Ser Capulet of Illd’Or attacked with a wide swing of his dagger so sudden and ferocious that, for a moment, he appeared to be the bigger man. Dekker of Aonenbridge, caught entirely off guard, barely had time to raise his shield. His roar of indignation from the first strike was cut short by the second, then the third, the wood of his shield already beginning to split.

“Look at that!” Ellsworth growled. He swore. “That man belongs with the [ungraded]. Trained men of Illd’Or, they say? I’ve seen more honor in brawls outside brothels!”

A number of Aonenbridge nobles grumbled in agreement. Now that Lady Arabella was gone, closely followed by her attendants, few of the men seemed to spare her a thought. Finn took a deep sip of his wine, then another. It was unmixed, and he was grateful for it. The liquid began to pass through him, and he clung to its warmth. He allowed himself to feel outraged, as the other men did. Ellsworth was still swearing.

Then came a sound halfway between a snort and a snarl. Finn did not have to turn to tell who had taken offense at Ellsworth’s words. “It is interesting that you use [ungraded] as an insult, my lord Ellsworth,” Lucien said. “In fact, I might be in agreement with you. The [ungraded] [Gladiators] of Illd’Or are, indeed, unpolished. Precious few of them show even a modicum of potential. And yet, curiously, they remain unbeaten tonight in Aonenbridge. Did you expect us to send [Gladiators] of the [Moon Grade]?”

“Lucien,” Lord Yoquin warned. He had returned to his seat. His voice was soft, the rebuke sharp.

Ellsworth’s eyes, too, had flashed. At the start of the night his hand may have twitched towards the blade at his hip, but the quips had been cyclical, and so a loud clang was all that was needed to draw his attention back to the pits. He sat down without a word.

You're smirking, Omri thought to Finn. That’s good news.

I'm not, Finn thought defensively, but found he had to fight to straighten his face.

Omri’s pale eyes looked amused, but he remained silent.

Finn took another sip of his wine. It was difficult not to be diverted by what went on in the pit. One simply had to let oneself be drawn in. It was like two beasts had been unleashed on the sands, something less than human, and yet somehow far more. He found his eyes, unenhanced, were barely able to follow the unnatural swiftness with which the [Gladiators] moved. Ser Capulet was still on the offensive, slicing each of his twin daggers five or six times with dangerous precision before Dekker found solitary opportunities to strike back. Capulet’s quick feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he pivoted, twirled, danced out of the way, and when Dekker missed with a wild swing, his warhammer hit the ground with a thunderous crack that reverberated through the arena and threatened to burst Finn’s eardrums.

Impressive, Omri thought.

He can’t win, Finn thought back. Ser Capulet is too quick.

He’d only just realized it. Both men were, indeed, impressive, but it was a mismatch. The former [Sky Grade] against the fresh [Sand Grade]. This was a reshowing of what had been happening all night. The Aonens had considered Dekker their secret weapon; their first citizen born and raised a [Gladiator], their most powerful by a stretch. But none of Dekker’s power meant anything if he couldn’t connect, if his opponent could make him miss. It was as simple a tactic as any.

Never fight power with power, Finn recited. A bear can be defeated by a venomous viper, an empire by a single, well-placed arrow in the heart of their leader. This was something Zendar had told him.

It’s more than that, Omri thought back. Capulet is not just fast. It’s like he… sees everything.

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Finn glanced at Capulet’s tether at the edge of the sands. His body was rigid, his clothes stuck to his skin, drenched in sweat. Finn knew this had little to do with the heat of the flames that danced behind him.

He was filtering [chaos], raw energy for his master to draw from.

Finn watched the movements of the [Gladiators] more closely. Dekker seemed sluggish, heavy in comparison, but Omri was right: it was much more than that. Each time there was the slightest muscular twitch from his opponent, Capulet seemed to have already moved out of the way, seemed to already be poised to strike at any openings he saw.

And he saw them all.

Arms stretched far out from his body, his warhammer crashing desperately against the sand, the entire left side of Dekker’s midsection was open to the mercy of the ducking Capulet and his daggers. One quick slash, then another, and the sands were stained with a splash of blood.

Ellsworth groaned and dropped his face into his palms. A similar sound resonated through the arena from the crowd. Finn was sure the fight could have ended there, but Capulet sprang away, almost prancing, as Dekker dropped to a knee, held up by his already-splintering shield.

Dekker remained there for a long moment, his fate suspended in the whims of his foe. But the Illd’Orian did not advance. Capulet gave his daggers a flick towards the ground, a few more dark drops spraying the sands, and wiped the remaining blood on his gown. The crimson color stood out in stark contrast with the pale gold. The Crimson King smiled. It was his first real smile, which played on his lips and stretched until it was manic, much too large for his face, as he stared down, a predator eyeing his prey.

Finn shivered.

I think he’ll be alright, he thought, watching Dekker’s wounds. His words sounded odd, even to his own ears, but it had become clear that Capulet would not strike while Dekker was down. Perhaps he was more honorable than Ellsworth had thought.

When his tether did not respond, Finn turned and saw that Omri’s eyes were fixed on the far side of the arena. Dekker’s tether had dropped to the ground, no shield to catch him as it had caught his master.

His trembling fingers were clutching blood at his side.

The mirrored wound seemed more dire on his small frame, and, as Finn watched, the skin continued to rip. The tether fought desperately, instinctually, to hold it back, but the blood began escaping through his fingers and dripping into the dirt, gathering into tiny pools and then snaking across the sands like the roots of a weed beneath the ground.

They’ll both be alright, Finn amended. Despite the grim sight, he felt more sure than when he had spoken of Dekker alone. Tethers did not die from physical wounds. Not directly.

Omri did not respond, but nodded curtly, his lips pressed tight together.

Dekker lurched back to his feet. His face was ashen, but the skin around the gash at his side had already begun to shift, to weave itself closed like thread on a loom, and in just a moment more it was gone, leaving behind a pale, pink scar. The span of a breath, and that, too, had faded. His [Lifeblood] would drop, and he would feel diminished as a result, but the wound itself would not worsen. His tether had taken the brunt of it.

Ser Capulet was still smiling widely, his eyes mere slits. The two men remained motionless for a moment. The crowd, who had been so enthusiastic for action a moment ago, waited patiently to see which man would engage first.

It was Dekker. To the confusion of many, he raised his warhammer, much too far from his opponent, and let it come crashing down. Sand sprayed at his feet, then settled. He raised it again, then let it drop. Sand sprang in every direction, more this time. Then again. Ser Capulet's smile faltered. He raised his daggers hesitantly, unsure of what he was defending against. The hammer came crashing down a third time.

Resisting the urge to clap his hands over his ears with each thunderous crack, Finn looked over at Dekker’s tether. The small man had managed to push himself into a kneeling position, and, despite his wounds, there was a look of deep concentration on his face as his body went rigid, as he filtered [chaos] for his master.

There was something else at work here.

The rising sand on the fringe of his vision, the remembrance of something clicked in Finn’s head.

I… think I understand, he told Omri.

Omri nodded. Me too, he said.

Dekker raised his hammer a fourth time, and when it dropped, the ensuing cloud of sand rose high enough to envelop the entire arena—the stands, then the Apex—like a veil. Finn’s eyes burned as if from a sudden, sweltering heat. Sand whipped him across the face like tiny shards of glass as it spun in the air, suspended, vibrating against itself.

He could barely see. Down in the pits, where the sand hung thickest, only one man would be able to see, and it wasn’t the Illd’Orian.

[Sandstorm], Finn said. He named himself after a skill.