AKI:
“I’ve lost two of three,” Wiltos said. “I cannot afford to lose the fourth.”
Dako and Wiltos stood facing one another. Sil and I sat to the far side, waiting and watching, our backs set against the cold wall of the training chamber. The multi-purpose room was far smaller and did not do as well with any particular Art compared to the more specialized versions. Still, it did accommodate five of the six and made for an excellent training area. The elaborate mind arenas were even better, but besides being populated by senior students, they did not afford any privacy. A lattice of etchings of all five of the colors representative of the typical Arts webbed the white walls and ceiling, no hint of the many smears of blood and sweat students had poured onto them evident.
“You’re an Aedificator, yes?” Dako asked.
Wiltos nodded. “If my harmonies are to be believed.”
“Golem or Telum?”
“My mind prefers Golem Arts. My heart prefers Telum. I’m not sure which is right.”
Dako chuckled. “The heart rarely outwits the mind.”
Wiltos shrugged. “They’re both conduits of the soul. Whoever outwits who, the soul is to blame. While the mind calculates what you need and the heart urges you to seek what you want, the soul, who is the source of both their arguments, is the arbiter who must choose between their advice.”
Dako looked over at me, his expression downtrodden. “There’s two of you? Actually, don’t answer that.” He knocked his fists together. “Better we spar with fists than with words.”
Dako dashed forward. Wiltos raised a wall of earth to block his path. Dako’s speed outdid Wiltos’s effort, and my large friend used the knee-high lump of compacted rock and soil as a stepping stone, going airborne and propelling himself faster. Wiltos glided to the side, prepared to summon another earthen construct. Dako conjured bone claws and raked the ground in such a way as to alter his trajectory. Before Wiltos could react, a flying knee slammed into his chest, sending him across the room, arms and legs trailing behind him like the flames of a shooting star.
Wiltos crashed; three distinct but near concurrent thuds marked his back, limbs, and head cracking against the reinforced marble of the chamber. Limp and unconscious, he fell forward, a fourth thud marking his landing.
We shouted after him. No response. Dako got to him first. He shook Wiltos by the shoulder. No response. He rolled him over onto his back. The movement exposed Wiltos’ fractured arm and leg when they refused to coordinate with the rest of his body. His eyes were open but vacant. Unfocused. Blood leaked from the back of his head.
I arrived, pushed Dako out of the way, crouched, and put an ear over Wiltos’ mouth. Nothing. No sounds of wheezing, no touch of his breath on my face. I pressed my ear to his chest and felt the vibration of bone grinding against bone; several of his ribs were broken. I put my fingers high on his throat, a little under his jawline, and felt the slow and weak throb of his heartbeat.
“Heal him,” I said.
“I thought he was—”
“Dako!” I grabbed his collar and pulled him close. “Heal him!”
Dako looked confused. “But the chamber?”
“It’s not working!” The golden lines on the walls had stuttered when Wiltos crashed into the wall. They were wholly dark now.
Dako lay his hand over Wiltos’ chest. Moments passed in agonizing slowness. Suddenly, there were crackles, crunches, and an unpleasant snap as Wiltos’s bones realigned. He shot up into a sitting position, sucking in a breath, eyes wide in panic.
“Good,” Dako said.
“Good?” I asked. “He nearly died!”
Sil grabbed me from behind. “Not on purpose, Aki. This is not Dako’s fault.”
I tried to brush her away. It took me a breath to realize I did brush her away—my strength, unaided by sensus, rivaled Dako’s these days, and I had not yet caught up to the realization. Sil fell with a grunt of surprise. I froze. She looked back at me, fear in her eyes—a fear I understood intimately. I stepped forward, causing her to flinch back.
“It is not him I am angry with,” I said, my words soft, though I had trouble unknotting the anger from my expression.
Sil got to her feet. I more than noticed the two backward steps she took, the second longer than the first. “It’s just…last time…”
“I know.”
Dako picked himself up, approached Wiltos, and put a hand on his back. “The chamber should’ve made light work of his injury.” He looked around the room, his brow furrowed. “There are contingencies built into the network of Surgeon matrixes. This should not be possible. Not unless…”
“Sabotage,” I said. My eyes lingered on Sil for a moment, desperately waiting for her fear to fade away. When she refused to meet my gaze, I sighed and turned to Dako. “They did this.”
“But how?” Dako asked. “There are countless chambers like this one. How would they know which one we’d use? And haven't we almost exclusively used Reaper chambers? How did they know we’d even come to one of the common chambers this time?”
“They didn’t need to,” Wiltos said. His voice was weak. Frightened. “I’ve studied the way these chambers are built. From what I understand, many of the engravings run deep—those on the surface are but a fraction of the whole. They don’t need to break the matrix, merely know which locations to interfere with.”
“You mean—”
“Targeting a few points from outside the chamber would suffice. Enough key points, and you can render the entire matrix useless for a time. And given their familiarity with Duros Arts…”
After one last glance at Sil, who still refused to look my way, I restarted for the exit.
“They’re long gone,” Wiltos said. I paused. “The backlash of phasing the matrixes out of sync lingers for a time before the system once again harmonizes.” He pointed at the gold lines flooding back into the etchings on the walls. “We must’ve almost started our match too late for them to succeed.” He looked down at his hands. “I suppose my rotten luck helped put me on the wrong side of it.”
Dako ruffled the much smaller boy’s hair. “Your rotten luck put you in a room with friends who were willing and able to help you weather the threat.”
“I plan to do more than that,” I said and continued to stalk out of the room.
“Aki!” Dako called after me. He was beside me in moments. For a man his size, he had no right to move so quickly. “Are you sure it was him?”
I pressed the matrix controlling the chamber’s entrance, and the stone slab slid out of my way. “Who else?”
“Uorago.”
“They’ve been quiet for some time.” I came out onto the empty sidestreet and turned towards the road leading to my destination. “Why now?”
“Wait.” Dako tried to pull me to a stop. I shrugged his hand away. “Aki, you promised.” His words succeeded where his strength had failed; I halted.
“You think I have a choice?” I asked.
“You do.” He looped his arm around my shoulders, and I felt his tenseness flow away when I didn’t dodge or flee. “Take some time to think.”
I heard Wiltos and Sil's approach. His steps were hurried, and I saw his concern when they brought him to me. Hers were hesitant and lent me more fuel for my anger.
“What is there to think about,” I said as I resumed my stride, Sil’s hesitation eradicating mine. “I will ask, and he will tell.”
Dako once more hurried to catch up. “To what end?”
I glance back. “His.”
“No, I mean, what does doing this now give you that doing it tomorrow won’t.”
My strides grew a little shorter, a little slower; the question had me thinking. Justice? I asked myself. No, I am not so charitable. A little, sure, as anyone who doesn’t spend their life smothering their empathy is, but not so much as to endanger myself. Peace of mind? Maybe. Revenge. Likely. An outlet for my anger. More likely.
Not a second had passed when Dako asked, “Are any of the reasons you just contemplated reason enough?”
I stopped again. My mind frantically reached for some reason that might excuse what I so badly wanted to do. “We cannot wait for him to try again. I will not let Wiltos die because…” And then it hit me: why I was so angry, why I was heading towards a battle I was more likely to lose than win. I could not stand being a coward or bear the thought of Wiltos paying for our friendship with his life, all while I hid from my enemy. I could not stand being Kalin’s son.
“The new moon is two weeks away,” I said.
Dako eyed me, skeptical of my sudden calmness. “It is,” he confirmed in a tone that beckoned me to continue.
“I have no more tricks to play.” I looked over at Sil. Her eyes met mine without fear, and I reasoned it was my anger she was afraid of, not me. The sting in my heart abated. “He and I will face each other.”
Dako nodded. “Then we are agreed. You—”
“But I will ask him.”
“I don’t understand.”
Dako’s further grumblings failed to pause me again. I strode on with purpose, knowing where Vignil was. My anger was cold now. Honed. Directed. Understanding the why of it helped. As did the quarter-turn it took to get to his location. Winter wind and rain buffeted against me, but where once I’d have shivered, my vastly improved constitution refused to take note.
The Duros building, where students were instructed by masters, would’ve been white if not for the many matrixes drawn onto its exterior. As it stood, the dense lines of power decorating its surface made it so the structure appeared to be painted in an amalgam of golden shades so bright as to hurt the eyes of whoever stared too long at it—a behavior I suspected it shared with many of its occupants.
“Can I enter?” I asked Dako. He stood beside me as I defiantly beheld the golden luster, my eyes stinging from the glare of sensus.
“No.” It was Wiltos who answered me. “Ekolise told us our marks would only grant access based on the classifications we qualified for.”
I looked back at him and tapped my temple with a finger. “Near perfect memories, remember.”
Distracted from his apprehension, Wiltos snorted at my remark goodnaturedly. “Yeah, don’t remind me. The only thing taming my jealousy is my ability to forget.”
“The day’s lectures are technically over,” I said.
“Irrelevant.” Dako gestured at the few students, fewer Fifths, and even fewer Masters entering and leaving the premises. “It is because of their presence and activities we are barred, and since they may remain for however long they please, it stands to reason you are barred indefinitely.”
I gave my friend a meaningful look. He stared back at me, his expression just as significant despite—or maybe because of—its blankness.
“I must,” I said, hoping words could translate my conviction more accurately.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“Because I fear his answer will unleash your recklessness.”
I held in a sigh, knowing it could undermine my objective. “I have a hold on my anger.”
“For now.”
“I will not face him before the time comes.”
“You’ve already made that promise.”
“And I’ve kept true to it.”
“Barely and with assistance.”
This time, I did not have the will to hold in my sigh. “I have my reasons, Dako.”
“I know. Good reasons, too, no doubt. Still…”
“I was not speaking of my anger.”
“Then what?” A hint of pleading broke Dako’s wooden expression.
“Of why I wish to speak with him.”
“Then tell me.”
“You might not deem it worth the risk.”
“I don’t, as it currently stands. Telling me might not change my mind. Not telling me definitely won't.”
“Withholding your assistance will only delay me.”
“I guess we’re both refusing to take the more rational course of action.”
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Two slaps hit us simultaneously. Mine was less crisp because my hair had grown long and unruly enough to need binding. Dako’s close-trimmed cut did less to muffle the sound of Sil’s palm striking the back of his head. Both of us turned to her with indignation.
“You think bickering will solve anything,” she said. Her exasperation rebuffed our astounded umbrage with ease. Her eyes fell on me, dissociating the image of her earlier fear from my memories with impervious intensity. “Aki, you must learn to trust us as we trust you.” Before I made the mistake of voicing her earlier lack of trust in me, she turned to Dako. “And you must stop treating Aki as if he is some wild animal you’ve chosen to domesticate. He is your friend, not your pet or your ward.” A snickering Wiltos drew her aggression, and the smile fell from his face. “And you, bravery is as much facing your fear as it is hiding it from others. Stop letting everyone know you’re afraid.”
Our silent trio stared on at her, chagrined and speechless. A raise of her hand propelled us into action. Wiltos stood straighter, only the tight muscles of his clenched jaw ruining his constructed confidence. Dako headed inside without a word, ignoring my muttered attempts to explain myself. He returned before my wavering thoughts gave doubt a chance to take root.
Vignil did not come alone, nor did he drag along his usual posse. A man walked beside him, tall, domineering, and with a brusque and forced manner that aimed for regal but fell short and landed on arrogant. Even his features spoke of his ruthless nature—a heavy brow over beady eyes, a thick nose over thicker lips, and a square jaw to complete the straight lines of his cubic head.
“Have you come to accept your fate?” Vignil asked.
I nodded. “Yes, though I suspect we’d disagree on what fate has in store for me.”
“Then it is settled. We will face each other the day after the new moon.”
The unknown Bainan godling barged into the conversation. “Our discussions on the matter have not concluded,” he said to Vignil, his tactless bearing polluting his voice with a volume unbecoming of the tense discussion.
Vignil looked back at him with barely contained disdain, and I wondered for a moment if I had been wrong about the stranger. “Our discussion might not have, Wrelick, but my decision is final.”
The man, Wrelick, was poised to reply before I cut in.
“Was it you?” I asked.
Vignil seemed happy to ignore his unwelcome companion in favor of entertaining my question. “Was what me?”
“The meddling of our chamber’s matrixes?”
“And if it was?”
I stepped closer to the Fiora. “You are hungry for my throat. I can delay your chance at ripping it open.”
Vignil barked a laugh, surprising me. “You wish to barter with your death? I have seen plenty try to negotiate for their lives, but their death? Just for that, I shall humor you as you have humored me.” The smile that lingered from his laughter left him before he gave his response: “No.”
Knowing lying was not in his nature, particularly against the likes of me, and because it would not aid his objective, I accepted his answer.
“Then only one stipulation remains,” I said.
Vignil flashed a smirk and waved me on. “If only to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Our fights must be without an audience.”
Vignil shrugged. “Your corpse and my hand in its creation are my only concerns.”
Wrelick placed himself between us, knocking me back as he whirled to face Vignil. “Our grievance outweighs yours by a life.” Vignil raised one eyebrow. Wrelick tensed. Upon realizing Vignil did not mean to do him harm, he said in a much calmer tone, “Allow us to settle our grievance, Uncle. My father, your brother, will surely remember the favor.”
“Suspected, Wrelick,” Vignil said. “You have no proof Hunder’s demise was his doing. Given the mysterious and powerful method used, one might say your suspicions are unfounded.”
“Who else?” He glanced over at Dako. “We are aware of Dakomir’s strengths.” He regarded Wiltos and Sil. “He is too weak, and her death has already been scheduled.” He leveled back on Vignil. “Malorey knows better. And Illora, besides being untouchable, is a Tunneler and does not have the means to beget the physical damage my brother sustained.”
“And you think a Mud did?”
“We both know he is far more than a Mud, especially if any of what I’ve been told about his match with Froxil rings true.”
Vignil glanced at me sideways with a look of consideration. “No. He is mine.” And with definitive finality, he turned and reentered the Duros building. Even the determined Wrelick sensed the certitude of his proclamation, and instead of hurrying after him to continue pleading his case, he regarded me with beady eyes made smaller by the frown of his heavy brow before stalking off.
“Without an audience,” Dako said. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve agreed.”
“Maybe,” I said. He nudged my shoulder with his. “Probably,” I admitted with a smile—apologies are rarely explicit between friends. “But more importantly, we have been lax.”
Sil nodded. “Very much so.”
“You, Wiltos, and I will have it rough come the day of the new moon,” I said.
“What about your performance against Froxil?” Dako asked. “We had assumed no one took notice simply because no one reacted. This Wrelick has just proven us wrong.”
“And your request for a closed match will add to the interest, especially when news of Vignil’s death circulates,” Sil added. Her faith in me warmed my heart.
“True, but the mystery will persist,” I said. “That is what is keeping them at bay. My performance against Froxil was notable but not out of the realm of possibility—most will assume I had used Painter Arts, which might impress but does not lead to the frenzy of compulsory offers we fear.”
“You might have to lean into the possibility of your being a Lorail cast-off,” Dako said.
I frowned. “A dangerous gamble.”
“True,” Dako said, the only one to know the stipulations Lorail had decreed. “But less dangerous than the alternative.”
“I have little to no idea what’s being discussed,” Wiltos interjected. “And excuse my selfishness, but might I remind you all of my approaching doom?”
***
Brittle stood over one of the few known Pondus matrixes, though, to anyone but her and me, the many modifications had changed it beyond recognition. We were in the chamber we always used to practice and experiment, the same one she had used to test my talent for Meaning.
“I have a favor to ask,” I said from across the matrix, etching additions she’d instructed me to add.
“Ask.” Brittle did not look up, too engrossed with her work.
“I need you to judge a match.”
She looked up then, my request briefly eliciting a greater interest than her impassioned need to explore the mysteries of Pondus Arts. She soon turned back to her task. “Need?”
“If I wish to keep my harmonies a secret.”
“Ah, I see. I’ve heard whispers that particular ship has already set sail.”
“More a fishing boat than a ship.”
Brittle paused from her work to laugh. “Clever. Against who?”
“Vignil.”
“The Fiora?”
“Yes.”
“Can you beat him?”
“Why else would I face him?”
“Because he gave you no other choice.” She looked up once more. I’d never seen her distracted from the experiments this often. “So, will you win?”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
Brittle scoffed and once more returned to her work. “Your assistance has been… valuable.”
“As will yours be if you agree,” I said.
Brittle’s snort was more amused than irritated, and I was glad—I never knew how she’d react to even the most minor of slights. “Moreso, you mean,” she said, “unless my lessons in Pondus Arts were of so little value as to be so soon forgotten.”
“More overlapped than forgotten,” I said, at which she scoffed again. “We both know you’ve already taught me all you can. My only deficiency is in control, which is more the domain of practice than of instruction.”
“When?”
“The battle? The day of the new moon.”
“I’ll be there.”
***
Wiltos nearly finished the match in one move.
He had taken Sil’s advice to heart. We, as his friends, knew he was terrified. None of the spectators watching him stroll onto the battlefield suspected. So casual was his demeanor that his opponent—a wiry Silas Tripler who stumbled into his starting position in deliberately inebriated custom—watched him apprehensively behind addled eyes. As a Herbalist, the Silas boy had come prepared, downing as many of his creations as his body could handle in the moments before he was called into position. He weaved in place drunkenly, the light of multiple Arts hovering over his body to my sensight. Wiltos’s apparent confidence made him cautious. Nearly too cautious, as it turned out.
The spike of stone came at the Alchemist from behind without any outward sign from Wiltos—something he had practiced endlessly. Only the reaction speed he’d pilfered from Alchemical solutions saved the Silas godling. The cone of rock sprang from the ground and penetrated the small of his back but only made it an inch deep. The boy pitched forward. The weight of his body lent him speed as he somehow kept his legs under him, his feet pounding toward Wiltos. Small mounds of earth meant to trip him rose in his path. None faltered his already precarious balance, and he staggered around them as if by luck.
Just before he reached my friend, I saw another of the foreign patches of sensus come to life, springing into action. It flowed around and into his muscles. Violent winds sturred as the boy’s fist pulled back and shot forward. A wall of earth came up to intercept. It barely slowed the blow. Wiltos’ barrier shattered into crumbs. The herbalist's punch continued and… hit nothing.
Wiltos rounded the shield as he’d practiced—low and with his back leg sweeping behind him. And as the leg twisted up and over at an angle, aiming for the back of the Tripler’s neck and garnering all his attention, Wiltos’ true attack rendered his opponent immobile, twin spikes of earth digging up and under the boy's feet.
“I concede,” The Tripler said through his pain.
***
Sil’s opponent was a Bainan Seculor, a quiet girl from another dorm we’d heard hailed from Durum. Ailenio was more than a competent fighter; she had failed to embark on the road of Leafdom but was considered one of the more promising godlings among those who fell short of attaining such a status, as evidenced by her convincing string of victories. Wiltos had gathered that she’d handily trounced her opponents in each of her duels, including two she’d faced Fiora’s of other Houses.
Dako was unworried. I was less so when I heard why. Apparently, Sil had cultivated her non-existent reputation further into obscurity. All knew she was a Seculor, but nothing more. When she’d arrived at The Academy, she’d done her utmost to never stand out, hiding her formidable talents from all but those who knew her—having been raised in the capital by her mother’s father, her identity was known. I had not seen any of her matches as of yet, primarily because of my dense schedule but also because of my faith in her strength. Dako had attended and, according to him, always came away laughing at how artfully she’d appeared to scrape out a victory. Still, with the news Wiltos had collected regarding the Duros she faced, I could not rid myself of all my worry, hence my tightly crossed arms and the nervous tapping of my foot.
I need not have been concerned.
The match had started predictably enough, each fighter probing the other with half-hearted attacks. Then, Sil’s game ensued.
Ailenio threw the first earnest attack, her platinum hair hardening and growing to great lengths to whip and loop around Sil in an attempt to trap and constrain her Zephyr-aided movements. My friend evaded with what appeared to be clumsy luck, falling, scrambling, skidding, hopping, and tripping out of the way, each action inching her imperceptibly closer to her target. Ailenio lost her poise when all her ropes of hair slithering about her like snakes given flight failed to lock down Sil’s awkward movements. One wild swing of frustration later, she found herself unconscious. Sil’s attack came as if by accident. Her foot caught on one of the limp ropes of hair, drawing her into a backward fall, and as she fell, her flailing arms drove an elbow down on the Bainan’s head. Sil finished the dazed Seculor with a flurry of blows, her look of surprised elation so convincing that I very nearly believed her to be the clumsy godling she was playing at.
***
The time had come. My Bainan enemies were all there, pleading to be let in, Edon the loudest of them. True to his word, Vignil was deaf to their pleas. True to hers, as was Mistress Brittle.
Dako patted my back, a forced smile failing to hide his concern. Sil hugged my arm as she lay her head on my shoulder. Wiltos still wore his façade of confidence, though I was supposed to be the beneficiary this time. Malorey’s façade was better; practice had nearly perfected her mask of haughty indifference—nearly because our growing familiarity revealed a chink or two in her armor.
The door to the practice chamber slid open. Vignil entered before me, his gait brisk. I think my insult had loomed over him too long. I remembered that day, recognized my folly with the burdensome clarity of my immaculate memory, and sighed as if I were looking back at my old self with a disappointment extracted from the growth I’d experienced the past year.
Just as I made to walk in behind Vignil, a hand grabbed my arm. Samiel. He threw me his usual smile—pearly teeth framed in by thin lips.
“What about an invitation?” he asked. “I’m sure the Mistress and my ill-mannered half-brother would not deny me if you were to advocate for my attendance.”
“And why would I?”
Samiel released me and shrugged. “No reason. Slim as the chances were, I had to know you’d refuse.”
With one last look back at my friends' faces, I walked in. I heard the faint footsteps of others trying one last time to gain entry, only to be rebuffed by what I was sure was one of Brittle’s murderous looks. The door closed. The shouts of encouragement and calls for my death were cut off as the door sealed, cutting off retreat.
“Take your position, Aki,” Brittle said.
I did as she instructed, noticing three figures beside Brittle and Vignil were present: Fuller smiled as he bit his bottom lip in a way he thought was seductive; Lokos smiled like he’d been drowning in boredom and someone had come with a cold and refreshing drink of entertainment; and most importantly, a child, standing apart, her smile devilish.
I twisted back to face Brittle. “Without an audience.”
“It is a rule that any confidential duel will need three Masters present to negate the possibility of favoritism.”
Three? I thought. She could not see her.
I took my place across Vignil. Brittle went to stand beside the other Masters along one of the longer edges.
“You are both familiar with duels by now, so I’ll not bore you or us with the rules,” she said. “Fight fair, and fight hard. To the victor goes the loser’s life to do with as he wishes.”
Time slowed like it does when battle lust overcomes me, but it seemed more potent than with the assassins or the time I’d killed Hunder. Emotions ran hot. Anger at him for turning an offhand slight into a reason for murder, at the sabotage that nearly killed Wiltos, and at all the Muds and Roots who’d likely died by his hand as he went about practicing his Art and pleasing his father. Other reasons plagued the edges of my thoughts, but I only made room for him. For Vignil. For the Leaf I’d have to kill to live. Time slowed further. My blood began to pump. Bone covered me in plates of different sizes, their formation a design I’d contemplated since first seeing Dako use the material as armor. They covered most of me, thin and flexible but tough.
“Fight!” came Brittle’s call.
Vignil exploded into action. As did I. I knew now why it’s not a hindrance, this lust of mine to expend my anger through battle, blood, and violence. It is not like a tool, like a weapon, to be used or misused. It is my sensus. It is me.
He came at me with bone rapiers. One rushed to stab at me, and the other stayed back to follow up the attack. I deflected the sword with a bone gauntlet and ducked into his range to stop him from using his second. The rapier in his trailing hand morphed into a dagger the exact moment I felt my bone armor fall to his Surgeon Arts. I undid the matrix and drew another. Both actions were done in the blink of an eye, at a speed you’d expect from a promising godling—dare I say, from a Leaf candidate.
A Pondus matrix caught the blade, the hand holding it, and the forearm it was connected to, dragging Vignil down and faltering his attack. He broke out with pure strength, overloading the matrix and unraveling its effects.
My kick landed before he had time to do anything else.
Vignil flew back and hit the wall. Unfortunately, I’d done barely any damage—he’d jumped back to mitigate much of the force. My attack did, however, cause him to pause, the bewildered look he’d had on his face ever since seeing my bone armor growing.
“Who are you?” Vignil asked. I was suspected to be an Auger, and Pondus was the opposite on the wheel of Arts. In theory, the greater one’s Auger Arts, the worse their Pondus. And here I was, adept at four.
“Your killer,” my anger said. And I was upon him once more.
My mind worked. My sensus came to me like it was lovesick, eager to serve my every whim. Matrix after matrix, Art after Art, from Pondus to Auger, to Duros, to Aedifiator, to even a time where I threw him off by using an Arcanist matrix to latch onto his soul, however feeble and impractical the attempt. That is not to say I was winning. My tricks were just that, tricks. Vignil was not one to fall to deceptions, it seemed. And as we fought, the depth of his Surgeon Arts came to light. The skin on my right leg peeled itself off from one of his touches. At some point, he’d cut off the small finger of my right hand, and just as I lamented the loss, it stopped mid-air and flew to try and gouge out of my left eye. There were more injuries: ripped nails, broken bones, torn flesh, gouged muscles, and deep cuts. In the end, Dako’s admiration for Vignil was well deserved. But that is also not to say I was losing. Vignil had suffered as much as I had. One eye was missing, plucked out when I cleverly combined Vapor and Pondus matrixes. I knew his right fist had at least a few broken bones—the two-by-two-inch disk of metal-encrusted earth I’d conjured in the path of his blow proved more than a match.
“You’re a god,” Vignil accused. “You’re the new fucking Knite. Fuck!”
I stayed silent.
To the side, Lorail clapped and bounced. No one offered her even a sideways glance. “Oh, my dear, dear boy,” she said, her screeching voice cutting past the sounds of my thudding heart and wheezing breaths. “I am so proud of your progress. So, too, am I delighted by who you’ve chosen as your first victim. But let’s not dally. Finish this.”
Vignil and I were both at the ends of our strings. My injuries were more severe, my talent as a Duros not allowing me the healing he was capable of. His strength was more depleted, his well not as deep as mine. We shared a look and understood. One last clash. One blow to end the match and snuff out the loser’s life.
I ripped my tunic off. It was little more than rags, anyhow. Still, it worried me how difficult it was to tear the last threads. I took my stance. As did Vignil. Our gazes remained locked. Blue against blue. The arrogance was gone from his expression. I’d taken it from him. Only a deep determination remained.
We moved.
He died.
I used three Arts at once. Pondus, Duros, and Vapor. My speed surprised us, me most of all—pain piled onto pain, bringing my agony to new heights. My body was too weak to handle the stress of all three matrixes. It cost me injury. It paid him death. I pulverized his head, and in payment, half my arm was gone. I stood there, looking between his headless body and the mangled remains of whatever hung from my right shoulder, and all I could think was about how my anger was gone. Calmness seeped into me, and before I realized it, I let the peace I’d conjured from carnage take my consciousness.