He is the spirit of Aonenbridge incarnate, Ellsworth had said of Dekker. Many, if asked, would have agreed. He was their first [Gladiator], their most powerful, the symbol of their fortitude and valor. It did not matter that they had lost every preceding bout against the Illd’Orians, as Dekker would win his. He would. He had to. He would crush his opponent, and the Illd’Orians would be sent home, the sudden, bitter realization of the true might of Aonenbridge scorched into their memory.

And so, with the death of Dekker, old wounds were reopened, and the city of Aonenbridge may have burned that night, had not a few key decisions been made quickly.

An awareness of something echoed in Finn’s mind. As the crowd hovered in their stupor, Finn knew there would only be a few moments before shock gave way to anger, to outrage, to the irreversible. He felt it rising in the air with each breath he took, he could feel the heat of it on his skin. He saw fires burning, reflecting in the eyes of those staring down in horror at Dekker’s mangled body, and the similarly mangled body of his tether, who had been so small, like a child.

Finn felt an emptiness at his sides. In his mind, he saw himself reaching out for Zendar, who was missing. He reached for his father, the Warden of Aonenbridge, who was away, seeking retribution for his eldest son. He even reached for Lady Arabella, who had always resisted, had told cautionary tales to her husband when discussing his dream of reopening the pits. But Zendar had seen more than violence, more than senseless barbarism, in the fighting on the sands. He had seen pride rising through the provinces as their [Gladiators] climbed the ranks, and had wanted that same pride nurtured in Aonenbridge.

In short, he had seen wrong, Finn realized.

He felt the precious few seconds continue to slip away. One by one. He felt frozen.

It was him, he realized. Somehow, incomprehensibly, he was the highest ranking [Nobleman] of Aonenbridge present.

“The best of Aonenbridge?” the voice of Ser Capulet continued to goad. “The best? The very best?”

The first Aonens broke from the daze and began to shout. Ser Capulet’s smile was unceasing. Blood had begun to spill from his mouth onto his chin and off the ends of his goatee. Finn turned away from the sight, and his eyes were drawn to the scattered Illd’Orians in the crowd. They were so few, marked by their golden garments, and seemed in danger of drowning amongst those clad in green. He saw a man and woman huddled together, a group of men who might be brothers, an old man flanked by youngsters, grandsons and granddaughters. Finn’s eyes fixed on the youngest of these, who seemed even younger than him, barely full-grown. Next to the suddenly wild-looking people of Aonenbridge, none of them seemed like the proud, arrogant Illd’Orians one heard about and mocked. They merely looked anxious, fearful, like flickering candles ahead of an approaching gale.

Finn turned to face his cousin. Later, others would invent a rationale behind this. They would say that Lord Finric, son of the Warden, had turned to his cousin and chosen a champion. Ellsworth was of noble blood, but he was not a [Nobleman]. The class available to him at his birth, as with many of those who had been born in times of war, had been the [Warrior] class. In his sagesse, people would say, Lord Finric had identified that this was what the people needed, in a moment when they craved blood. Vengeance. Somebody to take it for them, if they were to be withheld from taking it themselves.

But, truthfully, there had been no command in Finn’s eyes in that moment. There had been a plea.

Ellsworth met the gaze of his younger cousin. His expression softened. He placed a hand on Finn’s shoulder, then got up and approached the balustrade. Lord Yoquin was still standing there, but Ellsworth pulled him away, unceremoniously, out of sight from the crowd. Lucien hissed, stood defiantly, but Lord Yoquin [silenced] him with a hand and did not argue. In Yoquin’s eyes, it was clear he understood. It would not help things, when they looked up to the Apex for guidance, for the first person the crowd saw to be an Illd’Orian.

“Well,” Lord Yoquin said. “I can’t say the crowd is very pleased with the outcome of our main event.”

“It matters not,” Lucien said, approaching the other two. He was shorter than Ellsworth, though more gangly. “This is the nature of gladiatorial combat. The strong survive, the weak rot.”

“That was a cheap trick by a dirty fighter,” Ellsworth said. “There is no honor in a victory like that. The people will not accept it.”

Finn had a few short moments to marvel at the steadiness of Ellsworth’s voice, how quickly his cousin had managed to morph from intoxicated young noble to proud protector and [Warrior] of Aonenbridge. Then his attention was once again seized by the crowd, who had begun shouting obscenities. Ser Capulet spat in their direction and laughed.

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“They will not accept it?” Lucien repeated. His eyes were wide and betrayed the fever hidden beneath his words. “What hubris! It is the same hubris that has led the Aonens to believe that they could stand against Illd’Or, the city of their liege. They learned a valuable lesson today.”

Ellsworth’s jaw tightened. “Can you not see what is brewing in the stands?”

“I see a disgruntled group of defeated cityfolk,” Lucien said. “What of it? The [Gladiators] of Illd’Or leave this in their wake wherever they go. We have grown accustomed to it. Need I remind you, Lord Ellsworth, that there has been no crime tonight? None of the seven conditions had been met. Now two have.” He pointed towards the sand. He continued speaking, but his words were drowned out by the rising tumult beyond the Apex.

There was a sudden shift in the wind, and Finn felt himself beginning to feel claustrophobic. The noise was unbearable, the air too thick, like he was being packed between columns of smoke. Above him, the night sky appeared clear, fresh, and so very far away. He felt the sudden longing to be up there, away from here, away from it all—

He caught himself.

No. These were his people. His people. He had grown up with them, some of them he considered friends, others had served his brother, his father, and his father’s father. He looked down into the stands and, with a start, realized he could not recognize any of them. They all seemed to be sharing the same face, one of hate. Finn felt the need to hide from it, and then, as with the wind, it shifted, and he felt the pull of it, the allure. It scared him. The distance between the stands and the Apex seemed to shorten in an instant of dizziness, and he knew that if he let it, the emotions, the foul contagion, would sweep him away just as easily as the violence on the sands had.

He held onto his seat, felt his fingernails scrape against stone.

He noticed he was not the only one feeling uneasy. Others in the Apex had begun staring sidelong at each other, their feet shifting uncomfortably beneath them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that people had begun throwing things into the pit. Somebody tossed a sandal, which narrowly missed Ser Capulet’s head. Somebody else tossed a wine cup, which Capulet reached for and caught. He studied it, curiously, then lifted his gown and began to urinate in the cup. Tossed it back. More vulgarities were shouted his way.

“The bout may be over, but the fighting is not,” Ellsworth was saying. “Whether we like it or not, it will continue. Which would you prefer, Lucien: in the stands, on the sands, or in the streets?”

“Are you suggesting there will be some sort of riot?” Lucien asked, incredulous. Then he laughed. “And so that is all it takes for Aonenbridge to crack, to squabble with itself? Again, why should Illd’Or care?”

“You really are a dolt,” Ellsworth spat. “Their anger will be directed at you. At Illd’Or. How many Illd’Orians are present? A company of thirty? Forty? There are five hundred Aonens in the stands, fifty thousand total. They will burn fields trying to find anyone clad in gold. And what do you think happens when they do?”

“There may be forty of us tonight, but how would your fifty thousand Aonens stack against one million Illd’Orians?”

“They’ll tear you apart,” Ellsworth said, ignoring Lucien and answering his own question. “You forget where you are. This is our country. You won’t make it out of the Marsh, let alone across the strait.”

“Illd’Or has never feared the Aonen mud puddle,” Lucien snarled. “But let your people follow, let them come, if they are stupid enough to try. This tale has already been played out, and we’ve already seen what happens when Aonenbridge deludes itself into thinking it can rival Illd’Or. We saw it tonight, we saw it fourteen years ago. And thirty years ago. And seventy years ago.”

“Lucien,” Lord Yoquin hissed. Then, to Ellsworth, “What are you saying, Lord Ellsworth? What do you suggest? Lucien is not wrong. Capulet had not yielded yet. And now Dekker is dead. His tether is dead. Two of the seven conditions have been met.”

Ellsworth hesitated. “Forgive me, Lord Yoquin, but the eighth condition is paramount,” he said. “Dekker is dead. His tether is dead. But the flame is not.”

There was a pause. Lord Yoquin’s brow furrowed. “What you’re suggesting is… unusual.”

“What is he suggesting?” Lucien asked.

“It is unusual,” Ellsworth agreed. “On many counts. And you are correct. Capulet did not cheat. But I know my people. If we let tonight end like this, end like that, something else starts tomorrow.”

“Then let it start,” Lucien spat.

Lord Yoquin’s upper lip curled. He raised a hand. His tether stiffened suddenly, grunted loudly. The temperature in the Apex seemed to rise. Yoquin’s fingers extended, pulsed through the air. There was a burning hot sensation, and Lucien cried out and fell, catching himself with a hand at the last second before his face could smash against the stone floor. A moment later, his tether fell. Master and tether lay wheezing. Lucien’s breathing began to steady, but his tether’s shoulders continued to heave. Both men were conscious, but neither rose.

“Continue, Lord Ellsworth,” Lord Yoquin said. His eyes were calm. “There will be no more interruptions.”

Ellsworth’s eyes narrowed. His gaze passed over towards Lucien, but then his attention was drawn by something beyond the stands, visible by the height of the Apex. Finn turned and saw [Guardsmen] gathering on the waterlogged path leading from the mass of dwellings that was Aonenbridge proper. There were already a dozen of them, armed and armored. He was not sure who had given the order. Another [Nobleman], a fool.

Lord Yoquin peered across as well. A vein in his temple twitched. “Tell me exactly what you mean, Ellsworth,” he continued. There was greater urgency in his tone now. “Let us speak plainly.”

“I mean sending another into the pits,” Ellsworth said. He adjusted his braid. “Send me.”