High up the outer wall, above one of its three mighty gates, the skull of an enormous beast looks down upon the open fields within. Empty eye sockets take in the world below, while a gaping maw, emptied of its razor sharp fangs- long as a man’s arm and capable of piercing stone- grin down at the scattered masses. It hangs there like a trophy, a hundred feet in the air, a sinister reminder aimed not at the beasts outside but the inhabitants below. It is an omen of fear, yes, but also defiance. A lesson to all who see it, of what they fear and what they fight. 

…..

Tristan yanked his head back in time to avoid the full force of the blow, but even the reduced impact sent him reeling. He fought to keep his eyes focused and feet under him as he staggered backward, weakened by glancing blow after glancing blow.

It was a good thing he did, else he might have missed the kick aimed at his side. A timely block kept his ribs from snapping, but its sheer power still managed to force out a pained gasp.

For the first time though, he found himself with a second to breathe. His opponent hadn’t expected the block and let his own momentum wheel him off-balance, giving Tristan enough time to attempt a counterblow. 

His jab was too hurried to cause any real damage, but it made satisfying contact with the taller boy’s cheek, snapping the muscled neck back into a painful looking angle.

Scared of what might happen should he lose this opportunity, Tristan attacked again, left foot careening towards his opponent’s knee. Were he able to cripple the joint, he, at least, might be able to walk out of the fight with four working limbs. 

Things seldom went as well as he planned. His foot made solid contact, and the knee buckled just a little, but it wouldn’t be enough.

Desperate, Tristan readied another blow. This time he struck the stomach, hoping to keep what little momentum he had gleaned. It was pointless. The larger boy was already drawing back his own fist while Tristan’s punch landed unconvincingly.

“Fuck.” He murmured, moments before a heavy fist thundered across the side of his face.

Once again, Tristan staggered backwards, consciousness fading in and out. This time he did fall, landing haphazardly on his knees, face turned away from his opponent. Stunned, he opened his mouth, and a drizzle of blood flowed out, coloring the soil a deep red.

His mind flickered off and on, unsure whether to embrace the darkness. He felt himself collapsing, both physically and mentally, his small body failing him yet again. It made him angry, so very angry. In his head he saw the faces, always the faces. Laughing, shaking their heads, mocking.

Both hands fell to the ground, landing in his own little puddle of blood and dirt. Around him he heard imaginary laughter, hemming him in from all sides. This was the product of his own weakness. He knew that. He had never been strong enough. 

But today would be different. It had to be different.

Reinforced with desperate resolve, he curled his left hand into a fist and turned around, preparing for the inevitable.

He saw Canus, tall and masculine, chiseled face marred only by a grimace and a bruise. His fist was back, promising the embrace of darkness.

As it flew downward, Tristan reacted. He flung his body to the side, barely avoiding the heavy-handed strike. As he dove, he brought his left fist up and outward, releasing the dirt and blood he’d scooped up just a moment before.  

It was a desperate move, and an old favorite, but Canus had been too overcome by bloodlust to expect it. The dirt and blood took him off-guard, forcing him to flinch as it hit his face and eyes.

Beaten body fueled by the same energy as a cornered rat, Tristan bounded from the ground and flew into Canus shoulder first, knocking them both to the dirt. As Canus gasped for breath, Tristan rose to his knees and threw fist after fist onto the boy’s fallen figure.

It seemed like forever passed, but eventually Tristan felt himself rising, lifting from a haze. Beneath him he saw Canus, bloodied and beaten.

Tristan had won.

For a second, he registered only silence. There was just himself, a beating heart, and heavy breaths. Then, he heard the cheering. Looking up, he acknowledged his surroundings for the first time since the fight had begun.

He was kneeling beneath the shadow of the outer wall, a hulking, hundred foot behemoth that towered over all residents of the fourth-ring. Upon it, almost directly above him, he saw the skull of the beast, resting on its eternal perch. Now as ever, it seemed to watch him as he gasped for breath on the dirt field the outer inhabitants liked to use for fights, those empty eyes piercing his soul and chilling his bones. He shook. What a creature it must have been.

There were other, less inanimate things, looking over him as well. Around him were dozens of faces, beaming and grinning, the fight’s spectators. Their smiles were intermixed with loud-clapping and an occasional cheer, provoking a feeling both disorienting and heartwarming. 

With hesitant pride, Tristan raised a tired hand toward the crowd and grinned a bloody grin. He was met with enthusiastic roars. Lifted by the invisible hands of elation, he rose to his feet and stumbled towards the edge of the circle. The crowd parted for him, patting him on the back and jostling his hair.

Step by faltering step, he limped forward, until he almost ran into someone heading the other way. It was a boy his age, tall and handsome with strong features, thick brown hair, and serious eyes. He slapped Tristan on the shoulder as he passed. “Sooner or later they’re going to stop falling for it.”

“Hasn’t happened yet.” Tristan murmured in response, allowing a small smile to show at the sight of a familiar face.

Caius grinned and turned into the circle. Presumably, he was going to check on Canus. 

 Tristan made no attempt to confirm that assumption. Instead, he kept moving forward, enjoying the occasional congratulations as he made it through the crowd.

Upon escaping the throng of people, he eyed his surroundings, looking for something. He didn’t find it, but he did spot something else of interest. A group of girls, standing thirty or so feet away, wearing matching white dresses typical of summer. They had been watching from a slight rise, elevated from the rest of the audience.

The group was laughing and pointing at him, casting meaningful glances at a blushing member amongst them. One of them pushed her to the edge of the huddle, where she cast an angry look backward before turning towards him.

She was pretty, Tristan noted, with long darkish hair and pale skin. He smiled at her, which prompted further laughs from her friends.

“Nice fight.” She stammered out over the accompanying giggles. 

His body groaning with the effort, Tristan managed another smile, which she acknowledged with her own embarassed grin before disappearing back into the group.

Tristan looked up a little longer, easy smile etched onto his bruised face, before shaking his head and turning around. Even with the beating he had taken, this was the best he’d felt in a long while. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention. 

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Spirits high and body sore, he kept limping on, still casting the occasional gaze around to try and spot a face in the crowd.

It found him before he found it. He made it a few more steps until he heard a familiar voice, accented with mock shrillness behind him. “Nice fight.” The girlish tone was followed by a series of exaggerated giggles.

He turned to see Elise, who had snuck up behind him. Her amber eyes, tinted with the usual mocking energy, met his tired gaze, while a lopsided smile betrayed an annoying self-satisfaction. Her hands were fiddling with long, dark hair, tied back into an atypical style. Like the other girls, she wore a long, white dress, but she had rolled up the sleeves to allow for some slight relief from the summer heat. “What do you think?” She asked. “I think I mimicked the tone pretty well.”

 Simultaneously, they turned to the group of girls, whose attention was already fixated on others in the crowd.

Tristan paused for a second, pretending to think. “Your laugh sounds less like a delicate flower and more like a dying mouse, but otherwise you’ve captured the spirit.”

“Oh dear,” Elise murmured, keeping her tone low. “I’ll have to work on that, then.” This time she followed it with a more genuine laugh. 

Tristan tried to let out a chuckle himself, but the attempt sent a throbbing pain across his skull and forced a wince. 

As Elise eyed his pained expression, sudden concern revealing itself through those deep amber eyes, he pointed to a large tree, several yards away and out of the crowd’s view. Stepping over to it, he slumped into the shade. 

Elise stood above him, unwilling to sit and ruin her dress, lest she draw her mother’s ire. Instead, she half-hunched over, shaking her head. “He did a number on you.” She murmured while appraising Tristan’s battered face, which now sported a serious looking purple bruise.

“That’s underselling it.” Tristan weazed out, the pain growing as the adrenaline wore off. He suddenly felt very, very weak. 

Elise touched the bruise with light fingers, and Tristan yanked his head away. Even the delicate touch was deeply uncomfortable. 

“Sorry.” She actually sounded apologetic.

For a short time, Tristan chose to ignore her, trying to regain something of his composure as he stared into the dirt. When he looked back up, he saw that Elise was still watching him, an imperceptible look in her eye. 

“I still don’t get why you needed to fight.” She murmured after a second, seemingly a little reluctant to put the words out there. 

Tristan scoffed. “You know what he called me? I’d lose what little respect I’d earned if I didn’t respond.” He shook his head, nasty look on his face. “Tristan Whoreson, little Tristan Whoreson… got to stick up for myself. I’ve got no choice.”

Elise seemed displeased, both with his tone and the words, and was about to voice that displeasure until someone interrupted her. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the hero of the evening.”

Tristan jerked his head up, expecting some old bully or another, but relaxed once he registered the tambor of the voice. It was only Caius, back from helping Canus. 

 Tristan leaned back against the tree. “Don’t feel like much of a hero.”

“Don’t look like much of one either.” Caius responded with a chortle, silently nodding towards Tristan’s bruised face. 

Tristan let out a slight laugh of his own, careful this time not to aggravate his battered body. Even Elise allowed herself a reluctant grin. 

“How is Canus?” She asked, grin disappearing as quick as it appeared. “I saw you went to help him.”

Caius’ smile rolled off his face. “He’ll recover in time for the hunt. His pride’s probably more hurt than he is.”

Elise seemed relieved, nodding as Caius finished, but Tristan certainly was not. A healthy body and wounded pride was a recipe for a future beating, a lesson he’d learned well. 

He groaned. “Just what I needed to hear.”

“Don’t worry too much about it.” Caius said, noticing Tristan’s apprehension. “You’ll be away from him soon enough. Hunt’s in three days.” 

“You’ve got a lot more confidence in me than I’ve ever had.” Trisan muttered as he started to lift himself from the ground. 

“Always room for optimism.” Caius said, reaching a hand out to help him.

“Yeah, but too much optimism is detrimental.” Elise murmured. “You don't know what can happen out there. I think Canus is the least of your worries.”

Tristan rose to his feet with Caius’ help and tested his balance, largely ignoring Elise’s nervous musings. She’d always been more worried about the hunt than he had ever been. He was anxious about it, sure, but for different reasons. The hunt was every boy’s chance to prove themselves. Surviving was one thing, but felling a beast, as unrealistic as it was to expect, could make him a hero. It was his chance at distinguishment, and he was far more worried about messing it up than he was about dying.   

He caught Caius’ eye as he steadied himself, and could tell that he felt the same. The larger boy had always been friendly enough, certainly kinder to Tristan than most, but he could never pretend to know him that well. In this moment though, it was clear they were thinking the same thing. Elise was worried about them dying. Their worries hinged on much grander things. 

Elise seemed to glean a little of their thoughts and sighed with displeasure. “I’ll never quite get it.” Her tone sounded almost defeated.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Caius said with a kind smile. Tristan nodded in agreement.

Elise looked at both of them and rolled her eyes. “Well,” She said, looking down at Tristan’s beaten form. “Can the prideful warrior carry himself back home, or does he require assistance?”

“Uhhhhhh…”

Elise moved to support him, but Caius quickly intervened. “No need Elise, we’re heading back the same way. I wouldn’t be much of a man if I let you carry him, small as he may be.” He finished with a good-natured laugh directed at Tristan’s scowl.

“Oh.” Elise murmured, surprised, as if she had briefly forgotten Caius was there. “Of course, Caius. Thank you very much.” Whatever confusion had momentarily overcome her dissipated in an instant, replaced with a kind smile. Brushing herself off and rolling down her sleeves, she gestured West. “We should leave now if we want to have any hope of getting back in time for sundown.”

Tristan looked towards the setting sun, framed by the mountains that had protected Varonia for centuries. He nodded. “Good idea.” Then, he leaned on Caius and started walking. 

Behind him, he heard a few of the girls calling out as they left the shadow of the tree. Not to him, no, his moment was past. They were seeking Caius’ attention now, as was the norm. However, Caius paid them no mind. He seldom ever did. Instead, he steadfastly supported Tristan as they headed off. 

Together they walked back, Tristan with his arm around Caius’ shoulders, through the empty fields and roads of the fourth ring, its pastures and crops spreading out as far as the eye could see. In time, they neared their destination, a large farm where a dozen boys, Tristan and Caius among them, worked the open land to provide food for the city’s many inhabitants. 

They stopped a few hundred yards short, and Elise began tidying up, brushing off her dress and straightening her hair into a more unwieldy but more conventional style. As she combed it out, she glanced at the sky, nervous about how much it had darkened. Her mother wouldn’t be happy, Tristan knew.

Elise sighed, accepting the inevitable, and said some quick goodbyes. Before she could leave, however, Caius spoke up. “Are you sure you don’t want us to walk you back?”

She turned, caught off-guard again. Elise rarely walked with anyone besides Tristan, and he never made the offer. 

For a second, she seemed to consider, before smiling and shaking her head. “It wouldn’t be right to drag Tristan all that extra way. Besides, my house is only a short walk. I wouldn’t want to hassle you.” She smiled again, but her eyes were flitting about, as if she felt guilty about turning the offer down.

Caius opened his mouth to protest, before ultimately deciding against it. He nodded, obviously a little displeased, while Tristan hid a slight smile. He knew full well Elise would have never said yes. It was kind of Caius to ask, but bringing two dirt covered boys to the steps of her house would have made things much more difficult. Even if that weren’t the case, she hated being escorted, which was somewhat odd of her, he had always thought, but such was Elise.

“Ah, well,” Caius said, typical charm returning after a brief period of uncertainty. “Do take care, then.”

“I will, Caius. Thank you very much.” She paused. “And Tristan... don’t do anything stupid.”

“No promises.” He said, smirking ever so slightly.

Elise could only sigh. Then, with a smile and a repeat of her goodbyes, she headed off in another direction. Caius and Tristan watched her go and then continued their trek home.

By the time they got there, the sun’s rays were barely peeking above the mountains. Eager to get back before it was fully dark, they hurried by the farmhouse and headed to a small shack to its rear. They actually weren’t allowed to sleep in the farm. Dorian, the overseer, always thought they’d steal something. Not that there was much to take. 

When they finally made it to the building, they wasted no time entering. As they stepped in, they noticed that the building was already darkening and most of the other boys were either lightly talking in small circles or heading to bed. 

Caius slapped Tristan on the shoulder as a form of goodbye and went to join one of the circles. Tristan chose not to follow and headed to his small cot, which he tumbled into with little  grace. In another five minutes he was asleep.