Chowwick turned and pounded his feet into the ground as he ran back up the hill. It was me he was coming for. He was the Shield. He was my Shield. He was coming to join me, to protect me, to help me. There were seconds in it. That was all, just seconds.

But seconds were everything when the gods of the earth clashed and shook the hills.

From my side came an explosion of kinetic impact. My SHIELD flared to protect me, but nonetheless, the blow I received was apocalyptic in scale. I was thrown bodily away.

I kept my focus, didn’t lose my nerve. I hit the ground and rolled to my feet. Four parallel gouges traced their way along my shoulder. I looked up. Cara stood by Jennefir, both of them sprinting at me. In the background, I could see Tara kneeling, her head hanging low in shame. She had yielded.

She shouldn’t have felt shame. Her opponent had been terrifically powerful. She had fought valiantly, but it had always been hopeless. She had fought in the hopes that the other matchups might play out to our advantage. She had fought in the hopes of finding a comrade at her side. When the onslaught had grown too much, she had yielded rather than sacrificing her utility, rather than being damaged or slain and lost to our cause.

Jennefir and Cara were closing on me. Chowwick was seconds away still. But he was slow, and they were fast. They would be on me long before he arrived to take part. I was facing a Sword who was eight levels and 50 years my better. An Arrow that was 25 levels above me. Even with type advantage, Cara was probably the greater threat.

I should have knelt.

I should have yielded.

But everything I had learned so far told me that if I struggled to the last, if I battled without end and let the world choke on my stubbornness and determination, then I would rise from the ashes of any battle as the victor. For all my struggle in the arena, I had always won enough. For all Perdinger’s levels and years, I had been the one to take his hand. For all Doom’s power, I had not been the one transformed into a smoking gore-filled crater.

I roared. I filled the air, the very sky, with my rage.

“Come and fucking get me!” I screamed at them, my blade blazing with the white-hot heat of the sun as I swung at them with CUT.

They were surprised. They had expected me to yield or fight defensively.

Cara ducked to my right, Jennefir to my left. They both stumbled slightly. They had been charging to finish the fight, they had expected to push me back with ease. I let my feet take me after Jennefir as she stepped awkwardly.

She brought her sword up to block my CUT. My heavier blade smashed hers aside. I hacked again and smashed her sword down again, driving her to her knees.

I felt the steps behind me, Cara rushing in. I had left myself exposed; I’d had no choice. But there was an explosion of kinetic impact. I couldn’t see it, but I knew Chowwick was there, pushing Cara back. I should have been wiser; I should have known better. Cara had type advantage over Chowwick. She had more than ten levels on him. It was a fight he couldn’t win. But I convinced myself that I could put Jennefir down and then join him against the powerful Arrow.

Jennefir screamed at me suddenly. “How are you doing this! You’re level 21! You can’t be this strong!”

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Her words only fueled me. I hammered CUT down on her. Her position was impossible. For all her level advantage, I had her on her knees. My heavy sword was blasting blow after blow on top of her. I could see her strength sapping away. If I could force her to yield or smash her to the ground, then I could turn and help Chowwick with Cara.

I could smell the win. The prize glowed behind us. A large Orb with maybe twenty Flows. Boston had been making do with 50 Flows a season. With this one battle, I could bring 20 back to the City. I would show them what I was. I could make them glad to have me.

As I hacked at Jennefir, something rolled and bumped into my leg. It confused me, startled me. I glanced down to see Chowwick lying there, his chest smoking and covered in crisscrossed score marks of Cara’s claws. He wasn’t dead—he was groaning softly—but his ability to fight was long since gone.

I turned to raise my sword against Cara. Her claws raked along my blade, deflected from me. The impact jolted my shoulders, skidded my heels through the dirt.

It was all disintegrating.

Cara hit again. I blocked again. When her claws hit my sword, it was like a bomb detonating. My hands barely held on to my weapon. My elbows snapped back. My shoulders felt like they wanted to explode and let my arms fly loose from my body. By the Oracle, this was power. This was a level 45 Griidlord. It was like a tornado condensed into human form. She was a storm of unrelenting violence. My sword could only hope to block the worst of her attacks. Her clawed hands flashed past my blade time and again, raking agony over my body. I could feel the strength of my suit failing.

I understood then that I had played it wrong. We’d had a chance. But the chance had passed, and I had pressed on, convinced that determination could alter the universe. But as Cara pushed me back, blow after blow driving me further into desperation, her power completely dominating mine, I understood. I learned my lesson.

I should have yielded.

We should have abandoned the battle.

These thoughts came to me as she tore into me. My life was probably in danger. What saved me was not my good sense to decide to yield. What saved me was a lightning bolt, a thunderclash. A sword came blazing out of the sky. Jennefir had stepped in from the side. Her CUT struck me in the side of the head.

Death didn’t take me, but total darkness did.

***

The Falling Season was a balancing act. It was normal for Griidlords to need to return to their host city to heal many times over the course of the season. Ideally, these returns would fortuitously align with the need to deliver Flows, and thus the journey would not be particularly wasted.

While a Griidlord healed, others of the team would continue hunting Orbs, carefully, with their diminished numbers.

It was particularly unsuccessful when two Griidlords needed to make their return on the first day of the Falling. Chowwick and I had both sustained enough damage to warrant our return to Boston. With two of us removed from action, Tara and Magneblade would be limited. They could continue maneuvers with the army, but they would be unlikely to be able to contest any Orbs.

The journey back to Boston cost us a day. We were two days in our pods. By the time we returned to the field, four days would have passed. Chowwick and Alya tried to console me. I’m not proud of how I sulked, but I understood that the burden of the defeat was on me. I could have yielded when the balance of the fight was beyond question. Had I done so, Chowwick would have followed suit. Had things played out that way, then we would have lost the Orb but left the fight largely unscathed. These four lost days could have been days spent hunting more Flows for Boston.

I thought about Cara, the Cincy Arrow. Her level had been impressive. The presence of such a powerful Griidlord in their group had been vital to their success. In a world where most Griidlords seemed to cap out and stop increasing once they hit a level in their 30s, a Griidlord in the 40s had been an awesome advantage.

This thinking brought my mind around to Alya. The Scepter was a vulnerable suit, poorly suited to the ravages of the field and the length of the Falling Season. The Scepter was also a vital piece of security for their city, a deterrent to any would-be attackers. But Alya was leveled in her 60s. She was among the truly most powerful Griidlords in the world.

I struggled to accept the logic that the best use for her powers was in the Tower.