Finn saw his cousin’s eyes widen and felt his own heart sink, but Ellsworth managed to step out of the way as Capulet’s blades came racing at him, an instinctive movement which saved his life. Before he could steady himself, Capulet was on him again, swinging his cleaver-like daggers with murderous intent. Ellsworth, shocked, side-stepped again, maladroit, and then his cheek was sliced open.

“You—,” he began, his hand shooting up to the side of his face. His fingers came away red. He unsheathed his own blade—long and sleek, a noble weapon made for speed—just in time to parry the next strike. But there were two daggers, and the second was already roaring for his neck. Ellsworth dodged, not quite fast enough, and made a choice, raising an arm to save his head. The blade bit. There was a wet thud, a dull crack, a single scream, and Ellsworth’s bloodied limb dropped uselessly at his side.

You speak of honor in a realm where there is none, Yoquin had said.

The crowd began growing restless. This [Gladiator] had beaten Dekker, but not Lord Ellsworth, surely not—

But Rian was quick, an experienced tether for an experienced [Warrior]. A moment passed, a transfer, and his own forearm hung pendulously at his side. He did not cry out, did not slacken. The blood on his cheek flowed freely from his face to the floor, and he let it drip.

Ellsworth's arm twitched, came alive. He chanced a look in his tether’s direction, then bounded out the way. It was a powerful, unnatural leap, [chaos]-fueled. From a safe distance, he flexed his fingers, and the once-crippled arm rubbed at his brow.

Finn found he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled.

Capulet clanged his daggers together. They rang, reverberated, echoed, and he charged.

This time, Ellsworth was ready.

Finn had always known his cousin was fast. It had been his one advantage in sparring sessions against Zendar. On occasion, it had almost been enough. He put his speed to good use now. Where Capulet took a quick step, Ellsworth took two quicker ones. Then, as his opponent overextended, Ellsworth raised his blade, changed direction, lunged forwards. Capulet’s gown tore, and Ellsworth’s blade dug deep.

But neither man paused, and the dance was repeated.

For an exchange or two, it seemed a close fight. Strikes were parried, traps were laid, but Ellsworth began to get the better of each and every one. Capulet’s movements began to seem less flamboyant, his smile less sure. Faced with Dekker, the large, heavy steps, and thudding strikes, the Crimson King had seemed so quick, nigh untouchable. And though he remained quick, Ellsworth embodied a truer speed, his momentum in free-fall, gaining unceasingly.

Holes began to appear in Capulet’s gown, punctures emboldened in red. He seemed to be constantly miscalculating, stepping into strikes. It was suddenly clear to all who watched, the difference between the style Capulet had been imitating, and a true practitioner.

It’s like he doesn’t even want his freedom, Finn thought to Omri, unable to contain his growing elation.

Another cut. Capulet’s tether, stiff, cried out as wounds he had received a thousand times reopened. A canvas painted and repainted in red.

Finn suddenly had another thought.

Looks can be deceiving, Ellsworth had said.

I… don’t trust this, Finn thought to Omri. Look at his tether. He’s filtering. But if not for speed… if not to dodge…

Omri nodded. All those cuts, all that scarring. I wonder… how much of it was accidental?

Again and again, Capulet was cut, until his gown began to soak, fresh cuts in his skin appearing long before the older ones could seal. Finn remembered the way his body had responded to every movement of Dekker’s, every twitch, the way he had seemed ready to move out of the way before Dekker had even decided where he would strike. Ellsworth's unimpeded success seemed too good to be true.

I have to get a closer look, Finn thought. Do you mind?

Go ahead, Omri thought grimly.

Finn activated [Vision]. It was more than just straining one’s eyes or ears, imbuing oneself with [chaos]—it was a skill. A technique he had developed with [Level 6], had worked on for a fortnight with Master Wendell. It was useful, Wendell said, for a [Nobleman] to be able to observe his people from a safe distance away, when necessary.

He felt he was on the sands. Capulet’s blood splashed at his feet, and he could almost feel the spray, smell the iron tang. His cousin moved with a swift fervor, and Finn caught sight of a fire in his eyes, an upward tug at the corners of his mouth.

Finn also saw the arena in a way he hadn’t before. It extended in all directions around him. He saw the fists of the fevered crowd waving through the air, heard their cries as their emotions were carried by each swing of the sword, each clang, each slice.

Staring up at the faces from below on the sands, Finn felt… reduced… yet elevated, elated.

“Ellsworth! Ellsworth! Ellsworth!” the crowd cheered. Finn hadn’t heard the words from the Apex, hadn’t focused on them. To hear one name chanted by five hundred people in unison… stirred something within him.

Suddenly, a blade.

There was a blade racing towards his head.

Finn’s heart leaped. He tried to remind himself that he was still safe in the Apex, but he felt himself brace and tried not to scream.

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He screamed.

The blade passed through him as if he was made of vapor. As he had known it would. And yet, he’d been unable to fight the instinctual fear. He adjusted his [Vision] and sighed. He would need to work on that with Master Wendell.

From a slightly wider angle, he watched Ellsworth. Finn saw him raise his blade again. Saw it coming.

And so had Capulet.

Finn saw Capulet’s muscles relax, his eyes fixed on and following the arc of the blade which would miss. Ellsworth had been careless. He was growing increasingly more careless, drunk on something more potent than wine. He had aimed for Capulet’s upper arm, and though the blade would come close, it would miss and cut through air. It would swing away and—

Capulet’s upper arm was sliced open.

The crowd roared their approval.

Finn blinked.

He deactivated [Vision].

I don’t understand, he thought. That strike should have missed him.

“You see it too, don’t you?” a voice said.

Finn turned. Lord Yoquin looked visibly uneasy.

“It’s difficult to notice these things on the sands, in all the confusion,” Yoquin said. He drew a breath. “I’m not sure if Ellsworth has noticed yet.”

“Capulet wants to be cut,” Finn said. “Why?”

Yoquin nodded in the direction of Capulet’s tether. “You’ve noticed the tether, too, I’m sure,” he said. “To be wounded like that… it’s rare, even for the tether of a [Gladiator].”

“The insanity of his master is rare, too.”

Yoquin chuckled. “Yes. And that’s part of it, I’m sure,” he said. “But Capulet has a deep understanding of certain things. How to win, for example. You’ve noticed one of his techniques already, against Dekker.”

Finn nodded. “I don’t know what the technique is called,” he said. “But it was like he could see every strike before Dekker threw it, like he sees everything.”

“Not everything,” Yoquin said. “But enough. Our bodies are not very good liars. There are always subtle cues that we plan to move in a certain direction before we take a full step to move there. Capulet is very good at noticing these subtle movements, mere twitches. The technique is called, quite aptly, [Track Movement]. He wins most of his fights this way, rarely having to resort to more. He figures out when the opponent will move, where they will move, and makes sure his daggers are there to meet them. Most opponents end up cut before they even realize they’re in danger.”

Finn waited.

“Dekker was smart,” Yoquin continued. “I doubt he knew the intricacies of the technique itself, but he was quick to notice that Capulet’s advantage was tied to his vision, that he had to take it away from him. The [Sandstorm] technique was perfect for that. It allows the user to roam uninhibited in a haze, a monumental advantage against anyone not versed in the technique. Capulet was not used to being blinded. I think a part of him panicked. He tried everything, sacrificing both [Lifeblood] and [chaos] in the process. He took more damage against Dekker than I’ve seen him take in the [Sand Grade]. It was reminiscent of his [Sky Grade] bouts. Normally, in the [Sand Grade], he gets in and out of the arena without getting struck once.”

“But he is getting struck,” Finn said.

“I imagine he did not want to risk using the same rudimentary techniques against Ellsworth,” Yoquin said. “An unfamiliar opponent, it had already been thwarted once tonight—you can see the rationale. He chose not to underestimate Ellsworth as he had Dekker.”

“I don’t understand,” Finn said. “He’s still seeing all Ellsworth’s strikes, but he’s allowing himself to get cut. Why? What is he doing?”

“Another favorite technique of his,” Yoquin said. “This one can only be used when one is on the brink of death.” Yoquin hesitated. “I’ve seen it before. There are many variations of it, but this one is… remarkable. A short burst of concentrated power. A short burst, but enough. More than enough. I’ve heard it referred to as a second wind, of sorts.”

Finn turned back, his thoughts racing. He’s choosing when he gets hit. He’s allowing himself to get cut. He’s purposefully sacrificing [Lifeblood] so that he gets a [Second Wind] from the brink of death. Then, a realization. He wants Ellsworth to underestimate him again.

We might not have to wait long, Omri thought back to him. Look.

Finn looked at Capulet’s tether. Alun was something out of a nightmare, some creature whose blood flows outside the body, his scars like twisted, external veins. Finn noticed for the first time that most of the cuts seemed to be caked, scars upon scars, in superficial areas. Capulet would not risk dying before his tether had a chance to save him. He had carefully chosen where he would allow himself to be struck so that he could track his vulnerability. And Ellsworth hadn’t noticed anything strange.

There came a roar of triumph from Ellsworth. His exultation was at a high. The crowd mimicked him. Everything was going according to plan. Their lord had barely been hit, and the victory Aonenbridge yearned for was close at hand.

Capulet suddenly turned. Ellsworth came to a stop, staring at his opponent’s back. He did not lower his blade.

“Turn around, Capulet,” Ellsworth said.

Capulet seemed not to hear. He was looking up at the Apex.

“Capulet,” Ellsworth said. “It is finished. Meet your fate with the dregs of honor remaining to you. I will not strike when your back is turned.”

Capulet’s face cracked open into that grotesque smile. Finn saw him draw a breath, as if about to speak. He strained his ears to hear, but it was unnecessary. Capulet’s whisper moved as magic, threading itself through the cracks of silence within the tumult of the crowd.

“Freedom.”

Lord Yoquin’s face, usually a mask of calmness, suddenly looked angry. He turned to face Finn.

“Here it comes.”

Capulet turned back to Ellsworth, raising both his palms up in apparent supplication. He let his daggers fall. He shut his eyes.

Ellsworth did not hesitate.

“For Aonenbridge!” he cried. He bounded forward, and sliced Capulet across the chest. The wound was deep. The Crimson King cried out and fell. Lay motionless in the dirt.

A silence took hold. Finn had expected cheers. The crowd, after all, hadn’t known about Capulet's [Second Wind]. And yet their cheers were caught, had gotten stuck, threatened to choke like a hand on the throat. A chill ran through the air. Capulet lay there, weaponless, vulnerable, and yet somehow more menacing than ever before as an imperceptible aura clung itself to him in stillness, as if death had been unable to claim him, as if it had tried and been turned away.

The fallen figure did not move.

But the tether had remained standing.

Something was wrong.

When a master fell, a tether fell. That was the way of the world.

Ellsworth stared at Alun.

Come on, fall, he seemed to be saying. Finn heard others repeat it out loud.

Alun stared back from beneath a crimson robe. He did not smile. He was not like his master, could not relish in suffering. He shook his head.

A whisper. A shiver.

And then Capulet was gone.

Finn’s heartbeat rose suddenly. He activated [Vision]. Omri groaned and staggered, but Finn was not there to notice. He was on the sands, looking around desperately. Capulet was gone.

Then, there he was, standing behind Ellsworth. Dekker had subdued him from the back, Ellsworth had refused to strike from the same position. It was not honorable.

Capulet had no such qualms.

“My turn,” he breathed into Ellsworth’s ear.

Ellsworth tried to sidestep, was caught, held. Capulet was too fast, too strong. With [Second Wind], a sudden surge of reawakened power, he didn’t need his daggers. He struck with his fingernails, his hand outstretched, and knifed Ellsworth through the shoulder.

A painful strike. Ellsworth screamed, but it was not quite enough to kill him.

Capulet removed his hand from Ellsworth’s flesh and struck again.

Ellsworth screamed.

It was not quite enough to kill him.

Again. Screams.

Not quite enough to kill him.