and she forced herself to grip the fabric of her battle robes and focus on Cerevil instead. At least she would gain something out of this whole mess: she’d get to see the face of her new enemy, and in doing so, perhaps be able to discern exactly which Haelfenn bloodline he hailed from.

There were always tells and markers, from the ear shape and length, to the eye shape, jawline, cheek structure, et cetera. Psionic talent was good too, as it narrowed the scope of her search, though the magic ‘Achilles’ had used to shatter her [Draconic Manaforce] barrier was a question mark her mother had refused to elucidate upon.

Sinalthria knew something. It was clear that her mother had schemed to put Achilles into the same License Test as her, but for what purpose she wasn’t certain. The courting proposal had clearly been as unexpected for Sinalthria as it had been for Synthra, and yet her mother had entertained it!

That only raised even more questions, not to mention the fact that Ceruviel seemed to know the imposter, as well. That had been a rude surprise. When she’d seen her surrogate aunt make her way over to the imposter and greet him for all the world like a distant nephew, she’d begun wondering immediately at their relationship.

Now, with ‘Achilles’ finally being forced to reveal himself to the world, she would finally be able to put an identity to her loathing.

When his armor flashed away in a crackle of scarlet lightning, Synthra blinked her eyes against the momentary burst of radiance—and then, the instant she saw him, felt her heart stop.

He was as tall as his armor had led her to believe, but that was the only thing that was within her estimation.

Achilles stood just over two meters tall, based on the measurement system she preferred, or over six and a half feet based on local nomenclature. His hair, which fell in wavy strands of jet black to his shoulders, framed a pair of eyes as deep and blue as the sky above her head. His jawline was strong and pronounced, his shoulders broad, and he had visible musculature on his arms, legs, and under the stylish black and silver attire he wore.

His movements were as assured as they had been on the arena, but without the armor, she could see the smaller details; the way he held himself like a general, or a prince, approaching a subject. The way his shoulders never hunched, never bowed, and showed no hint of submission. The way he held his chin up slightly while he walked, and the depth of cold intensity in his eyes that spoke to immense experience.

Achilles, she realized, was nothing like the rest of them. This was an Aspirant, a Knight, that had seen war. She could see it as clear as day, and she knew with instinctive awareness that the rest of their Trial class could as well. They had been in the Arena not with another inexperienced trainee, but with a honed warrior.

Most of all, she noticed he was completely, entirely, and without any shadow of a doubt Terran.

When he came to a halt beside Cerevil, and his eyes met hers fully, Synthra felt her heart thundering in her breast, and her breath hitch in her throat. She had prepared herself for so many scenarios, so many truths, and convinced herself of so many different realities: he was an imposter, a noble, a braggart, a fiend, a leche, a haughty Haelfenn with more pride than sense…

In none of her wildest theories was he, in fact, a full-blooded Terran.

In none of her most remote possibilities was he a perfect fit for his namesake.

Even Cerevil seemed momentarily stunned, and it wasn’t until Achilles turned to him and raised an eyebrow that the guild official remembered himself and spoke. “{Ah. Achilles. Good to finally see your face. I didn’t expect you to be…}”

“{Terran?}” Achilles asked in his usual baritone, and yet somehow it was different without his helmet. Smoother, warmer, and more commanding. Synthra felt her hands shaking and folded them tightly at the base of her spine to control them. “{My apologies for any deception, unintended or otherwise. I was under instruction to reveal nothing of my identity if it could be avoided.}”

“{I see,}” Cerevil said slowly. “{The Guild Mistress is, of course, to be obeyed.}”

“{Oh, no, it was not Sinalthria.}” Achilles said with a laugh that sent lightning down Synthra’s spine. Mortification bloomed afterward, and she felt herself redden further. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was his laugh affecting her? Just because he was Terran?

No, a traitorous voice in her mind whispered. Because he was so good, you would never have believed he could be Terran.

“{Allow me to properly introduce myself,}” he continued while turning to the crowd, whom Synthra could see were watching with as much attention as they might give to a riveting theater drama. “{I am Achilles, of Terra—and I am the Squire of Ceruviel Latherian.}”

Silence greeted his words, and Synthra felt her jaw nearly drop.

A glance at her mother’s best friend showed the Dusk-Lord of Dawnhaven smirking in amusement, and more than one pair of disbelieving eyes—including Cerevil’s—looked between the two of them. The murmurs of the crowd were already building when he spoke.

“{And what level are you currently, Achilles?}” Cerevil asked at last.

At this question, Synthra felt herself grow more focused. It was important to know that, she knew, simply so that she and the others could mentally measure his talent against their own.

“{I am not sure I am allowed to say,}” he said with a slight laugh.

That would make sense. He was probably a little stronger than would normally be allowed. It would explain many things, including how easily he feigned weakness.

“{Go ahead, Achilles.}” Ceruviel said, and cut through the annoyed murmurs of the crowd like a knife. “{You may as well.}”

Synthra smirked to herself slightly. No escaping it, it seemed.

Achilles shrugged at Ceruviel’s words and faced the crowd.

“{I am currently halfway through—}”

Here we go, Synthra thought eagerly.

“{—Level Eight.}” Achilles finished simply.

Synthra’s smile froze on her face.

“{You…}” Cerevil swallowed. “{You mean to tell me, Achilles, that you brutalized the other Aspirants, defeated every other contender, and nearly defeated Lady Synthra… and you aren’t even Tempered?}”

“{Yes,}” Achilles said with a shrug. “{I am Level Eight.}”

Synthra, like the rest of the crowd, looked past him to Ceruviel, whose smirk only widened.

The Duchess simply nodded in confirmation.

Synthra’s ears rang with sudden noise when Ceruviel nodded, and she felt herself grow cold with shock. He was Level Eight. He’d defeated the best of them, fought his way to the top of their License Trial, and almost defeated her in single combat, if not for a technical defeat… and he was Level Eight. Achilles was not simply a skilled or talented warrior, but had the potential to be the single most terrifying combatant in the guild’s history.

And at last, her mother’s willingness for him to pursue her made sense.

“{Fuck.}” Synthra said simply into the silence, and seemingly broke the spell.

The outrage that followed her poignant observation was deafening.

image [https://i.imgur.com/EaxfcB8.png]

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

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Leonidas Very Rough Concept Art