“This way, this way.” A burlap sack slung over one shoulder, Spar set off at an easy jog. Twain stretched his legs out and barely kept up. With unusual grace for someone Spar’s height, he hopped hedges and fences. Throwing himself over the rises Spar cleared with ease, Twain struggled to keep up. Sweat dripped down his back. He found himself panting before they made it halfway to wall.

Damn, was I always this weak? I need to make sure I exercise when I’m Mouse.

Spar led the way to a small gate in the castle wall. He glanced left and right, then slid open the lock and ducked through. Nodding at Mouse, he explained, “The servants’ gate. Sometimes it’s guarded, but it usually isn’t. It’s a good way to sneak in and out.”

“Good to know,” Twain said. He looked over the gate from the outside, memorizing the location. The small iron door vanished into a dark portal, just another shadow in the imposing stone wall.

“If it is guarded, there’s a few places you can climb… remind me to show you some time.”

“You know the wall well,” Twain commented.

Spar rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. You think I want to live cooped up in that stone box for the rest of my life? There’s a whole world out there! Things to see! People to do!”

“I think you mean…” Twain glanced at Spar, and the words died on his lips.

Spar wiggled his eyebrows. “Some fine horseflesh, too.”

Twain held up a hand. “Right, got it, don’t need to hear any more.”

The human capitol city bustled with life. Beyond the reach of the castle guard, buskers strummed instruments or sang. Hawkers spread blankets or stood behind stands and gestured at their fine wares, everything from jewelry to furs to hot, fresh food on display. Carriages rattled past, single riders hurried along, and pedestrians dodged between them, high-stepping over steaming piles of—Is that shit?

The reek slammed into Twain all at once. Human body odor, effluent, and rot rolled over him in waves, each one simmered and and strengthened by the summer sun. He choked and gagged, then pressed a handkerchief over his mouth. “What the hell? How do humans live like this?”

“You get used to it,” Spar said, undeterred.

“It smells worse than a fucking stable,” Mouse grumbled. He glanced at Spar. “No offense.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“None taken,” Spar said evenly.

Mouse shook his head and rubbed his nose. “Where’s the Arena?”

“Why so eager? Don’t you want to take in the city?”

“I smell this much longer, and I won’t have the strength to win the trial bout,” Twain replied.

Spar sighed dramatically and shook his head. “You moon elves are so delicate. Fine, fine. This way.”

The further they walked from the castle, the smaller the streets became. Narrow, they wandered between houses and around storefronts. Spar turned one corner after another, surefooted as a local. Twain followed, lost. Occasionally, he glanced over his shoulder at the castle, but before long, the close-pressed buildings swallowed up the castle. He stuck close to Spar, quietly memorizing the route.

I’m more used to forging through forests, but I should be able to find my way back with the same tricks. Casually, he reached out and slashed a line in a passing building’s exposed timber. His fingers flashed, and the knife vanished back into his sleeve.

Rundown houses slumped around them as the stench grew worse, thicker and hotter. Twain stopped minding where he put his feet, so much shit underfoot that there was no other option but to step on it. Dirty people draped in filthy rags hustled past, heads down, or sagged at the side of the street, unable to go on. A few of the more enterprising ones wandered toward Spar and Twain, fingers wandering, but backed off when Spar gave them a sharp look.

“All that useless height is good for something, huh?” Twain said, nudging Spar.

“It’s your own fault you’re too short.”

“Me, and every bipedal race out there,” Twain grumbled.

Spar grinned. “You’re right. You’re all shorties.”

They turned a corner, and the Arena appeared before them. A white stone wall towered over a square of real estate. Tall flagpoles reached for the sky from each of the four corners, flying the blue and red of the human country. Layers of empty seats climbed down the sides, toward the center. A huge pair of doors, easily tall enough to let someone twice Spar's height through, stood firmly shut at the front.

Humans and their outsize architecture. Twain shook his head disapprovingly. He headed toward the doors.

“Over here, over here,” Spar called.

Twain turned. Spar held open a smaller door, almost hidden at the edge of the façade.

“You didn’t think we’d take the grand entrance for our trial bout, did you?” Spar chuckled.

“Shut up,” Twain grumbled, jogging over.

Inside, a small mob of men and women lurked by a table, in a vague approximation of a line. Twain and Spar joined the back of the line. Crossing his arms, Twain looked over the group. Elves… humans, humans, and more humans… are those dwarves? And those… demons? Two sets of demons, one pair dark and muted, the other colorful.

A bear beastfolk woman growled at the man behind the table. “I’m not blighted, dammit! All beastmen aren’t blighted just because your damn champion was!”

“Provide proof, or leave,” the man droned, bored.

She slammed her claw down on the table, scratching the wood. “You! How can I provide proof? If I had the money to afford a mage, I wouldn’t be here!”

Twain glanced over. He hesitated, then stepped forward.

Spar caught his shoulder. “Don’t bother. Think of it as an opponent defeated without a fight.”

“I fought alongside the beastmen on the border. Shoulder to shoulder, against the darkfoe. I’m not going to abandon one now, when it would cost me nothing to help.”

“Suit yourself.” Spar shrugged and released him.