The next day starts late with a touch of searing pain, recompense for last night's overindulgence. Awaking in an unfamiliar bed and clothes is uncomfortable, but no one's with me. I dress once I’ve spotted my pack, finding nothing where there should be tenderness. I run my fingers across my smooth skin, not believing what isn’t there. I have heard of this but never seen it: the ability to remove a wound without leaving a trace. Relenting, I exit to find another room instead of a hallway.

Glass flowers refract exuberance against their dark porcelain vases atop tables inlaid with silver. On the walls are landscapes of the four Empire, set in the corresponding cardinal direction: Grev’hiam in the east, the mountains to the north, the Calv’alvin Forest to the west, and Destructions’ Waste in the south. At the center of the room is another table with six legs, each carved to represent a different element, resting on a woven rug.

Altogether, this is wealth on a scale I can’t imagine. My father and I have never taken Yeln up on the offer of staying here— until now. It gives me a new appreciation for their success. The others sit at the table except for Gale and Lisen, who are undoubtedly running late for the same reason. Upon seeing me, Jer smiles, gesturing to a seat next to himself. I snatch a strawberry as I sit, swallowing it before he can protest.

“Damn, Vesh, Jorg will bring your food.”

“I know, but yours is always better,” I explain, pilfering a couple of blueberries.

“You’re an ass,” Jer resigns.

“My wound is gone,” I toss.

“Healed?” Jer swings.

“Yeah, even the stitches.”

“Maybe Yeln had someone look at it?” Ker offers after a moment of silence.

“Probably,” I agree.

“Heard you all had a blast last night,” Ker sulks, picking at his plate of food.

“Ker, it was nothing so impressive,” Jer reassures.

“Vesh did kick sm’ guy's dick off,” Museph speaks from the side of his mouth as he admires the opulence of the manor.

“Huh? Like off of his body?” Ker questions.

“Merely a re-adjustment, nothing so permanent as removal. Though I don't imagine that to be much of a loss,” I jest, glancing at Ker to see him smile.

“You can come out with us tonight, Ker?” Jer adds.

Before Ker’s answer, Jorg enters the room with two plates of food and a glass of water. Large biscuits surround a crepe stuffed with cheese, broccoli, and cauliflower, accompanying a dish of peppered white gravy and a plate with blueberries, sliced strawberries, and oranges.

“Thank you, I can eat a farm,” I thank, digging into the breakfast.

“No problem. Are you all going to check out the caravan today?”

“Ya. That’s the plan,” Museph mutters, finally taking his eyes away from a jeweled pitcher.

“Oh! Jorg, did Yeln have someone treat my injury last night?”

“Probably. Let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll show you to the camp.” Jorg offers before going back to the kitchen.

“Anyone seen Gale yet?” I rhetorically ponder aloud to the laughter spilling down the hallway.

“I think Gale and Lisen will be a bit longer,” Jer plays along.

“Inconsiderate,” Museph simmers.

Gale and Lisen return by the time we finish, allowing us to set off. Jorg ushers us through the bustle, leading us past the walls to a field of tents. Our target is a grouping of stands with different insignias denoting their trading house. Lines of people sprawl out in front of each booth, wrapping around the tents.

“Fuck, Jorg. We have to wait in that?” Jer curses, massaging his temples.

“Yes, you’ll be lucky to get through in a few hours,” Jorg reveals with malice.

We all get in line for the Kandor house, waiting our turn. The pace is slow enough to last into the mid-afternoon. A wizen person in plain clothing sits behind the stand. They greet us with a brisk but polite introduction. First, they ask all of us for our names. Jer mentions that he and I will be looking to work as guards; they tell us that is at the discretion of the caravans coordinator. Finally, we pay a fee of sixteen coppers each. Jer and I will receive reimbursement if we are allowed to guard. For the wait, we win a scrap of paper with several numbers and a Kandor seal verifying it.

We decided to speak to the coordinator while the others got supplies. The coordinator is a stocky person overseeing nearby wagons. They have washed-out black clothing, and their gray beard stretches to their belly button. Everyone around defers to them, denoting their position. They speak with someone who looks identical to them except for the armor and sword, signaling the other as a fighter.

“Hello.”

“Huh?” The coordinator grunts, turning to us.

“I am Vesh’dan, and this is Jerduan, son of Steel.”

“Oh, well, that's good for you.”

“I’m sorry to bother you. The attendant told us to see you about being hired-.” I start again after sharing a look with Jer.

“Oh, well, you should have said something.” They interrupt, then speed through an examination, “Alright, he is in. You wouldn’t need to swing that thing; you’re another matter. Yes, you’re far too slender. I’ll have you spar with my guard here, prove you can use those fancy blades.”

“Can you believe this?” I bluster, looking at Jer.

“Yes,” Jer deadpans.

“I am Tild, daughter of Wellen. You’re planning on guarding our little outfit,” the armored one greets.

“I figure I will have to fight either way if something happens.”

“Alright then, follow me.”

She leads us to a stretch of dirt outside the camp, with small benches around the pit. Two people duel in its center at a slow pace. The larger is loosening their defense. The other pushes close with shortswords before being forced to retreat again. The swords strike out once each for every broadsword swing.

“Give us a few minutes,” Tild commands.

“Yes, sr,” Both ring off as their practice halts.

“Let’s see what you got.” Tild challenges, pulling her sword from its sheath.

“Hope to impress.”

She holds a simple steel longsword with some rodent engraved in the hilt. Her stance is open, taunting attack while being deceptively on guard. Three probing thrusts rebuke with lazy smacks, the force of which nearly disarms me. In this moment of distraction, she moves into my guard with a smooth horizontal swing. Stepping back, I narrowly avoid as my defense closes.

Smiling green eyes meet me as she steps back and taunts another attack. Ten weary thrusts use my superior reach to wear down the older opponent. After a minute, this provokes her to prod me back with confident swings while batting away any rebuttal. My retreat keeps pace as she tries to move in. My intentions shift to demonstrate defensive skill, making her blade slow before the point of contact.

After a few close strikes, she gives me control of the pace again. Allowing me to weigh my options: she is skilled, it can't compare to Jer, but near enough, and she's holding back a lot. After these considerations, the best choice is a trick, though it will probably not work. I want to show them all whom they are dealing with.

She stands ten paces away in a guarding stance. Running straight at her, screaming for good measure, four steps out, I throw my right rapier straight at her body. She slaps it aside as I get two steps closer, driving my left rapier at her chest. The barrage commits my opponent to move right where I need to. My right-hand pulls a wooden dagger to her neck before my world spins.

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“The hell— was that?” I wheeze as I catch my breath.

“It's a footwork technique—nothing special, but useful when your opponent is tunneling,” she grins.

“Tunneling?”

“Tunnel vision, Vesh,” Jer offers with his hand.

“Yes, well. I apologize for wasting your time.”

“Wait,” Tild calls out.

“Yes?” I acquiesce.

“A wooden dagger? Where did you pick that up?” Tild questions, curiously tilting her head.

“It occurred to me; even worked on Jer the first time,” I point out while pointing at Jer.

“Tricks like that only work once.”

“It didn’t even work once on you,” I retort.

“You can add on with us. Keep close to your friend there.”

“Thank you,” I begrudge.

We hear Tild’s laughter from the caravan tents as we walk back into the town to meet up with everyone else. The fight made me feel less confident about my prospects in the tournament. It is a hope of mine to get in, but as I meet more skilled people, I start to prepare myself for not succeeding, requiring ends to meet with other means. My only other skills are smithing and farming. Alternatively, I can go into doing something like Yeln. Considering the wide range of earnings, it holds possibilities with risks.

I locate the others exiting a sizeable orange building with a sign holding two crossed swords. Gale is in the lead, shoving the doors open with a huff and storming past. Lisen follows behind, pleading for something I can't make out, followed by the rest in a somber mood.

“What’s going on?” I raise, looking at the pair’s retreat.

“She gets like that,” Museph averres.

“You’re just an ass,” Ker defends.

“Is it about...?”

“No, Vesh. They’ll work it out. Let’s grab this stuff so we can start drinking,” Jer asserts, leading us to the next store.

We purchase the supplies with little hassle, all but Museph pitching in to grab Gale and Lisen's things. Vendors’ unwillingness to haggle affords market rate until a younger woman catches Jer’s charm. She gives us a better price on several decoy coin purses for a few smiles. We are again back at Yeln’s Tavern, enjoying spicy soup and sweet ale.

Another hangover greets me as I wake. I can’t remember much past the sixth mug except the lint in my mouth from drinking ale out of a boot. Breakfast isn’t louder than a whisper, each sound inducing plaintive murmurs. Jorg delivers food while whistling, and napkins descend upon the scoundrel. Our goodbyes are brief; Yeln is too busy to see us off, and Jorg looks eager to return to their side. We all thank him before stumbling out of the town, dragging ourselves to a loathing we had paid for.

The travel is dreary; spring showers pour down, only letting up enough for us to dry before soaking us again. The rest of the travelers are in similar states, everyone having too much fun in Brinx. We break our march every few hours to rest. Jer and I are scouting the way, so we are together for the most part. We keep up our sparring on breaks as well as in the afternoons, between supper and rest.

Ker spends his free time attached to Jer’s hip. I don't mind the company, and Jer loves the attention. He spends afternoons watching us train, even joining in on occasion. He is garbage with an axe.

After a long day, we camp on the road, our sheer number disallowing us to do so anywhere else. The others have to help set camp as we scout the prairies. I had never been this far south, making me second fiddle to Jer’s skill. The open horizon of undulating grass continues for miles; here and there, patches of flowers disrupt the uniformity of red. I have read that the sang prairie grass resembles the fur of a routwood. Now I’ve seen one, the other gains solidity.

As we share supper, I observe Museph’s absence. Gale is always ready to mention a cute thing about Lisen to illicit collective sighs from everyone present. Jer and I bolster tales of heroism in our desperate defense of the caravan from unspeakable evil. Each of our revelries indulges on sympathetic ears.

That night, in the middle of our trek, I am on watch to catch a glimpse of a private conversation. Sitting on a somewhat hidden rock offers a good vantage. Looking at the moons in the sky, I consider the others asleep until I overhear noises from Gale and Lisen. I try to distract myself; distraction includes dirt, plants, and moons— my attempts are fruitless.

“I’m sorry about the last time. I’ve never had that.”

“It is okay. It is normal to fake it,” Lisen reassures.

“I know, I was... nervous. I am still nervous.”

“Don’t focus on trying; relax. Enjoy it, and let the momentum build on its own. Allow yourself to feel g-.”

I become too uncomfortable at the first noise to continue justifying my intrusion. Vigilance dies under the weight of propriety as I encircle our camp at a wide radius. That may be why Museph left; it never woke me.

Our journey resumes a sobering trudge; its most considerable inconvenience is the occasional ranging boar that we lure off. Without Jer to ease the boredom, I would take several grass naps. Stew with rolls in the afternoon, while rations constitute all other nutrition. Luckily, we can find a few branapple trees to break the monotony. On the second to last day, Tild approaches our small encampment with a jingle of armor. She greeted us, sitting down on a log we had drug over.

“Are you all getting along well?” She asks with a rehearsed cadence.

“Mostly, just ready to be done walking all day,” I complain, and the group corroborates my sentiment.

“Good. Good. Well, I come over to all the camps and make sure everyone knows what to expect coming to the Citadel.” She begins, looking for affirmation before continuing. “Most people have heard about the tournament and accompanying festival. Hundreds of events are going on in the same week, guild-related stuff. So the first thing you will want to do is get rooms. Even though you are all here early, Inns will fill fast. Next, any of you who want to enter the tournament should consider doing that soon for similar reasons. After that, I caution you to be wise. Crime is as common as dangerous areas in the Citadel.” She finishes as if for the millionth time.

“Thank you, Tild.”

“If there is nothing else, here are the reimbursements for the trip; thank you all for traveling with-”

“May I ask you some questions about the festival?” I interrupt.

“Oh? Of course, I have some time.” She responds.

“Are there any professions that you feel are... deserving of more consideration?”

“Interesting question. It depends on your talents, of course...” She trails off, rubbing her beard.

“Smithing, farming, fighting somewhat, some say “a kind of charm”?'' I count the points on my fingers, looking to Jer for support.

“Eh, could use some work,” Jer prodds me and the fire.

“Well, yeah—helpful. Anyway, I’ve always had an interest in other species. I want to see the empire, but I’m not interested in mercenary work.”

“Diplomatic positions are always in demand, but the field is difficult without substantial resources. There are interesting specializations of magical certifications.”

“Difficult? Mage certifications are so far out of our range that we’d have an easier time buying a castle.” Ker exaggerates.

“Yes, let’s see. Mercantile practices? Possibly even as a means to explore further studies. I had not expected to become a guard for a caravan when I first came on with the Kandor house. I thought I would be negotiating deals and marking accounts in a ledger,” Tild’s musing is stifled a bit with the armor. “You could be amazed at where a journey has taken you. So I would say trust yourself— your desires.”

“Hmm. Insightful considerations. Thank you, Tild.”

I bow deeply. Tild returns the bow with quick farewells. I lay awake that night rehearsing my failure. Have I killed someone? Nonetheless, not knowing is a failure. Creations’ mercy is more than intent. This journey is a day from over, and— I thought-

Well, it would be better, more something. It wasn't bad, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. A restless energy is born when dwelling on the tournament. The only thing I can do is be considerate of my strengths and limitations. Take the opportunities that come. This affirmation does little to assuage my anxiety, only allowing me to fall asleep tonight. Eventually, I deferred the problem to an older me.

The sun rises over our first glimpse of the Citadel in the last week of Spart. Lines of specks converge upon the shining city of color from all directions. The city's range of color drains to white in a circle surrounding the ‘Pillar of Creation.’ This sanctum of sanctums stands prominently twice as tall as its nearest competitor and is perfectly cylindrical. Black foundation stone glitters with dew from the wall to the road to the sanctum. In between this bordering black, colors of every hue bunch out like a bouquet whose vibrance pales the memory of Brinx. The entrance is a prick in the wall with lines of specks streaking far too far to conceptualize.

A look at the others reveals similar emotions plastered upon them. I see enough to justify walking to Willows’ Grove and back again. Jer smiles so loud I can hear his heart. Me? I want to keep my coin purse long enough to find a way forward. Sitting in another line for five hours or so is less climactic.

But upon entering, my eyes catch on buildings, signs, and carts. Sidewalks undulate with people perusing the buildings and their wares. Carriages fly down the road with pedestrians only a meter away, frightening enough without considering their sheer number. They range in worth from the practical one the caravan used to ornate piles of treasure. Unlike Brinx, though, the infrastructure here is capable of handling traffic. Noise permeates me at a constant hum, soaking up every silence. My gawking lands on a child in a slim gap between buildings devouring animal flesh— completing the sensory overload. Feeling overwhelmed by everything, I suggest we move to the alley.

“Put that down? Please-”

“Richies so squeamish, bunch a’ pambies.”

“I apologize. Perhaps I can buy something to consume?” I offer.

“I ain’t need ya charity, piss off.” They spit, seared flesh landing on my pants.

“I’ll tea-” Jer began.

“We will be going in a moment. Excuse us.” I redirect, moving the group out of earshot.

“You can’t do anything, Vesh,” Jer argues.

“They are eating an animal. Are there wards here?” I ask.

“Things are different here. Population density causes the ward system to be overwhelmed,” Gale explains.

“What do you know about it, Gale?” Jer barks.

“Eat a dick, dick. Lisen told me,” Gale retorts.

“Oh, he’ll get there,” I mumble, thinking of approaches to the problem.

“Vesh,” Jer scolds.

“I’m compliant. We need a plan.”

“I know an inn,” Lisen whispers, peeking then at Jer and now away.

“That’s a good start— I know it sucks, but we should register today,” my suggestion meets weary faces.

“Are you sure, Vesh? It’s been a long week,” Jer frets.

“I am going. Better get out,” I initiate, looking around.

“Before the sun,” their finish is off-pitch.

One last glance at the pile of bones makes a promise. After parting ways, we ask an older person selling stalks of roasted cauliflower for directions and four portions. Taverns stand out here or there, dishing tantalizing smells that make my mouth water. An umami of entanglement amplifies the nearest visible thing as the source of all. The line for the tournament is visible before the Colosseum, a daunting prospect that makes me reconsider a small life in a small town that doesn't have enough people to make lines a tenth this length. Yet we persevere with the aid of chummy rantings and vendors enterprising enough to profit off our misery. Despite our best efforts, we reach the front of the line sometime later.

-Hic-cup-” I am Vesh’dan.”

“Great job. Let's see if you got it right. Oh, that doesn’t sound like— but we will continue. Will you need any accessibility?” The young person began, looking over paperwork and scribbling.

“No.”

“The slip is important, so don’t lose it. Also, a list of directions to lead you through the tournament.” They finish, handing me a few sheets of parchment before shooing me away.

I get the feeling that they don’t appreciate the fine work done by those merchants. Waiting for everyone allows me to dance with a violinist until we head to the inn. Lisen is hollering at us from the balcony of a four-story lime green townhouse. Banners hung from every protruding object make bold promises. Hands deep from a bottle of scotch, a serenading Lisen balladizes her love for Gale with an accompanying banjo.

“Not a one can reach the pale, not a one has her appale, all of this and a great butt, thhaaaat’ss Gaaaaaaaaaale!” She belts, playing well for having drunk so much.

“I like your song,” Gale calls up.

“Then get up here and kiss me,” Lisen burps.

“She is irresistible,” Gale growls, marching through the doors to claim the kiss.

Lisen sure has a different drunk demeanor than I was expecting. Veneration abounds in the house, with portraits of friends and families adorning every visible space. The mismatched decor and smattering of Tchotchke cabinets inspire welcoming deference. Seats full of young faces laugh and mingle. A wide staircase takes us to the balcony, where Gale holds Lisen. We sit as Lisen tackles Ker.

“You did it! Are you going to regret it, going from tame baker to flame breaker?”

“Aim taker.” Gale tosses.

“Dame quacker.” Jer rebounds.

“A dame? With his lineage?” I add, asking rhetorically.

“Mayem maker?” Kerten hedges, followed by our cheers.

The tavern serves thin noodles with sauteed snap peas and broccoli tossed in a sweet garlic cream sauce. The light cream sauce compounds a buttery chardonnay the tavern makes especially for the tournament. Patrons scrape delight against bowls with eager cutlery. After the meal, we help each other through a communal bath with little energy to do much else. The warm water seeps into road-weary bones but fails to relieve the underlying discomfort. Finally, I am alone in a room with a bed, a shelf, and a washing bowl. They leave much— but all I need is a bed, which I collapse into.