Chapter 85

"Welcome to the Choosing, proud citizens of Boston!"

Mario was once more the center of the universe. The stands before him were jammed. Every seat, every inch of standing room, was occupied.

Below him, the arena floor had been transformed. The workmen and designers had executed a miracle. The landscape of the arena had been turned into something entirely new. Where, before, the surface had been flat and plain, it was not a complicated arrangement of topography. Mounds of earth, metal barricades, wooden fences. The entire space had been turned into an obstacle course of uneven topography.

Three faux castles had been erected. They looked to have been constructed of lumber, but they had been presented as mock castles. The shapes of the structures had all the marks of real castles. They had the bastions, crenelations, and towers of fine castles, but in miniature. They were like wooden playhouses, but on a far grander scale.

I stood on the stage. I was complete once more. I wore the suit. My life had totality once again. The power, the senses, washed over me and completed me. I had a moment to worry about how hollow life would be to live without the suit, having tasted what it could offer.

To my right and left stood the other two remaining contestants. Gideon was a hulk of intensity. He stood there, bristling. Aggression washed off of him in waves, like the rolling heat of a bonfire. He had gone from being one of the favorites to being the clear underdog. None could consider any better than I was. But Lance's powers were immense. He clearly overshadowed Gideon.

Lance had regained his composure since the day before. He stood before the crowd with that same condescending smile. He held himself easily. He stood there as though he expected the suit to be his already. But I knew, deep down, he must be quaking.

Mario's voice boomed. "This day is a sacred rite, one that can only be witnessed when events conspire, and this Choosing, the Oracle has ordained, that it must be so. Today's event can only occur when the number of contestants is reduced to three, an outcome not guaranteed, and when none of the eliminated participants have been killed or badly wounded. It is no small coincidence that this day we find those events have aligned to allow us to witness an event known as The Fall! The Oracle's hand is at work here; the Oracle has deigned that we experience the privilege of this ancient and sacred rite."

The crowd cheered. They were so excited at the prospect that was to come. Mario had speak more loudly to have any hope of being heard above their din.

And, of course, the voice needed a moment speak as well. In my ear, my mind, I heard, "Oh, The Fall, I do love The Fall. It's been decades, longer maybe—what a treat."

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I said, "The Fall?"

As I write this, I wonder if you, dear reader, still experience The Fall, if my plans have succeeded or failed. But give me a moment to bore you with some context.

As has been made evident, cities have the ability to calm entropy, to manipulate the Order fields that allow higher technologies to function. But such manipulation is not without cost; it requires resources. The resource in question is called Flows and Ebbs—the larger and lesser units of Order gathered from Orbs. A Flow represents a tremendous amount of Order, and it is this Flow that a Tower spends to raise the Order levels in regions under its control, whether within the city walls or beyond in the territory it dominates.

The Flows and Ebbs are found in Orbs, vast spheres of varying diameter, but rarely less than 20 feet across. These Orbs quite literally fall from the heavens during the winter each year. They can land anywhere across the land, but they are mostly contested in the Wilds—the vast, untamed regions of the continent. The winter, when the Orbs descend from the sky, is known as the Campaign Season. It is during the Campaign Season that Griidlords truly prove their value to their cities, roaming the Wilds with armies of thousands or even tens of thousands of men, doing battle to win these Orbs.

The more Orbs a city gathers, the more Flows it has, the more technology can be used by its people. Industry booms, agriculture blazes, military prowess surges. But there are always cities struggling to gather enough Flows to even survive. Boston, for the past century, had held its ground—neither starving for Order nor ascending to the ranks of the premier powers. The last decade, however, had been lean. Victories were fewer and fewer, and the city's stock of Flows was waning.

Mario's voice boomed across the arena, his words crafted to stoke the fervor of the crowd even higher. "This is a rite of exquisite sacral quality, our contestants rehearsing for their future! One among them will lead our Griidlords in the campaign seasons for decades to come, gathering the Flows that will keep your—" he paused, letting the tension build, "lights on, your tractors running!" The crowd roared in response, their energy nearly palpable as it surged through the stands.

Mario, ever the showman, pressed on, his voice a powerful tide washing over the audience. "This is a day that will test our future Sword, not on the paltry measure of CUT or BEAM, but on the true measure of a Sword of Boston—on their cunning, their strategy, their leadership!"

The arena shook with the force of the crowd's reaction. The people roared and screamed. Maybe they were responding to Mario's words. Maybe they were trying to drown him out.

Mario’s spoke louder. "This rite is also a generous gift from the Oracle, a mercy, a kindness extended to those who were banished from the embrace of the Griidsuit... to feel its power one... last... time."

As he spoke, a gate in the arena wall slowly opened. Figures began to march out, emerging from the shadows and stepping into the light. They were sheathed in the same half-suits as Lance, Gideon, and I.

I stared in disbelief. What was happening? There were males and females among these figures. Some of them were large, others small. Some seemed anxious, their heads held low. Other seemed to revel in the sudden attention of the crowd.

Nine figures. I counted nine of them as they approached the stage. As they drew nearer, recognition dawned on me. Olaf... Zara... These were the ejected contestants. And then, my heart skipped a beat. Walking together, side by side, calm and steady, were Katya and Lauren.

I watched them come in state of total confusion.

What in the name of the Oracle was going on?