Amon

Amon studied the unfamiliar face in the mirror. He was still getting used to the change of his appearance before each fight. But it was serving its purpose well; whispers about the new, mysterious fighter that was rising through the tiers had become the sole topic of conversation in the gambling district—it had even reached the Black Diamond bar. No one suspected that it was Amon.

“Five minutes,” Kalon’s voice echoed beyond the door. The man was one of the four guards responsible for overseeing the high tier fighters. Upon reaching Tier 6, Amon had been given certain perks. Before his match, instead of waiting with the masses, Amon was escorted to a private room. This secluded space was located on an elevated level, providing a view of both the arena and its eager spectators below. Platters laden with food and drinks were also delivered to him, but he left them untouched. Safety was more important than enjoying himself.

As one climbed higher within the tiers, the more wicked people became. Stories of competitors resorting to poisoning their rivals were not uncommon. And the opponents were not your only threat; when bets were placed and coin risked, an unexpected newcomer like Amon created chaos. He found himself making more and more enemies. Or in this case, Aciel did.

Amon rose from his seat, feeling the weight of his weapons at each side. The advancement fight to Tier 7 moved away from hand to hand combat and allowed the use of whatever weapon you wanted. Amon wished he could have used the sword he normally wielded; his father’s longsword. But it was too risky. Sure, most people would see a normal blade, but the runes etched into it could spark conversation. So instead, he had gone for two arming swords. His father had trained with him ever since he was a child, and then Gideon had taken over, drilling him even harder so he would be fit as a Second Mine guard.

Another loud knock and the door opened, revealing Kalon; a tall man with brown hair and a black ring pierced in his right eyebrow. Which was a new addition. It looked slightly red so it must have been quite recent. “It’s time,” he said.

Amon followed him out. His opponent had his room on the opposite side of the cave, another security measure so no one tried to take a stab at each other before the fight had even begun. It also meant Amon had no idea who he would be fighting until they stood facing each other. He had tried pulling some strings, but the Banshee’s crew was surprisingly tight-lipped. The only known fighters in this tier were the Hummingbird, the Serpent and the Crab.

They walked through the corridor and down a set of stairs, all carved out of the mountain they were in. He could hear the familiar voice of the announcer, Pat Gillman, rousing up the crowd.

At last, they arrived at the cave entrance that would lead him into the arena. Kalon stopped and turned to Amon. “The Serpent is a favorite, good luck out there.”

Amon raised an eyebrow. None of the other guards had wished him good luck before. Nor had ever given him a forewarning.

Kalon shrugged. “I got my coins on you, everyone in the crew bet against.”

“You're about to become a rich man, Kalon,” Amon answered, walking down the cave entrance as the gate at the end slowly opened.

The announcer's voice rang out as he stepped onto the sand covered floor of the arena, “Aciel!” Cheers erupted from all around. Spectators filled the stands, eager for another thrilling fight.

Amon took his place on one side of the ring while his opponent emerged on the other. The Serpent's hair fell to his shoulders, black as his eyes. He was a tall, lanky man, wearing a white shirt and loose pants. Amon noticed the twitch in his fingers, hovering over his belt. He probably had throwing daggers with him.

They circled each other, their eyes locked. “Fight!” The sound of the announcer and the crowd faded into the background.

The Serpent flung a dagger at Amon. With a swift move to the side, he dodged the lethal edge. The blade lodged itself in the sand where he had just been standing. Drawing his own swords, Amon moved forward. But not before he had noticed how the golden colored sand darkened around the embedded dagger.

Another came spinning towards him; he deflected it with his sword, sending it spiraling into the air. That made two daggers down. He knew from whispers that the Serpent typically carried five.

Amon continued his approach, swords at the ready. The Serpent was nimble and doing his best in keeping the distance between them. Amon would have to come up with a way to advance on him. He didn't want this fight to be drawn out needlessly.

With a quick motion, the Serpent reached for his belt again. But Amon was faster still. He flung one of his swords at the man who dodged hastily, but lost grip of the dagger as he did. Capitalizing on the mistake, Amon snatched up the fallen blade and hurled it back at him. A guttural cry filled the air as the dagger found flesh, burying itself into his shoulder.

With a look of sheer terror on his face, the Serpent wrenched out the dagger and let it fall to the ground. The man kept moving, trying to put more space between them again. However, after a short while, Amon noticed beads of sweat forming on his forehead, confirming his suspicion: these were no ordinary throwing daggers—they were laced with poison. And the Serpent wasn't immune to his own weapon.

The Serpent threw another dagger, but it lacked the earlier force behind it. Dodging it, Amon saw him draw a wielding dagger. The man wanted to end the fight, probably having the antidote safely stored in his room. He charged at Amon, making a swing for his neck, but Amon brought his sword up, blocking it. Swinging his own sword, they clashed again but Amon pivoted and rammed into the Serpents back with his sword hilt.

The man stumbled, and in an unexpected move swept low and with a sweep of his arms sand found its way into Amon’s eyes. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, and he felt a searing pain from his side. Blinking away the stinging sand, he saw a dagger jutting out from his ribcage. The Serpent laughed, a harsh grating sound celebrating victory. A victory that had yet to be his. His eyes widened like saucers as Amon dropped to the ground, planting a powerful kick in his chest that sent him sprawling backwards to land heavily on the ground

Amon walked up to the man and paused at his side. “How…?” he choked out, blood spilling from his mouth. “The poison…”

“I've been dealing with poison since I was twelve,” he answered before driving his sword into the man's chest. “This has no effect on me.” Gideon had made sure of that.

The Serpent’s eyes lost their fiery intensity, and his head drooped to the side. Amon retracted his blade and paused. As if something had washed away with his death, ink suddenly revealed itself on his neck, just above the man’s bloodied shirt—a winged scalpel. Curse it all. It was an identical mark to that of his informant’s, the brand of allegiance to the Surgeon. Amon had just painted a target on his back, drawing the attention of the one person he wanted to avoid at all costs until Sonja was done gathering information about him.

Amon left the arena to the roars of approval from the crowd. Pat Gillman didn’t bother asking him anymore if he wanted to try to advance to another tier; he always declined. Besides, he had to move fast now. Allies of the Surgeon were surely among the spectators, and they were probably not so happy that he had just killed their most profitable fighter, and perhaps a potential spy if the Banshee had recruited him.

Kalon was gone, most likely getting the next fighter for a new match. Amon walked towards the secret exit meant for high tier fighters. Each fighter had their own, again, another security measure, so the Surgeon's men would have no idea where he disappeared off to. After getting out, he would move quickly to the Black Diamond bar. Amon would be safe if he could make it to Mencer's office where he could go underground.

The exit was a safe walk as he had assumed, and he emerged perhaps a ten minute walk away from the bar. All he needed to do now was follow this alleyway, take a left turn and—his path was blocked. Two figures stood at the end, clearly waiting for him. Amon spun around only to find his retreat cut off by another man dressed in a black suit. How had they already tracked him down? It made no sense that they would be this fast.

“Aciel, our boss wants a word,” he said with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“I would rather not,” Amon answered, looking the man over. Could he take him? The man was standing outside of the weak lamp light, so he couldn't quite size him up. But he'd rather take his chances than end up in the Surgeons clutches. Amon drew his sword but found that he could not move. Panic, a feeling he hadn't felt for a long time, surged as he strained against an unseen force holding him back. He flexed his muscles, but nothing. What was this trick? How were they restricting his movements? Frozen in place, Amon could do nothing but watch as the man's fist connected with his jaw.

* * *

Amon got yanked back to consciousness, his nostrils assaulted by the harsh stench of ammonia. The scent reminded him of stale piss. He squinted against the harsh light, his vision gradually sharpening from a blurry haze. His jaw throbbed with a steady pain, an unpleasant souvenir of the punch that had plunged him into darkness. He moved his hands, but they were bound behind him, secured to a chair.

The man hovering over him held the vial containing the foulness, and Amon met his gaze with a glare filled with the silent promise of violence. The man recoiled slightly and stepped back, letting Amon survey his surroundings.

He had expected the cold sterility of a cell where he'd thought the Surgeon would keep him captive. Instead, he found himself in an office adorned with polished furniture resting on thickly woven carpet. Ink paintings depicting towering mountains and turbulent waves decorated the walls, and a large grandfather clock stood in the corner. The hands pointed to 8pm, giving him just forty minutes before his appearance would revert. He needed to get out before that happened.

His eyes swept over the two men clothed in black suits standing guard in front of the large, oak door. One of them had half his face covered by a cloth.

But what truly drew his attention was the woman seated behind an imposing desk across the room. Her hair was completely white, meticulously arranged into an elegant bun at her crown with bangs parting down the center of her forehead. It framed her face before ending just above her slanted, black eyes. Yet it was her attire that fascinated him the most. She wore a black dress that was wrapped at the front, tied together at the waist by a sash. It was adorned with brown designs at the fringes and the sleeves of her outfit were broad and square, concealing her hands from view.

Amon was certain that the Surgeon was not a woman. Could she be his right hand? However, the men in the alley had clearly referred to her as their boss. A slip of tongue on their part? They'd also managed to track him down with unnerving speed. Then there had been the unseen force restraining him. He was certain it wasn't some unforeseen consequence of the poison; other than a dull throb in his jaw, his body felt perfectly normal.

To Amon, this left only one explanation: a Gift. But the only Gift he knew that could render someone immobile was Sonja’s. Yet, this had felt different. It didn’t feel like an internal force where someone had a hold around your heart, but as if invisible hands were physically keeping him in place.

His gaze flickered back onto the guards. Keeping someone with a Gift like that close would have been Amon’s move. His eyes lingered on the man with his face covered. And then he noticed it; the skin under his right eyebrow was red. It couldn't be… But it was just enough for Amon to test the waters.

"What a pleasure it is to meet the Surgeon face-to-face," he said smoothly, looking back at her.

She responded with a smile, but her lips twitched slightly. "You must have known you were making a powerful enemy when you killed the Serpent."

Interesting. She didn't deny his statement, but was that anger he sensed from her? If she was going to keep pretending, he would have to rouse that anger a bit. "I apologize for ruining your income," he said. "But I believe we can come to an agreement that benefits us both."

Her eyes narrowed and her face contorted in fury. "An agreement? No amount of coin could make up for what you've just taken from me." She quickly regained her composure, but it was too late. She had revealed enough.

A satisfied grin formed on Amon's lips as everything fell into place—the swift discovery by her henchmen, the unexpected location they had brought him to, the guard and this woman's rage. The Divine must be smiling upon him tonight.

"I see," he began. "Let me correct my previous assumptions. It seems we have more in common than I thought."

Her gaze hardened at his words, but she motioned for him to continue.

"We both have business with the Surgeon; I just didn't realize you were using the Serpent as your gateway."

Her body tensed. “Excuse me?”

"Why don't we start fresh?" he suggested with a smirk. "It's a relief not having to climb all ten tiers just to meet you, Banshee." The existence of the secret exits was known only to the Banshee and her crew. Sonja had been unable to gather any information about them, making it highly unlikely that anyone else could have done so. After all, she was the most skilled in the Spine at obtaining information.

A flicker of surprise flashed across Banshee’s face, but it was swiftly replaced by an impassive mask. “Are you trying to be amusing?” she asked.

“No, I'm merely interested in having an honest conversation,” Amon said, glancing towards the guards again. “Isn’t that right, Kalon?” Before escorting Amon to his fight, he had noticed Kalon’s freshly pierced right eyebrow. It was gone now and only a red patch remained as he stood guarding the door but the chances of someone else having the same piercing were slim.

The guard with the half-mask shifted uncomfortably before pulling down his mask and grinning. “Hey Aciel, apologies about the jaw.”

Banshee shot him a sharp glare and Kalon shrugged nonchalantly.

“What? He already knows.”

“You’re a fool,” she sighed heavily. “But it also appears you’re more cunning than I gave you credit for, Aciel.”

Or perhaps she had let her emotions cloud her judgment. This had been sloppy work on her part. However, he decided against voicing this thought out loud. It was clear that the Surgeon held something or someone dear to Banshee—judging from her emotional outburst, it seemed more likely to be a person rather than an object.

“Now that we’ve cleared the air somewhat, can we continue our discussion without me being restrained?”

Her dark eyes sparkled menacingly as she replied, "You're still my prisoner, Aciel."

“Even if I were to tell you that I have a source close to the Surgeon who could assist us?” he countered.

“And why should I trust your word?”

“In due time you will have reason to believe me because my informant is getting a promotion; personal assistant to the Surgeon himself.”

“I won’t unchain you based on words only.”

“Then your only chance at catching the Surgeon will vanish into thin air,” Amon replied in a nonchalant tone.

“You dare to say that when it's your fault I lost the Serpent?" The Banshee glared at him fiercely and Amon understood why she had gotten her nickname. Her gaze sent a shiver even through him. But he refused to let her see that. He had to stay composed and in control, even though he was anything but.

Amon shrugged. “If it hadn't been me, it would've been someone else. The Serpent was always going to lose, sooner or later. Besides, I thought we were being honest with one another, your Serpent would never have learned the location of his main facility, I think we can both agree on that.”

A moment of silence followed. He had to begin convincing her. Time was slowly running out.

“I plan on storming the Surgeon’s main facility. He's taken someone important to me and he's going to pay for it,” Amon declared, breaking the silence. “Ever since the Uppercity council granted him free reign, more people have vanished. Release me and join our cause.”

Her piercing eyes scanned his face, seeking any hint of dishonesty. But Amon was aware that she had no other choice; otherwise, why would she have pulled such a stunt? She needed him.

“A surprising turn of events," she said, and a smile formed on her lips. “I didn't expect the mysterious rising champion to harbor such an ambition.”

"I am full of surprises."

“You speak of storming the Surgeon’s main facility as if it were a casual venture. I assume you must have a very good plan in mind or are you simply relying on luck?”

Amon met her stare, his expression unwavering. “Luck has never been on my side, Banshee. I do have a plan. And you have seen how I fight. My allies are even more formidable.”

Another silence stretched out between them, only broken by the soft sound of the Banshee’s fingers drumming on the oak desk.

“Very well,” she finally spoke. “But remember this, Aciel—if your claims turn out to be false, there won't be any place you can hide from me.”

“I have no reason to do so,” he said in an honest voice. “Another enemy of the Surgeon is an ally to me.” He also needed her support to overthrow the Undercity council. However, trying to convince her to join him at this moment didn't seem like a wise move. Unexpectedly, she had given him the perfect opportunity to prove himself, and once he did, he would extend an invitation for her to join his team.

The Banshee reached for a key hidden in her dress pocket, signaling Kalon to free Amon. Heeding her silent command, Kalon moved towards him and unlocked the restraint, the sound of a click filling the room. Amon massaged his numb wrists as he felt life seeping back into them. His eyes darted towards the clock again—fifteen minutes till he would return to normal.

“Got somewhere to be, Aciel?” The Banshee’s voice was laced with curiosity as she studied him.

“People are probably missing me for supper,” he answered nonchalantly, rising from the chair. He didn't want her to ask more questions, so he switched the topic. “Once my source relays information about the main facility's whereabouts, I'll get in touch.”

“I will be waiting,” she said, her gaze not leaving him. “Kalon, see him out.”

With a respectful bow, and a casual “No hard feelings Aciel,” from Kalon, Amon found himself plunging into darkness once more.