I had known it would be violent. I had no illusions. I had read enough in my youth. I had spoken enough with the others. I had absorbed enough to have a full sense of the violence I would experience when two teams of Griidlords met.

All the same, some part of me had anticipated some kind of parlay. Even if it was just a few minutes of barbed threats and negotiations. There was no such moment. The Griidlords below us relinquished their Footfields and came charging straight at us.

Chowwick had the time to roar at them, “Back off, you fuckers! We have the high ground! You’re wasting your time!”

But they clearly didn’t think they were wasting their time. There was no delay. They were practiced and came sprinting up the slope in tight formation.

The colors that flashed on their armor were bright oranges and blacks. This was an easy one for me to identify. They were the Griidlords of Cincinnati. There might be some cities that I would be slow to identify with ease so quickly, but Cincy was a city from the region, and I was very familiar with their colors and heraldry.

The region occupied by Boston, the New Yorks, Buffalo, Detroit, and other nearby cities all followed variations of the same societal structure. It was medieval Europe thousands of years in the future, adorned by gods in power armor. Cincinnati was a little more distant, but their society and culture were largely the same. An overriding difference was that the Sword of Cincinnati was not just commander of the forces in the field but the chief leader of the entire city. As I looked down at the Sword that charged uphill towards us, flanked by her compatriots, I was looking at someone who wielded more power in her city than Baltizar did in ours.

I knew her. I had been reading and learning and studying the other Griidlords of the land. There were known things, believed things, and unknown things in the intel that Boston had gathered. What was known was that the Sword of Cincy, Jennefir Katterwillow, had worn the suit for about 50 years. She was a solid if not spectacular Sword. Her progression had been normal enough, leveling off after about twenty years. She was believed to be around level 30, but that had not been confirmed.

I barely had time to use Assess, but I used it on her. In an ideal world, I would match against the Arrow of Cincy, with type advantage going to me. If only it were so simple. The opposing team had the same plans; their plan would very much be for their Axe to cross blades with me.

Subject: Jennefir Katterwillow

Status: Chosen Sword

Level: 29

My mind raced as we spread out. The four of us possessed the high ground, a small advantage. We also, technically, possessed the Orb. We had been there first, and there was some kind of moral advantage in feeling that it was our possession to lose. She was level 29. It dawned on me just what I had achieved by reaching level 21. Jennefir had been in the suit for 50 years; I had been in the suit for weeks. Only eight levels separated us.

I wanted to imagine that I had the skill to make the difference, the aptitude to close the gap. I had come to understand that a couple of levels meant little enough when two Griidlords met. I doubted that eight levels could be dismissed so easily.

We arrayed ourselves so that we could use our weapons easily without hitting each other. The next few seconds were pivotal. If we could establish type advantage in one or two matchups, then the battle might end quickly in our favor.

Jennefir fired BEAM at us, but at a full sprint, her shots went wild. I fired BEAM, but at moving targets, it was hard to fire with accuracy. I clipped the shoulder of the charging Axe, and the man staggered. Nonetheless, he continued his charge right at me. His faltered pace was to his disadvantage, though, and Chowwick stepped in, charging down the hill a few yards to meet him. That was one advantage to us.

It would be the last for a time.

In the chaos of the clash, I was shocked by how quickly things unfolded.

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I had been consumed by the intention to Boost. I had wasted the chance to use it in the arena, and I had been continuously reminding myself of the importance of using the ability in the field. When Chowwick clashed with the Axe, I immediately began Boosting him. The experience was not dissimilar to using BEAM. Instead of firing from my sword, I felt the sensation of energy—Order, I think—flowing from my chest to Chowwick. My HUD showed him glowing with the advantage I directed toward him. The effect was immediate. The Axe had already been struggling under the assault of a Shield with advantage. Suddenly, the man was flailing. Every motion Chowwick took seemed to be turbocharged. Where before he had been pushing the Axe back with the blows of his huge glowing shield, now he was hammering the other man back, the impacts vibrating through the air.

I was elated at the effect I had had. What an ability to have wasted in the arena. It was incredible to watch how easily Chowwick was dominating his opponent, to know that I was the one driving the obvious and easy victory.

But I was learning lessons. This was to be the first of many. My focus on Boosting Chowwick left me immobile and unfocused. I didn’t pay enough attention to the other charging Griidlords. I didn’t move, didn’t change my position. As much as the others tried, they could only do so much to adjust for engagements with type advantage when I was so removed from the action.

In a moment, I was raising my sword to defend myself from an arcing glowing blade. My connection to Chowwick broke, the surge in his powers abruptly ended.

I parried quickly, stepping back to try and find the opening to recover. The opening wasn’t easily found. My opponent was experienced and powerful, and she pushed into the space I created, pressing me, robbing me of the chance to gather my wits.

Jennefir was skilled with the sword. I had dreamed of using my skills with my weapon to close the level gap, but what could I do to equate to 50 years of experience? Her blade came from every side.

A suit adapts itself over time to the abilities and personality of the wearer. Where my blade was a strange red and black mélange, hers was a blazing white. Where mine was long and more easily used with two hands, hers was short and slightly curved, like a fencing rapier. Her blows came in bursts—a flurry of attacks, most of which I could just scramble to deflect, some of which would sneak past my defenses to leave sizzling marks on my armor. Most worrying to me was the casual manner in which she pressed me. I could fend her off, but I was scrabbling, rushing, raising my sword barely in time to deflect most of the blows.

Around me, I had the vague sense of what was happening. Magneblade had met the Cincy Shield, and whatever their levels, the type advantage was going as badly for him as it was for the Cincy Axe facing our Shield. Tara was battling the Cincy Arrow, and though matched in type, I could easily see from the meager glances available that she was badly outmatched.

Chowwick continued to batter the Axe below him, driving the other man downhill. They had left the main battle, which was good. Separated from the others, the Cincy Axe would have little opportunity to use footwork to trade places with a teammate to alleviate type advantage.

But that was the only element of the battle that was in our favor. I leapt back from Jennefir and satisfied my curiosity by casting Assess on the Arrow of Cincinnati. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I saw the numbers appear before me.

Subject: Cara Darkclaw

Status: Chosen Arrow

Level: 45

That was the highest level I had seen on a Griidlord outside of Alya. It was easy to understand that Tara was facing a disadvantage greater than she would have experienced had she matched up with Jennefir and suffered type disadvantage.

Cara’s bladed hands were an almost unseeable flurry. Sparks filled the air. The heat and friction of their combat set the grass around them smoldering. Smoke rose darkly around them as they clashed, but with every step, it was Tara surrendering ground.

I didn’t have long to observe this. The barest glimpse of Magneblade being hammered by the Cincy Shield was all I had before I had to bring my own sword back into action to protect myself from Jennefir’s attacks.

Our swords screamed. I thought I could sense some mild frustration in her assault. She was better than me. She had more skill and a higher level. She was undeniably winning our match. But she seemed to be tense. She probably had Assess. She probably knew my level. Maybe she expected to be crushing me more easily. I was, at least, keeping her occupied. I could feel the pain from several small wounds she had inflicted, but I was essentially still fully functional.

There was a roar of frustration from down the hill.

The Cincy Axe was kneeling. This was tradition. It was practiced among most, if not all, cities. Their Axe had yielded rather than take damage that would cost him recovery time. He had kept Chowwick busy for as long as he could, but he had reached the point of submission.

Chowwick turned to return to us. For all the advantages they had, we were about to outnumber them four to three.