“I must say, I haven’t been impressed by the [Gladiators] of Illd’Or. Put a sword in my hand and I’d cut them all down like vines.”

The voice was that of Ellsworth, nephew to the Warden of Aonenbridge. His sentiment had remained the same all night, but Finn had long since learned the value of sifting through his cousin’s words for meaning. The flicker in Ellsworth’s eyes, the flame that burned hotter each time the trumpets sounded, told more of the truth. Finn opened his mouth to respond, but his words were swept away by the roar of the crowd as a new silhouette appeared at the tunneled entrance to the pits, and a fresh [Gladiator] rushed onto the sands below.

His name was Dekker. He was local, the first [Gladiator] of Aonenbridge to ascend to the [Sand Grade]. At nearly seven feet tall, he loomed as a colossus—a veritable mountain of a man, down to the painted brilliance of his face and chest. Styled in the proud verdant colors of Aonenbridge, even his beard bore shades of green upon green, hanging thick, matted, and mossy. He carried a large wooden shield in his right hand, and a warhammer in his left. The shield had recently been bronzed with the crest of the Allied Cities of Emelandra, and Finn recalled the hammer being used to reduce stone walls to rubble and dust over the past year as the pits were restored. He shuddered to think what such a weapon could do to a man.

Dekker’s tether followed into the pit unobtrusively. Already a small man, he was made to seem even smaller through the comparative bulk of his master. From the Apex, the supreme vantage point in the arena, Finn struggled to see any defining features beyond the tether’s generic pale skin and chalk-white eyes.

The Illd’Orians came next—master first, tether behind. The Illd’Orian tether had the same pale skin and eyes, but the first thing Finn noticed were the scars. There did not seem to be an inch of exposed skin which had not been cut, healed over, cut again, in a seemingly unending cycle over years. He appeared scarcely human, a shadowy imitation, and a stark contrast to his master, the [Gladiator]. Slender and lithe, dressed in pale golden hues, the Illd’Orian [Gladiator] would have fit in at a royal court and seemed incongruous on the sands. Not a single strand of his hair stood out of place. His skin was unblemished, his goatee fashionably twirled and sharpened to a point. He carried twin daggers, more akin to cleavers than swords, and no shield. A chorus of boos rang out around the arena at the sight of this quintessential Illd’Orian arrogance.

Ellsworth snorted. He wheeled around in his seat, his [Warrior] braid accidentally whipping Finn across the face. Finn scowled and followed his cousin’s gaze. Behind them sat the other nobles and [Noblemen] of Aonenbridge, their faces flushed with the gift of Illd’Orian wine. Though the histories would describe the Aonens as a rigid people, they now sat smoking, gambling, and otherwise drunk on a lust for violence that the night had only begun to quench.

The tethers at their masters’ sides stood solemnly, and most appeared faded, washed out. Finn had wondered many times if Omri—his own tether since the age of four—would one day begin to fade in the same way, but it had always been difficult to imagine. Although Omri was only two years older than Finn, his unwavering air of youthfulness was considered irregular for a tether.

“There he is, the little rat,” Ellsworth whispered at Finn’s side.

Lucien, Third [Mage] of Illd’Or and one of only two Illd’Orians present in the Apex—the rest of their company scattered among the local crowd in the stands—had stepped out for a moment and was now returning to his seat. He froze when he noticed Ellsworth staring at him. He met the glare with disdain, but, for what felt like the first time that night, did not rise to the goading. Adjusting the glowing scepter at his side, he sat, eyes fixed resolutely on the pit below.

“Prick,” Ellsworth muttered. Then, turning back, he clapped Finn on the shoulder. “My money is safe on this bout, little lord. I’ve seen Dekker turn a man’s head into soup. His ascension to the [Sand Grade] tells us all we need to know. This one’s a clear victory for Aonenbridge.”

Finn wondered if he should remind Ellsworth that the opponent was also of the [Sand Grade], and, judging by the scars his tether carried, had been for some time. Dekker was a powerful man, but the Illd’Orians were trained and had come prepared to slice through powerful men, which they had been doing all night with apparent ease. He chose to stay silent. Losses, in any case, both in the pit and his purse, would do little to quell Ellsworth’s pride.

It’s the wine, Finn thought to Omri. Wine feeds patriotism.

Omri chuckled.

Dekker was pacing in the center of the pit and seemed on the verge of salivation as he eyed his opponent. His tether had already been dismissed and stood waiting in their corner. The Illd’Orian—languid and unhurried—stood aside for a time, exchanging final thoughts with his own tether. With their heads brought together, nearly touching, Finn noted that master and tether had an extremely similar build, like brothers—twins, even—and briefly wondered if the two had been related. Before, of course.

The crowd had begun growing restless, a new round of boos setting in, and finally the Illd’Orian dismissed his tether with a wave of the hand and approached his adversary, meeting Dekker’s glower with a faint flash of amusement. The two men bowed stiffly, then turned to face the Apex.

Lord Yoquin, youngest son of Duke Lonnais of Illd’Or, lowered his cup and approached the balcony which overlooked the pit. His tether, a frail-looking man of middle years, followed silently, a look of concentration on his face.

Yoquin raised his arms wide, and the tether stiffened.

[Silence] began to spread through the arena, the sound of five hundred Aonenbridge locals gradually reduced to a hum. With an air of satisfaction, Yoquin began to speak.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Fine people of Aonenbridge!” he called. His voice was magnified so as to reach the farthest corners of the arena. His tether’s expression of concentration slowly began transforming into one of discomfort, a bead of perspiration crawling down the side of his face. “I thank you for the warm welcome I have received tonight, and congratulate you on a fantastic inaugural event as brave [Gladiators] from the town of Aonenbridge and the city of Illd’Or christen the new Aonenbridge pits with their blood and valor!”

The hum of the crowd was becoming audible again. Yoquin’s [silence] had already begun to wane. His tether grimaced, then steadied himself with a hand on the balustrade. The [silence] took hold again.

“I only hope,” Yoquin said, raising his voice louder, “that this bit of divertissement has, even for a moment, succeeded in taking your minds off certain—dare I say—tragedies that have plagued your town over the past few months. Aonenbridge’s pain is Illd’Or’s pain, I can assure you. I also hope,” he continued without pause, “that the representative gladiatorial class of Illd’Or have lived up to your expectations. They were all, as you might know, hand-picked by my father, the Duke Lonnais of Illd’Or, as an apology for his absence tonight, which he sorely regrets. I can offer you one more contest as consolation for my father’s absence: the much anticipated main event!”

The crowd began to drown out Lord Yoquin’s words again, with the night officially reaching its zenith. Few seemed to care about the absence of Duke Lonnais of Illd’Or, and fewer still, Finn thought harshly, seemed in dire need of help forgetting tragedies plaguing Aonenbridge. He glanced across the Apex, to the dais where his sister-in-law was seated, surrounded by her usual group of attendants, and saw that Lady Arabella’s jaw was clenched. His eyes were drawn to the empty seat at her side, an open space which, by her command, was to remain vacant, as it now had for nearly six months. Let Zendar’s absence stand out like a sore thumb, she seemed to be saying. Let none forget.

Finn felt a tightening in his chest, a twisting.

A sudden wave of [silence] tore him from his reverie. Lord Yoquin had raised his arms higher and order had immediately been restored. An impressive display of power, although Finn was sure he’d seen Yoquin’s tether sway.

Yoquin held out a hand behind him, aware that the time for speeches was over.

“Bring me the flame!” he called.

A [servant] shuffled across the floor and handed Yoquin a gilded torch, which he held high. The crowd watched, transfixed, their attention drawn more effectively than it had been by his [silence].

The brimming pool of murky liquid beneath the Apex, the source which fed the ducts lining the pit, seemed to simmer, as if a sentient response to the closeness of the flame.

The [Gladiators], Finn saw, stood frozen, the grips on their weapons firm. Their tethers had stiffened, ready.

“It is my great honor, ladies and gentlemen,” Yoquin continued, gesturing with his free hand to the larger of the two men, “to introduce the first of our combatants: the pride of Aonenbridge, Dekker, the Sandstorm!”

The Sandstorm? Finn thought to Omri.

New name to honor his ascension to the [Sand Grade], I presume, Omri thought back.

Dekker had raised his hammer high above his head and was leading an infectious chant which called for the castration of his opponent. Large trails of spittle spilled from his mouth and landed on his bristly beard. The crowd continued edging past the barriers of [silence], and this time Finn was sure he’d seen Lord Yoquin’s tether sway. Lord Yoquin seemed not to notice.

“Yes, the Sandstorm is a formidable foe,” Yoquin called, once Dekker lowered his hammer and a semblance of order was restored, “but let us not be so quick to disregard his opponent, a veteran, formerly of the [Sky Grade], currently riding a sixteen-fight win-streak and undefeated in the [Sand Grade]: Ser Capulet, the Crimson King!”

Ser Capulet remained expressionless, his concentration unaffected by the boos that followed. Lord Yoquin lifted his remaining [silence] with a flourish of the hand, and unrestrained pandemonium erupted without warning, causing a few in the Apex to jump. His tether stood motionless for a moment, an extinguished, shadowy look in his eyes.

Yoquin turned from the balustrade and approached Lady Arabella. Her attendants made way for him. She watched him come, stone-faced.

“My lady,” he said to her, in a gentle voice. “To honor your husband, and to honor you, the flame is yours. We wait for your benediction.”

“They speak about your brother as if he’s dead,” Ellsworth snarled.

Finn did not respond. He watched Lady Arabella. He thought he saw a moment of doubt, a shade of hesitation before she took the torch from Yoquin’s hands, but when the warm glow of the flame shone before her eyes, he could see that it had done nothing to thaw the ice within. A memory resurfaced then, the echo of a young woman who radiated warmth, whose eyes would sparkle and crinkle at the edges with her laughter, a laughter which would cascade through the halls of Aonen Keep like the sweetest music. But there was none of that joy in her face now. It all seemed to have been wiped away, as she rested her gaze on Lord Yoquin. And then, from across the room, on Finn.

Finn flinched.

The twisting in his chest was back, like a white-hot knife. He noticed other eyes following Lady Arabella’s, Lord Yoquin’s among them. The lord of Illd’Or’s expression was blank, then curious, as he stared at Lord Finric, youngest son of the Warden of Aonenbridge.

The younger brother of Lord Zendarus, who had been taken.

Finn steadied himself in his seat and turned away, trying to focus on something else, anything else. The [Gladiators] on the sands were a blur. The crowd, who hadn’t yet noticed a lapse in proceedings, who could not know what it meant, were still in a frenzy as if from a world away.

She blames me, Finn thought to Omri. He hadn’t meant to say it, but the words escaped him as if torn from his chest.

No, Omri thought back. Don’t say that. She just…

In his head, he heard Omri continue, denying his master’s words as he’d done a thousand times over the last six months. But Finn had not believed these words the first time he’d heard them, did not believe them now, and so they resonated through his head and faded away, devoid of meaning.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Arabella rise. There was a violent throbbing in his ears as she approached the balustrade. She had been summoned for this, to fulfill her husband’s duty, his dream of reopening the pits, and she would fulfill it. Still, she held the flame Lord Yoquin had handed to her at a length from her body, as if an insult. The air in the arena seemed to pulse as the crowd watched her approach. Lady Arabella raised her hand over the balcony, her hesitation gone, and the flames poured like liquid into the pool beneath them. Between heartbeats, before the flames caught, she spoke her benediction to the men in the pit.

“In the name of the Celestial, I wish you well,” she whispered.

She turned as the pool erupted. She did not return to the dais, and few noticed her leave. Two small oceans of fire shot off in opposite directions, tracing the arc along the outer layer of the pits, following the streams, one flame green, the other pale gold. Dazzlingly quick, hissing as they went, the flames finally crashed together at the far end of the arena and began to dance, casting a fierce glow.

A final horn was sounded, and the combat commenced.