“Very well, warden. Please conduct the identification now. I want as accurate a prisoner count as I can get for the Choosing.”

Duncan wanted to protest the charges the moment the warden levied them but held his tongue. Trespassing? Espionage? His ride just took a wrong turn.

He saw no chance of convincing anyone of his situation, though. He didn’t think anything he said would help his situation at the moment. One thing he had been able to piece together from years of history and clues from his aunt was that pretty much the only people in Dintarnum who liked Corvelin were people from Corvelin. He doubted anyone here would hear anything he said after seeing his uniform.

He was a bit relieved no one had asked him any questions. There wasn’t too much he could tell them that even made sense to him at this point. He was confused about their lack of interest, though. Why would they not want more information on what he may or may not be doing there? Instead of dwelling on that question, he just rose from where he was sitting and moved toward the warden at his gesture to approach.

“Arm out, kid.” Duncan complied, and a second later, the warden was holding a rolled-up blue paper scroll. It had appeared from nothing.

‘A spatial device,’ he thought as the warden reached the scroll toward his outstretched arm. He had seen some of the weak spatial devices his aunt had made for the Academy, and some the professors had brought back to Earth with them. He had even seen some of the nobles at the academy using them.

The scroll touched his arm, shone with white light for a few seconds, and then returned to normal. The warden opened the scroll and read aloud: “Race: human. Age: 17. Tier: zero. Combat Subject: none. Non-combat Subject: none. Bloodline: none. No status effects detected to prevent him from putting up a fight in the Choosing.”

“That makes five for the Choosing in cell 36. Please make sure to add that new information to the boy’s file when it’s sent with the rest.”

“Will do, ma’am.”

“On to 37. We still have to get to the women’s prison after the last four cells, so let’s try to pick up the pace a bit.”

With nothing else, the group moved on.

“They didn’t even ask for my name,” Duncan muttered.

“I expect they didn’t really care too much,” the dwarf, Tork, said. Duncan turned away from the cell bars, seeing the dwarf still on the ground but looking back at him with a slightly less terrified look on his face. Acceptance was starting to replace fear, it seemed.

“They will probably wait to see if you survive the Choosing tomorrow before they ask for it.”

“What exactly is this Choosing.” Duncan hadn’t heard about it at the Academy.

Duncan saw the dwarf’s fearful look return at his question. “Mate, we are in for a rough time tomorrow. Every year, the clan holds a sort of contest for 16-year-olds who want a chance at combat training. They pit those 16-year-olds against prisoners like us in a duel, and they are allowed to show off for potential masters. Then, at the end, the masters choose who they want to train.”

“It seems like a poor way of demonstrating potential if you ask me,” Duncan replied. “I would imagine many of the kids have trained quite a bit for the event, and I can’t imagine most of the prisoners they have available to fight them are the greatest at combat.”

“You would be right,” Tork laughed. It was full of regret. “They do try to pick people who seem to be somewhat familiar with what end of an axe to hold, but there are always deaths in the Choosing, which is why I’m so nervous. The only reason they likely picked me is because I’m tier one. Even someone like me who only works on their non-combat Subject benefits from a higher-tier body. They must be scraping for people to send against those battle-happy lunatics if even my… celebrations warrant my inclusion. I would suspect they picked you because of that military uniform you’re wearing. You really from Corvelin?”

Duncan chose not to answer, instead focusing on one particular part of Tork’s explanation. “Deaths. You said people die. Do they not use sparring armor or ward their weapons?”

“No. Something about the real risk of death bringing out one’s true nature or some nonsense.”

‘Well, I guess I’ll be dueling again. Should be interesting.’ The panic most people would likely feel in this situation, that is, if Tork’s reaction was anything to go by, never came for Duncan. That calm he had been trained into once again descended. Fighting, he could do. Fighting, he was good at. Fighting, he had been raised for.

“So, what is your name, kid?” Tork asked.

“Duncan. My name is Duncan.”

***

Chained against the arena wall once again, Duncan sat and watched another fight. His match against Phevona O’Leon had ended over 30 minutes prior, and he had yet to receive any backlash for his victory. What he had received, though, was attention. Many spectators, participants, and even some of the masters stole glances or outright stared at him. Duncan could feel the attention like a presence looming over his shoulder.

He was somewhat used to such things from his time at the Academy. He and the other students there had been the ‘pride of Earth,’ or so the Academy’s marketing department liked to say. The students had their fair share of fame, especially around the end-of-year tournaments. This was different, yet oddly similar. These people hadn’t just come for the entertainment of the Choosing. They had come to see the future of their people. To see the best of the next generation. They didn’t come to see that next generation lose to Corvelin.

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‘Kind of like how the nobles back on Earth didn’t want to see their scions losing to a commoner.’ Duncan had seen those stares before. He had felt them on his back as he climbed the ranks of the Academy until he stood alone at the top. Now, though, he was at the top of nothing. He was still a prisoner. A prisoner that some would hold a grudge against.

‘I definitely should have thought this through a little more,’ he chastised himself inwardly. He could have thrown the match. He could have made a good show of it only to lose in the end and help make the O’Leon girl look good. But he had been caught up in the fight. He had been completely focused on victory. Duncan couldn’t truly find it in himself to regret taking the chance to go all out against a good opponent, but he knew he should have.

Now, though, he was just a prisoner chained to a wall.

Beside Duncan, Tork sat in silence. During their time in prison together, Duncan discovered that Tork loved to talk. Since his fight with an elf boy just before Duncan’s match, the dwarf had been silent. Healers had saved him from any permanent harm and even patched up most of the minor damage he had suffered, but it seemed the dwarf was dealing with more mental trauma than physical.

Duncan left him alone. He instead chose to watch the rest of the matches in silence. His fight had been towards the end of the day, and the matches were usually over quickly. There had been a variety of participants. Mages with wands. Archers. A variety of melee fighters. One dwarf girl had used what Duncan initially thought was a pickaxe but was actually a makeshift war hammer with a pick on one side. Her swings made him believe she may have grown up in a mine. She had won her match with pure aggression against an elf.

Not all of the prisoners, or even the participants for that matter, made it out of their fights alive. Over the course of the day, Duncan had counted nine deaths. Seven prisoners and two participants. They had all died instantly, given the healers were good enough to save anything that didn’t instantly kill tier one.

Less than an hour after Duncan was returned to the line of prisoners, the last fight finished, and the announcer once again rose to speak. “That concludes today’s matches. All participants, please line up in the arena for choosing.”

Close to 50 kids had lined up in the arena a few minutes later. Most of them did their best to put up a confident front, but many of them failed to do so. Some openly wore their nervousness on their faces and in their body language.

Near the end of the line, Phevona O’Leon looked calm, and her eyes shone with curiosity. Duncan could tell because she was looking directly at him. Even as the announcer called the first participant in line to step forward, Phevona’s eyes didn’t leave him. There was no animosity in her gaze; there was only what he would call interest. Not romantic interest. It was more like the interest his brother Wayne had in an enchantment he had never seen. The calculating interest of trying to find out how something worked, where it came from, and how to use it.

Phevona stared at him for minutes, never looking away, so Duncan did the same. When they fought, he paid little attention to her features, but now he took the time to pay closer attention. She was neither short nor tall. Duncan expected she would come up to about his nose if they stood beside each other. Her chestnut hair was in a tight bun, likely to keep it out of her way in a fight. Now that he was looking, he could see a slight point to her ears. So likely a half-elf then. Duncan knew nothing about the politics of Kuno, but he suspected it was a lot less… discouraging towards mixed parentage than Corvelin seemed to be.

Eventually, Phevona seemed to make a decision. She gave a slight nod in his direction, then turned away to wait for her turn.

Over the next several hours, each kid had their time to step forward. They were introduced yet again. Then they stood… and waited. They waited for a master, any master, to stand for them. Whenever a master stood, the weight on the chosen’s shoulders seemed to lift, like the weight of their world relied on them being chosen. Each time no master stood, that weight seemed to pile on until it was soul-crushing.

Sometimes, multiple masters chose the same kid. Then, it was time for the kid to make a choice. They could only have one master. Every time one of the participants had to choose, Duncan could have sworn the kid was actually having their teeth pulled. They took their time. They each wanted the best training they could have, but none wanted to offend any of the masters who had chosen them.

Eventually, it was Phevona’s turn. Duncan was a little worried for the girl. None of the participants who had lost their fight had been chosen so far, but he shouldn’t have been worried.

“Who will choose Phevona O’Leon?” The ritual words had hardly left the announcer’s mouth before four masters stood up. None of them hesitated. Despite her loss, it seemed they recognized her potential.

‘As they should,’ thought Duncan.

The first three masters took turns reciting their own ritual words, and then it was the last master's turn to do so. “I, Boetin Moretz, choose Phevona O’Leon for instruction.” The man looked on the young end of 30, but that was by Earth's standards. Who knew how old he was with the slowed aging growing in tier provided?

Unlike most of the others who had received multiple offers, Phevona didn’t hesitate to make her choice. “I, Phevona O’Leon, accept Boetin Moretz’s offer for instruction.” She bowed to each of the other three masters that had chosen her, then gave a deeper bow to her chosen master and returned to her spot in line.

Despite not knowing the girl, Duncan wasn’t surprised to find he was happy for her. It only took their brief spar for him to know she would be a blessing to any team lucky enough to have her on it. What he was surprised to find was that he was a little bit jealous of the girl. Not just her but all of the kids that had been chosen.

He had been training since before he could even remember. He couldn’t recall a day when he had not held a sword in his hand. He had drive. He had talent. He had a passion for the sword unlike anyone he had ever met.

What he had not had, however, was a true master. A guiding voice to help guide his love of the sword. All he had ever had was a revenge-obsessed mother who had driven most of the humanity out of him, then sub-par instructors at the Academy who could only keep up with his growing mastery because they were a higher tier than him. The only good his mother had done for him was drive him to the sword, and the instructors could only give him useless praise because they couldn’t truly comprehend what he could do with a sword.

This was what he had hoped he would gain in coming to Dintarnum. A chance to grow. An opportunity for guidance he couldn’t find on Earth. That, and a chance at some answers from his father.

Instead, he was a prisoner, watching others earn a chance at what he could only dream of.

The reality of his situation came crashing down on him. Since he had been captured, he had tried to keep a clear mind. A hopeless attitude leads to missed information and opportunities. But now, he could feel himself giving in to some of that hopelessness. He had done everything he was supposed to. He had trained. He had learned. He had fought to the top of his class and earned his spot in the Realm Shift. He was supposed to be in Corvelin, continuing to learn and grow until he was ready for his Subject.

Instead, Duncan was here. Chained to the wall, awaiting who knows what fate. He doubted they would have any use for him after this Choosing of theirs.

His head fell, his eyes closed, and for what felt like the first time since his family pulled him out of the indifferent void his mother had left him in, he truly felt alone.

Soon, the last of the kids were chosen, and the day came to an end, along with Duncan’s hope. “With that, today’s Choosing is comple…” The announcer abruptly cut off. Duncan’s eyes stayed on the ground. Seconds passed, and nothing happened. Eventually, he raised his head, only for his view to be blocked by a man standing only a few strides away from him.

The man was an elf. His dark skin and silver eyes clashed as he looked at Duncan. He wore a loose-fitting combat tunic and trousers that were clearly excellently made despite a complete lack of adornment. His right hand rested on the pommel of a sword sheathed at his hip.

“Hey kid, what’s your name?” The man’s voice was not powerful. It was power. But, it was also control. It was the power to end Duncan’s life without effort, and it was the control only to do it if that was what the man wished. There was no defying the man’s question. No lying in his presence. Duncan spoke because he could do nothing else.

“My name is Duncan. Duncan Tell”

The man stared back at Duncan for a timeless moment, then spoke again. “Alright, Duncan.” The man smirked, turned, looked up at the announcer, and yelled, “I, Cinder O’Leon, choose Duncan Tell for instruction.”

No one moved. No one made a sound. Duncan once again found the seconds stretching further than they should. Then, the crowd exploded. Shock, awe, and even outrage filled the arena.

Duncan didn’t pay attention to any of it. The helplessness he had been feeling vanished in his surprise, and only one thought dominated his mind as he sat, looking up at the back of the man who had chosen him.

‘Did he just say O’Leon? As in, Phevona O’Leon?’