The bishop stepped aside with a flourish, and suddenly, all eyes were on me—thousands of eyes. Where the bishop’s pleas and the klaxon’s commands had failed before, this expectant moment succeeded in almost completely quieting the crowd.

I felt the impetus to step forward and slowly moved to take the spot the bishop had been standing in. I didn’t let my hesitation show, moving without hurry, controlling myself, trying to give my mind a chance to process what was happening.

I could have cursed my father. He had been so singularly concerned with preparing me to fill my role for him that I had no preparation for moments that served him not. I imagine that if he had been present the night before, my time would have been partly occupied with preparing for this moment. He was a natural orator. Father had always exuded the kind of easy confidence of a psychopath, and his completely unselfconscious manner was buoyed by the simple certainty that an audience would be intent on his every word.

But Father had not been there the night before. Suddenly, the hollowness of my experiences seemed to glare more brightly. He had not prepared me to run a business after his passing because the man would have no use for the business once he was dead—so what concern could he make of it? He hadn’t allowed me to gain experience with the fairer sex because he would have perceived that any betrothal in my future would be arranged by him, and for his benefit. My life and upbringing had been a product of what served his interests the most.

The bishop placed a hand on my shoulder, staring into my visor. My, but he looked small now. Small, frail, and unimportant.

“Well done, my boy, I knew you could do it,” he said.

He couldn’t see me roll my eyes at the comment.

He continued, “Despite every opposition, inside and outside the arena, you still triumphed. How could a better Sword be found than one who rises against such vast and varied opposition?”

Was he trying to imply that his efforts to have me ejected, his efforts to conspire against me and rig the rounds, were all part of a noble quest to truly prove me the greatest prospect? I wasn’t sure, and I sure as hell wasn’t buying it. A very large part of me wanted to ask him if that was why he had given Lance a secret artifact to artificially boost his powers above mine.

But today was the start of the rest of my life. My life would be made no easier by pitting this man against me. For now, at least, I could play nice.

I simply said, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

He seemed satisfied with that and stepped back again.

I turned to face the hushed crowd.

The voice came clearly in my ear, So what’s it going to be? Have you thought it through yet? Do we have a name for our new house?

Our house? I asked.

The voice giggled, saying, Well, I’ve been here before, but I rather like the idea that this might be our house, kiddo.

I stared into the sea of faces.

It was Mario who approached then. His expression was the sweetest of all. The man was not as distilled as the bishop; he could not conceal his horror at what had transpired before him. He did what he could, but his face was drawn, pale. Oh, he held a poker face very well, but the strain was evident.

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Mario turned to me and bowed his head, a respectful gesture that I have no doubt cost him deeply. Then he turned to the crowd and unfurled a scroll. Without ceremony, he began to speak.

"Repeat after me, m'lord, if you would," he said, his voice pinched and struggling.

I nodded my helmeted head.

He began to read, “I, Tiberius, solemnly vow and swear to bear the role of the Sword of Boston according to the statutes and laws laid out by the assembly of Boston.”

I repeated, my chest swelling as the reality of the moment started to dawn on me, “I, Tiberius, solemnly vow and swear to bear the role of the Sword of Boston according to the statutes and laws laid out by the assembly of Boston.”

Mario continued, “I, Tiberius, swear before the people of Boston, to do all in my power to honor them and serve them, never waning in my duty to bring the Flows to the city.”

Again, I repeated, the gravity of the moment real, but the excitement also thrilling, “I, Tiberius, swear before the people of Boston, to do all in my power to honor them and serve them, never waning in my duty to bring the Flows to the city.”

Mario said, “I, Tiberius, will do my utmost to honor the will of the Oracle above all things, recognizing the Oracle as the source of my powers, the source of destiny, the source of all life and hope for all men, and that it is the Oracle’s will that defines my purposes above all other.”

I repeated the words, knowing that only one instruction remained. “I, Tiberius, will do my utmost to honor the will of the Oracle above all things, recognizing the Oracle as the source of my powers, the source of destiny, the source of all life and hope for all men, and that it is the Oracle’s will that defines my purposes above all other.”

Mario nodded in the manner of someone who has dropped something precious into a pit of sewage and has no choice but to reach in, bare-handed, to retrieve it. He said, "Tiberius, Sword of Boston, bare your weapon and announce yourself to your people."

This was it—the moment I would name my house, a name that might endure for centuries to come, long after I was nothing but dust.

The voice giggled in my ear, "Oh, you’re not... you’re not going to do it? I wish I could see your thoughts better, but I think I can feel it. You’re going to choose your own name for the house!"

I drew my sword and held it solemnly before the people. The red light pulsed and flowed up and down the blade, black flecks and dark shadows drifting beautifully behind the scarlet glow.

The voice piped up, "What’s the fucking holdup?"

I thought back to it, I... I want my own name for the house, not my father’s name. I’m a damned Griidlord now! I’ll find him if he’s out there, I won’t abandon him, but I’m done being his pet! I’m my own man now! So I will name my own house. But... I can’t think of a name...

The voice chortled richly, "Why didn’t you think of one before now?"

I hadn’t decided to name my own house yet...

The silence stretched between me and the thousands of spectators. At first, the silence seemed to connect us, binding us in solemnity. But it went on too long. I could hear feet shuffling and bodies rustling uncomfortably. A man coughed, the sound echoing through the stillness.

The voice said, "Okay, okay, let’s see... how about House Atreides? No, that one’s been used up. What about... House Lannister? No, that’s a bit on the nose... Um... Blackadder? Oh, do use that one, nobody will ever know..."

The voice prattled on, but I stopped hearing it. My eyes had become fixed on the blade before me. Morningstar’s blade had been blue—a bright, pure, uniform blue. Mine was marbled with darks and lights. In some ways, it seemed tainted and ugly, but at the same time, it was mesmerizing. The lights and colors moved like cooling magma, like a black aurora, like all the shades of...

My voice surprised even me as it boomed out, my helmet amplifying my words rather than the arena speakers. The crowd, startled after the long silence, let out a collective intake of breath, a communal gasp.

“People of Boston, I am your Sword”—I emphasized your, for I was theirs, the people’s champion still.

“I am Tiberius, of House Bloodsword.”