“Send you into the pits?” Lord Yoquin asked. His eyes narrowed. “To what end? You are not a [Gladiator].”

“I am a [Warrior],” Ellsworth said. He touched his braid again. It was long, and had only been cut once. An old custom. “[Warriors] are not uncommon in the pits. Nor are many other classes.”

“Have you fought in the pits?” Lord Yoquin asked.

“I have fought,” Ellsworth said simply. “As the Second [Warrior] of—”

“Have you fought in the pits?” Lord Yoquin repeated, stressing his words.

Ellsworth paused. “No.”

Lord Yoquin turned away. He was staring beyond the stands again. Lucien found the courage to raise his head. Although he was not seen, his eyes stared, wide, in Lord Yoquin’s direction.

Lord Yoquin turned back. “Convince me, Lord Ellsworth. Tell me… something, so that I might agree to this. Why would I send the Warden’s nephew to such an uncertain fate?”

Ellsworth’s eyes flickered over to the dais, to the seat which had been ceremoniously empty all night. Then to the crowd, and back to Yoquin. His voice had gone low when he said, “Because there is nobody else.”

Lord Yoquin followed his gaze. He sighed. Then, suddenly, “Let me see your wrist.”

Ellsworth tensed, hesitated, then held out his wrist. Yoquin took it and examined the single link of chain that rested at his forearm, held in place with a tight leather cuff. There was recognition in his eyes, though the chain was not an Aonenbridge custom, not an Illd’Orian custom, nor native to any of the Allied Cities of Emelandra. Finn had not been there, but he knew the story well. Ellsworth had been much younger at the time. Too young to be leading a battalion of that size. Facing a larger man, a larger army. Windy terrain.

One chain, and one loss.

Ellsworth had put it on one night fourteen years ago and had never taken it off again. He would never let himself forget.

Yoquin dropped Ellsworth’s hand. “This is… unusual,” he repeated. He began to massage his temple.

“Your father sent you here as his representative, did he not?” Ellsworth asked. He sounded exasperated. Yoquin had touched a nerve. “Do you really want to go back and say that Aonenbridge burned under your watch?”

Finn was sure Ellsworth had gone too far. It was commonly reported, said to have been brought on by a lifetime of close friendship with Zendar, that Ellsworth had a tendency, a failing, to speak too boldly to those ranked above him. Finn watched Lord Yoquin’s hand, expected to see his fingers pulse, to see Ellsworth’s knees buckle. But nothing happened. Finn exhaled.

Yoquin’s eyes were drawn towards Lucien. He made a gesture, and the [Mage] stood, hesitantly. Yoquin wiped dust from the front of Lucien’s gown before meeting his eyes. “I cannot be driven by mere instinct,” he said, seeming to speak to nobody in particular. “I must consider all perspectives. Perhaps Lucien is right. Perhaps Aonenbridge has learned a valuable lesson tonight.”

“Perhaps they have,” Ellsworth said. “Me getting into the pits does not change that. The [Gladiators] of Illd’Or defeated the [Gladiators] of Aonenbridge in… honest combat. If that is what matters to Illd’Or, leave with the knowledge that it was achieved. What matters to me is this city, these people. You said it yourself, it has been a difficult past few months. Zendar is missing, along with countless others. Brothers, sons, daughters. The Warden himself hasn't been seen for weeks, as he begs for aid at your father’s court. The citizens rallied together for the restoration of the pits, started by Zendar, finished in his honor. A necessary distraction. Then there was Dekker, our champion. Now he, too, is... gone. The anger you sense in the stands is not hubris, it is despair. Don't let the people succumb to it. Give them something to cling to.”

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“You?” Lucien asked.

“One victory,” Ellsworth said. “Surely Illd’Or can spare that.”

“And if I say Illd’Or cannot?” Yoquin’s words were frank, spoken with rapidity.

Ellsworth’s expression changed. The green of his eyes caught the light. “I’ll get in anyway,” he said. His voice had dropped to a whisper, but his words carried. “You may punish me after, Lord Yoquin. I may suffer, the people won't.”

“They may still suffer, Lord Ellsworth, regardless of what you do. You said it yourself, you have never fought in the pits. It is different. You speak of honor in a realm where there is none. You speak of victory, but there is no guarantee you will win. And if you do not, we're back to where we started. Perhaps worse off than before.”

“I won't lose.”

“Ser Capulet was of the [Sky Grade].”

“I won't lose.”

For a moment, it seemed Lord Yoquin might smile. Then he turned his gaze towards Finn. “There is someone we have not heard from. What say you, Lord Finric? You are the second son of the Warden, the brother of Lord Zendarus. I am merely the fifth son of Illd’Or.”

Finn’s eyes met Ellsworth’s. His cousin’s face was tranquil, although his eyes continued to flicker: a reminder that he, too, was of noble blood, something he drew on when necessary.

Finn cleared his throat. “You honor me, Lord Yoquin,” he said. “But I have nothing to add. I am in agreement with Lord Ellsworth.”

Lord Yoquin’s eyes rested on Finn for a moment, as if he was searching for something. “Very well,” he said, after a pause. He turned back to Ellsworth. “Many people say that all combatant classes are the same, simply because the skills may be the same. I disagree. Put three men side-by-side, have them fight before you, and you will not be able to distinguish the difference between a [Gladiator], or a [Warrior], or a [Mercenary]. It is true. However, the difference lies in why they fight. A [Gladiator] fights for entertainment. He fights for the love—or hate—of the crowd. A [Mercenary] fights for coin. A [Warrior] fights for his people. Tonight, Lord Ellsworth, you fight to save them from themselves. You have my blessing. You have the blessing of Lord Finric. But let me be clear, if you go into the pits, Ellsworth, this madness ends with you. No matter what happens, nobody follows you. As the son of your liege lord, I will not condone any more abnormalities.”

“I understand,” Ellsworth said.

“I want more than your understanding,” Lord Yoquin said. “I want your vow. Swear this. In the name of the Celestial.”

Finn inhaled sharply.

But Ellsworth did not pause. He nodded. “I swear this. In the name of the Celestial.”

And that was that. He met Finn’s gaze, inclined his head, then broke away. He turned to the dais. He bowed at the empty seats. Then, finally, he locked eyes with his tether. The tether looked grave. Nodded. Finn studied the man, feeling as if he’d never had a good look at him. He was broad-shouldered, fierce. He, too, had chosen to wear the leather cuff and the chain, to honor his master, to share the burden. The two men turned as one and exited the Apex. Silence followed their departure. Then—

“Does your cousin have any [Anchor Points]?”

Finn looked up. Lord Yoquin looked worried.

Finn nodded. “He does. [Level 12], anchored at [Level 10].”

Lord Yoquin nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he said, and made his way back to his seat. “The green hue befits him. White eyes wouldn’t suit him at all.”

He did not add anything else, but at the mention of [Anchor Points], his meaning was clear.

He thinks the only way Ellsworth can survive this is if he sacrifices the tether.

“Rian.”

Finn looked over at Omri.

“What?” he asked. His voice sounded harsher than he’d intended. He was not used to speaking to Omri out loud.

Omri met his eyes. A rare flush had colored his cheeks. His jaw was tight, but softened after a moment.

The tether’s name is Rian, Omri thought to him.

Across the mind-link, an awareness of Omri’s emotion brushed against him, then lingered like an ache. Finn realized that Omri had not spoken, out loud or by thought, since the fall of Dekker and his tether.