Rudabag, regional capital of southern Lufaria, was known for its lumber, and it showed in the city’s construction. Every street was lined with beautiful buildings. Strong wooden frames lifted houses and stores to staggering heights. Today those streets were packed to bursting. Hand-made lanterns hung from balconies. Rough drumbeats gathered and stirred crowds, and the amateur twang of harps led dancers to careen into each other in pairs. Cooks, dragged from their restaurants, plied their trade from stalls. The people of Rudabag had turned out for the selection festival.
One of the densest pockets of celebration was centered around a great life-size statue of Lufaria’s king. There, a young woman stood, her permanently dark-stained eyes staring up, matching gazes. The statue’s crown, a twisted set of antlers, caught the morning sun—for a time, they looked just like the real thing, authority of pure light. Whatever passed between the women and the statue was private, a disappointment to the crowd slowly gathering around her.
Whispers had begun circling, and those whispers grew louder as they were repeated. Until finally, an older gentleman looked up from the stack of news pamphlets held in front of his nose, triumphantly pointing out a section to his neighbors. Then the shouts and cheers started.
“Arian!” The unwelcome followers called. “Do you think you’ll make captain today?”
Arian sighed, turning away from the statue, and doing her best to push her way through the people. Someday she wanted to give Lufaria something real to celebrate. This selection was stagnant. The city didn’t need new warrior bands. Not one of the selected had ever served here. Rudabag had the Wood-Snare sage for protection and her disciples for ambitious misadventures. Even in the villages where most selected captains ended up, warrior bands were little more than vanity projects.
The selection used to hold meaning. Lufaria’s king had designed it to give the lower castes a goal to strive for. Candidates had walked in from the streets as total nobodies, and left legends. Their feats had made for a time filled with things to celebrate. When the King had retreated from public sight though, the nation’s sense of purpose had vanished with him—like the last mists on a bright morning. Lufaria’s people deserved better. A nation that wasn’t moving forward was rotting. Like still water in a marsh.
That was why Arian needed to win today. She needed to be the river that carried Lufaria forward.
A boy tried to catch her hand as she darted past. Arian sidestepped him with a cold look. Dancing was the last thing on her mind right now, but the crowd wanted something. They needed to feel a part of things, this was their biggest day of celebration, farce though it was.
A determined smile and some waving, and Arian could likely have earned her passage. She gave nothing though. Today was too important. She couldn’t be happy, and she refused to show a fake smile.
Arian had resigned herself to pushing the whole way to the city theatre when she felt someone rap her on the back. Arian’s twin brother stood behind her wearing that grossly sweet smile he always kept for her. She hadn’t seen him for five years, but that smile hadn’t changed one bit. A few intrepid tears staged a campaign to reach her eyes, but they were fated to lose. Arian couldn’t afford to show weakness to an enemy.
“It’s good to see you again, Sis.” Mousa’s voice carried with it a breath of relief, expected given the circumstances. He would have kept tabs on her, but five years was a long time.
Arian wanted nothing more than to embrace her brother, but when Mousa went in for a hug, her stubbornness held. She dropped back, raising her knee to keep him at bay. “No hugs, Mousa. Can’t risk you trying to break my ribs or something.”
The crowd booed her, probably upset about how their idol’s reunion was going. Mousa was the church’s golden boy and everyone in the city loved him. They were probably wondering how his sister didn’t. If only they knew.
Mousa waved the crowd off. Where his hand went, golden sunlight toral trailed, giving off the perfect light to showcase his easy smile. “My Sis has every right to keep me at a distance. We may be family, but today we’re competing for the same goal.”
The crowd fell quiet as more sunlight toral launched itself skyward, shoved into cases of wind Mousa threw together on the fly. “I think you all know what we want.” The cases exploded high above, lighting the street in a hundred shades of gold. Mousa’s voice rang out with desire. “We want to show we’re worthy of protecting you all!”. Dancers whooped at the unexpected show, and drums sped up, setting an even more jovial pace.
The display frustrated Arian. Anyone else would have needed to practice that little trick, but not Mousa. Manipulating sunlight toral was just that easy for him. It always had been. That was why she had run away five years ago, away from the church’s care. To find some way to one up him. Now though? Could she really compete with this? Those explosions could easily have their purpose changed. How devastating would a weaponized version be in the melee that was to come? How much more effective would Mousa’s actual techniques be?
That didn’t matter and Arian knew it. No one might know it, but Mousa was the son of Lufaria’s reclusive king. Just like she was his daughter. That meant she had no choice. She needed to be better than him. The king’s children needed to earn the right to be acknowledged, and only one could be Lufaria’s future.
…
Delphin’s guilt weighed almost as heavy as his frustration. Every morning, he tried to get a response from Cas, and every morning he was reminded of the darkness his best friend had been plunged into. Months had already come and gone. The best clue he had was the ruins, and he had scoured the kingdom for information about them. The best he’d found was a name, the name of their long-dead creators: the Mooncraven.
The average person barely knew of their existence, and no scholar would trust a wandering warrior with knowledge of any kind. So, he needed to earn himself a more trustworthy position.
Nothing in Del’s life had prepared him for the examinations, character tests, or paperwork he had been forced to endure. Nevertheless, he had dealt with them. It was all to become a licensed captain of a warrior band. Del had no interest in leading anyone, but it was the fastest way to obtain many things, and it would give him access to a scholar.
The hour for the selection had finally come, and Del was climbing into position under the stage. He had already relinquished his weapon for use on the stage above. The only thing he had with him now was the sword that housed Cas. Del always kept it strapped to his back. He’d never once drawn it in a fight. Cas was no object to be wielded.
The stage for the selection was special. The normal theatre stage had been removed, and in its place, the Wood-Snare Sage had grown a replacement. It was a huge showcase of powerful magic. Hundreds of trees, each bent and twisted, intertwined their trunks and purple-leafed branches seamlessly, creating a stage where no blood would need to be spilled.
As a candidate, Del wasn’t allowed up there. Instead, he was forced to crawl far underneath, through practically nonexistent gaps in branch and tree. The few scrapes he earned were ignored, forgotten as he pulled himself into one of the many seats grown into the undergrowth.
Del couldn’t help but see red spots in the purple leaves. Putting himself under the control of another sage was not something he did lightly. His instincts told him to cut his way free.
Roots closed in around him, squeezing tightly, and Del was relieved of the fight against his instincts. It was too late. His body seized up; his mind acknowledged he could do nothing.
It was a blessing that the announcer’s voice could be heard above, loudly revving up the crowd. “It’s finally the day! In but a few moments we’ll get to see the mightiest up and coming warriors of southern Lufaria go all out in a melee that’s sure to take our breath away.”
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Del tried to focus on the audience’s cheering, but nobody in the audience had the strength, the unbridled authority of a sage. The roots that wrapped around his torso, cocooning him, did.
“Today is the day we see the birth of new legends. New captains for the new warrior bands that will protect our cities, towns, and villages!” The crowd went wild again. Del felt a particularly intrusive branch poke the back of his neck for permission. His head gave a nod of its own. His survival instinct kicking in. You did not say no to a sage, even if they pretended to give the option.
“Five towns are in need of new protection this year, so we’ll see five glorious winners!” The branch plunged into Del’s neck in a shallow cut, forming a connection to his torm. It felt different but familiar. It pulled him back, back to a different time when his spirit had formed a similar kind of connection.
The next thing he knew, Del was on a flat surface of trunks, branches, and leaves. He scrambled, finding his sword at his feet, and taking comfort in its familiar grip. A bell rang and shocked Del’s senses wide. Something was charging at him from behind. Del reached into his torm. He moved liquid toral of force, metal, and wind. He inhaled and felt his sword’s dull blade. He made it sharp. He twisted. He struck. The thing charging at him fell to the ground, lifeless.
Del hazarded a glance, shocked at how the resistance on his blade had felt. It had been too uniform, too smooth for a monster’s rough control over toral. He saw a human face. His stomach rebelled. Then his mind caught up. He realized something. It was just a puppet, a wooden avatar.
Another avatar was running around him, throwing a wave of fire toral. Del built another technique. It snapped onto his blade, faster and more refined than he, than anyone, could have achieved alone. That was how it was now. Cas may have been unable to think coherently in his state, but he lent his will whenever Del tried to form a technique.
As he felt the flame’s heat, Del added a splash of water toral to his technique. The wave was cut by force, extinguished by water.
Del launched himself forward, rushing down his attacker, a new technique already on his saber. The gap didn’t vanish though. The attacker was faster. Earth toral surrounded their body, enhancing it, making it stronger.
A lance of metal toral threatened Del’s side, shot from an avatar with a weapon to match. It didn’t come quickly. It would be easy to dodge. As he started moving though, a thrown axe caught Del’s attention. The axe, guided by a rush of wind toral, was curving, moving into the same path he was escaping to. Del twisted his wrist, rotated his elbow, and the axe safely met his sword.
Attack after attack came. Three attackers ran around him, staying out of reach with techniques that enhanced the body. Del slipped through most every assault, but he couldn’t dodge everything. Time after time, he pulled from the puddle of liquid toral he had formed by expanding his torm. With each attack he slashed out of the air, Del came closer and closer to emptying himself. Toral was all around, and Del inhaled as much as he could, but it was little more than a drip trying to refill a gush.
Del couldn’t catch his attackers, but he didn’t need to. Others did it for him. The avatar with the lance was forced to break off to exchange a flurry of techniques, another whose punches carried payloads of force toral had taken them by surprise. Del took the chance to close in. One blow splintered the lance and the wood underneath.
Del had found his way to the center of the stage. The melee was so closely packed here that it was hard to tell who was fighting who. Del just focused on lashing out at anyone in range while relying on his sense of toral to defend himself. Even so, a few steps in, an axe expanded by a metal toral technique nearly took his avatar’s head off.
Del fought on, relying more and more on inhaled toral as his torm rapidly depleted. The number of competitors left standing decreased by the second and the fights turned back to a slower more calculated pace as chances at victory were reevaluated.
Del was fighting in a particularly heated four-way battle when he ran into her. The girl came leaping into the fray at blinding speed, taking out two avatars with a single blow. The girl’s avatar was carved with a combat outfit that looked frayed in places, and the eyes though carved of wood sparked with an intense determination and focus. An enhancement technique of water and force sped her movements, but the truly impressive thing about her was the jets of water rotating around her body at high speed. The spray that came from the jets seemed to form a watery veil as they curved over her head.
The girl moved a series of triangles around her body, something like scales made of solidified force toral. The movement changed the direction of the jets. Del hastily built his own technique as he realized the jet’s intent. Power to speed. There was barely enough time to raise the blade before scales shifted jets again. Speed to power.
Del’s technique honed as it was, was unable to fully penetrate the jet that came at him. Instead, it was a rock in a river, breaking the technique, weakening it. In the end, he was only saved by his own affinity and recent practice with water toral, he knew how it was likely to behave, so he was able to roll with the blow, reducing the impact. He was grateful his own body was carved from wood and couldn’t feel pain.
The roll sent Del through the legs of another pair of avatars whose blows he was forced to hurriedly parry. As he continued to back up, his breath caught, and his teeth clenched. The intensity this girl had reminded him of his master more than it did the other avatars here.
Del felt his body tighten, but he forced himself to keep breathing, he had a promise he needed to keep. He continued backing up. Play defense for long enough and an opportunity had to show itself. The jets were the problem. Land a clean strike through them without being hit and he could win.
The scales changed again, and the girl’s jets came closer to her body. She caught the attacks of the pair Del had just rolled through. Weapons came crashing down on her arms, but before they could land, her jets tore them from their owners’ grasp. One more shift of the scales and some of the water toral blasted out from her elbows, crushing their avatars to pieces. All of that and she didn’t slow down. The posture of her avatar indicated a single-minded advance.
Del was forced to counter one blow then two, then a third. The scales directing the jets changed each time, and each configuration was different from the last. After the fourth blow, Del’s hand refused to move. That was the only warning that his avatar’s wrist was broken.
Unable to raise his sword to defend, and unable to get out of the way, Del resorted to a trick. He looked directly over the girl’s shoulder and widened his eyes as if in surprise at an opponent who wasn’t there. The girl just shook her head. “You’re pretty good. You move like a warrior, but you don’t have enough toral to match me.”
Del woke underneath the stage with a flurry of silent curses, all directed at himself. That had been his best chance to get a scholar to talk to him. Now, he had nothing. He couldn’t trust anyone to get the information he needed, and he couldn’t get it himself. Cas lay silent on his back. Guilt ate him.
…
Arian bounded around, hunting down the most dangerous opponents using the jets of her azure veil technique. At this point, there were only about ten people left on the stage, each highly skilled, each well known to the others. Arian was moving towards Sallia, a student from one of the sects who had been rejected after years of training. She had just barely failed to achieve the skill required to become an official disciple.
Before Arian could get to the girl, she found herself being pelted by golden light from a dozen makeshift crossbows. “Sorry Sis, I can’t let you win here.”
Arian looked at her brother. This is what it came down to then? This was where their fate would be decided? She bit her lip. She didn’t want to knock Mousa out of the tournament. Natural talent alone wasn’t enough to get him here, among the last. He had been fighting for the same thing she had this whole time; she knew how hard that was. Then again, now was better than later. She didn’t want her brother to have a hard life.
Arian charged, but Mousa didn’t let her into range. He forged his sunlight toral into a giant spear, far longer than he could have normally lifted. Arian attempted to vault over it, moving her scales into configuration 32. The configuration sent two jets into the ground launching her upwards and to the right.
For a moment, Arian thought she had him, could practically taste victory, but Mousa’s face cracked into a smile. “Checkmate.”
The makeshift crossbows Arian had charged past swiveled, fully reloaded, and already firing. It was a close call. Even bringing her jets in close for defense, the bolts hissed through. One of them alone couldn’t make it past her defenses, but there were dozens, and they were all aimed at the same point.
Arian shifted her triangles into configuration 58, and two full jets burst from her shoulders, throwing her back to the ground. Moving herself like that was a huge waste of toral, but she had plenty to spare. It flung her clear.
Mousa gave a low whistle. “Not bad, Sis.”
Arian tried to press the attack again, but with Mousa constantly forging new weapons on the fly, she had enough difficulty just dodging. Makeshift crossbows fired, a giant spear thrust in and out, caltrops of pure burning sun were scattered. Throughout the onslaught, Arian shifted from configuration to configuration, launching herself from place to place, defending, and even firing a few jets at Mousa, hoping to catch him off guard.
A bell rang and Arian stopped in disbelief, looking around her. There were only five avatars left on stage including her and Mousa. The fight was over. She was made captain and so was Mousa. They were on equal footing. Nothing had been decided here.
…
Arian was feeling like a helpless little girl again. The same as when she had wet herself in the middle of one of the old monk’s classes years before she had left the care of the church. How had she not known about this?
Before her, a crowd of faces looked at her expectantly, waiting for an answer. She had nothing to give. The rules had apparently changed, and nobody had bothered to tell her. To the captain of a warrior band, there was one person who was irreplaceable. Their second. Stories abounded of how the undying loyalty of a good second could make or break a captain.
Normally, the captain was expected to choose their second from the group of candidates they had competed with, but it had never been a public display. This was bad.
Nobody here trusted Arian. Certainly, nobody liked her. Those who had trained with her day-in and day-out on Rudabag’s outskirts were looking pointedly away. They had given her invitation after invitation in the hopes of getting to know her. She had turned them all down. Perhaps if she hadn’t, one of them would be meeting her eyes now. None of her few friends from her days in the church orphanage could be trusted. They were too close to Mousa. Besides, she had burned those bridges when she had run away.
That left the sect rejects as the only choice, but that was no choice at all. They had the best reason to hate her. More than a few of their numbers had come to her for help. She had earned a reputation for easily understanding techniques. Many had asked her to help them when they were at their lowest point, about to be kicked out of their home. Arian had turned every one of them down.
All of that was for a great cause. She knew that, still believed in it. Arian wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t run from the orphanage, eschewing their holy ordeal of rain for a simpler one of water and force. She wouldn’t have the skill she needed if she hadn’t dodged social calls and pleas for aid. Without that strength, she couldn’t live to become the Queen that her people needed to move forward.
Arian could not afford to show weakness here. She was about to lose enough face as it was. If there was one thing that tradition looked down on, it would be choosing an outsider, a stranger as a second. That was exactly what Arian knew she had to do though. She had no other option.
Holding herself together with will alone and thanking herself for memorizing every candidate’s name before the selection, Arian pointed. “I choose Delphin as my second.”
The face Mousa gave her spoke a thousand unneeded barbs. The face Delphin made though was unexpected. She had expected surprise, happiness or maybe anger and confusion. Instead, his face was totally calm.