I awake in clouds with the sun soaking my face. I want to go with them, though I have to wake up. It is the first day of the festival, meaning preliminary matches. The wash rag scratches my skin as the tepid water soothes it. I fumbled as I buttoned my tunic and had to start again after realizing I’d misbuttoned it. I find Jer, Gale, and Ker awaiting my arrival with stern looks on their faces.
“About time, Vesh. You’ll have to eat rations.”
“Can’t I eat real food?” I argue.
“If you had woken earlier,” Jer informs.
“Sorry, I was— up late with— Terfer.” I excuse myself, rubbing the drunk from my eyes with one hand and eating with the other.
“Oh? Kept you up, did they?” Ker guesses.
“Not like that. We talked.”
“A lot of time to talk to an ass.” Ker retorts.
“A lot. They have a wise perspective for an-”
“We have to go.” Jer interrupts, pushing us both to the door.
“You don't have to wait for me.” I protest.
Whatever reply Jer gives drowns under the wave of people crashing upon us. Moving with the crowd is only a choice once it spills us into the fair. Where last night stood an empty vessel, I now understand all that Terfer wept for. Potential rushes from booth to booth in search of a future. Creation blesses this day through these people.
Following the directions brings us to a field of people. The area’s obstinance to the order of the rest of the festival annoys me. Instead of putting the pits in orderly rows, they are messy. Two people fight as a moderator attends them. Adding to the chaos, thousands of milling spectators place bets while inspecting contestants. Prominent booths lined by contenders allow another unwilling acclimation of the city.
I hand my paper to the attendant, an older, tall person hunching to reach the window, who returns it with the number fifteen. The designation corresponds to a sign above the pit I am competing in. Jer huffs once we clear the crowd, walking to pit twelve before limbering up. Other competitors in the area blanch, finding no security in the sight of my friend brandishing a fourteen-kilogram sword.
The pits are too tight for one person to lay down. The spectators jeer from a meter off. Sand cushions the ground just enough to prevent bludgeoning. Jer’s call comes first, prompting him to step into the ring. Their opponent's knees appear to be shaking. Exactly seven seconds after the match begins, it ends with Jer hurling them several meters clear of the circle. Jer’s laughing or barking awards him a slip from the moderator before he goes off to crush more dreams.
Ker’s match begins next, with him shuffling opposite a shorter person with stable steps. The black coat and curved blade mark them as a Skirmisher. An Eastern mercenary is a poor first match. The person's face is light for that region, with a button for a nose and closer together eyes than you see in the north. As Ker’s sword shakes, displaying his weakness, the skirmisher grins. They rush Ker as soon as the moderator begins the match. Ker raises his sword in a guard on unsure footing. That curved blade shears through his guard, slamming into his chest and knocking him to the ground.
“Killing blow.” The moderator calls.
Heat pinches Ker’s cheeks while sadness cools them. I tut, going over to comfort him. I argue the incredible skill of the mercenary; they grew up in a militant sanctum, no doubt. These observations soften the edges but do little for the core. Ker wails at his loss. Hearing my number, I leave him to Gale’s ministrations.
The first three matches are nothing compared to my time with Jer. They end with something unsatisfying as my mind drifts in the breaks. I grow a few millimeters taller after each win,
My last opponent is already in the circle, a shorter person with curly purple hair in a topknot. Mahogany eyes strike the first blow, belying soft features. Their clothing is finery but unadorned; the sunflower yellow of the garment reeks of high caste. It is almost enough to distract from the short sword in their right hand and a dagger in their left.
“I am Vesh’dan,” I call, flourishing my wooden rapiers into a boisterous guarding stance.
“I am Shannai, daughter of Sheikh Sage.”
Fuck, did she say Sheikh? The moderators call coils me into a cobra. There are three factors to consider: the limited space or the clear maneuverability implied by her stance and choice of blades are imposing enough alone. Those factors worsen under her lineage; she is a Sage. My stance precludes a charge, allowing my defense to gauge her skill and speed. The only downside is this edge. I have to be aware of the borderline. If I cross outside of the sand, I fail— again—
The festival fades as my heartbeat duels with hers. At this moment, it could be over before beginning— Failing this early would be — Shannai dives at my chest and moves faster than my eyes can follow. Slapping into her shortsword with my blade assists me in my parry. My other blade utilizes the hilt guard to block her dagger from sneaking under her thrust. Clearing her attack, I shift to the right and lower my stance further. She steals my breath, slashing her sword and dagger against both of mine. She creeps into my defense after a few strikes while her heart beats louder. She is better than me. I will have to use my trick. Using it doesn't ruin it, but the more I use it, the less surprising it will ultimately be.
I continue on the defensive, waiting for an opening. The sage decides for me by disarming my left hand before directing a stab toward my heart. Time slows as I contort to reach my dagger. The movement pivots my chest as far as I can to the left. I’m attempting to avoid her fatal blow, but her dagger trails in step. That is bad— but it distracts her from the dagger now in my hand. I drop my other blade to grab her shoulder, stabbing myself. I pull her to me, forcing the pointy bit into my gut. I take my left hand and press my dagger into the middle of her back. We both still pressed up against each other. However, our hearts are battling louder than ever.
“Freeze! Okay, Brunette, move your hand— slowly! Idiot. Now separate— slowly, and please don't move your hand, Sr Sage. Alright, your strike wouldn’t disallow the move. I’ll have to get a second opinion, but I believe it to be a draw.” The moderator rules, calling to a runner nearby.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The moments of waiting unravel the ruling and all that it implies. What if it gets overturned? The runner promptly returns with an older person. After hearing the fight's conclusion and examining the 'wounded' areas, the more wrinkly moderator agrees with the initial ruling. I breathe again and look at my competitor, who is shaking, too.
“My apologies.” I croak.
“You’re fine; you spooked me, is all.”
“Yes. Well— there's little else to combat you with.”
“All right. It’s a neat trick. It won't work long, with the way people gab. I bet they would even imagine a rule against it if you tricked the wrong person.”
“Would you be one of those wrong people?”
“Nah, people like me, but with supportive backing.”
I return to a lone Ker. He retells the match I participated in. However absurd, it still puts a smile on my face. Upon winning, I qualify for the preliminaries with the final three hundred applicants. The people in this tournament who are on par with Ker will lose in the preliminaries. I fear I am in the lower tier of those who would remain— or I believe I am. The final matches will be decided in the Colosseum over the next two days, under the watchful eye of scouts from merc guilds. I have already achieved this opportunity, where a good showing can open doors to places.
Ker and I meet Jer at the gates leading into the city. He wins each fight in under a minute, eliciting interest from scouts already. I go to bed early, ready to experience the fair tomorrow. I wake before the rush of people to enjoy a heavy breakfast of savory gravy, fluffy biscuits, and roasted vegetables. Entering the festival, we visit the guild tents for Ker and I. He looks over all the food-related guilds before finding the one he likes. Ker’s bow is a bit too deep but still conveys the effect.
“I am Kerten, son of Holia.”
“Hello, young one. I am Hilda, child of Fare.”
“I would like to study with your guild.”
“With that house, you shouldn’t have a problem. Here are directions to the prerequisite testing room where you can test for this specialization. You cannot retake the test until you complete one year of study in the major field.”
“Thank you, sir.”
”Good luck.”
“What exactly is this specialization, Ker?” Jer asks.
“That’s a stand for a prominent pastry guild.”
I scan endless paths, wondering from this future to that, determining devastation in the prospects. I envy Ker's ease and how he suits the trappings born on him.
Cartography promises adventure or renown; the younger person at the booth sells domineering contracts with far-off rewards. After that, several trading guilds insist, ‘I sell my worth’ to earn acceptance, which I refuse. Next, at a diplomatically associated stand, I am undiplomatically advised of my inability to afford the endeavor. The same is true for the three mage booths in the area, all guarded by hordes of upper caste. All fussing about with embroidered clothes and expensive yellow dyes.
Finding little that interests me, I continue doubting myself. I want to go past the walls, meet my mother, gain an understanding that I can bring back to my kingdom, and seize beauty through creation as Terfer has. Again, I consider trying to accomplish my goals without any formal training or guild certification. Again, I curse the difficulty of the undertaking. For now, I need to focus on the tournament.
We don’t need to be at the Colosseum till noon, so we spend our time walking the touristy sides of the fair. We stroll, inhaling fried dough and besting tests of strength and accuracy. Such games are known to be unwinnable. If that is true, no one has warned Jer or the games he mangles with ease. We laugh at the antics of Satyr in Dorian’s Satire, commendably performed in the main path.
“She embodies femininity; paragons envy her prominence.” The Satyr, Renaldo Corporia, shouts as he caresses his chest.
“You speak of Terpel-” The diplomat, Aria, daughter of Sheik Sage, begins before Ranaldo interrupts.
“That is her name, for it rings of femininity. At a glance, I found my love, the woman who has become mine to rear my young. How may I own her?” He employs, pulling forth his penis for good measure.
“Uhhh.” The poor noble stammers, looking to the uproarious crowd for support.
“I know it is probably larger than you have seen before. I have a large penis that makes me strong. The forests lead with our biggest dick first, if you know what I am saying.” He explains, still holding the flopping prop.
“Sr, I don’t th-”
“You mustn't look so closed off, all rigid. How can you be a diplomat with that demeanor? What am I to think of your Empire when their diplomats-”
“Sr, Terpelit is a man who is not attracted to that.” The renowned line rings with reciprocation, filling the street with laughter as The Styr stutters his befuddlement with pants still around his ankles.
Our fun cuts short as we make our way to the pivotal trial. Four entrances are outside, three by people and one with a sign reading: contestants. We part ways with Ker and Lisen, heading to our designation. I greet the person at the gate and give them my slip as they wave me past. People jostle about the room, some waiting with blank stares or fidgeting fists, others articulate forms. Jer and Gale join the latter, melting into forms and breathing techniques. I plop alongside the former, calming my mind by thinking of a strategy to deal with each weapon on the wall. A staturous person with thick glasses enters from the back.
“I’ll need only a moment of your time, assuming everyone is familiar with dueling conduct?” They begin, looking for affirmation. People watch wordlessly while the more severe opponents continue to prepare. “Good. The only difference between these upcoming matches and your previous ones is the amulets I’ve got here. Once in the arena, every contact made with a weapon will feel like the real thing. A death blow or accumulated wounds will render you unconscious upon succumbing. I hope there are no questions?” They conclude, silence prompting them to exit.
Soon enough comes the call for Jerduan. I fume, wishing I’d been able to see his match. Gale is next. She concludes her tenth willow form in a huff, her stance more unstable than usual. My palms leak onto my pants as I wipe them on the medium-weight linen. This fight is no different than the others. I am going to succeed. I have worked hard, and it will pay off. Sweat bathes the bench in the stink of my fear. I fight to oppress my anxiety with supposed defenses against a flimsy scimitar atop a polearm— my name comes. I burst into fire, standing so abruptly that I rock the bench and displace two people who don't smile back. Quickly apologizing, I shuffle to the door at the room's far end. I step cautiously up a hallway, rising into the light.
Will rules body.
I take a deep breath and emerge into the open; upon crossing the threshold, feet pound through my chest to trample my heart. The stands are half full, but the noise is deafening. The arena is a hundred meters from one end to the other. Gray stone composes seven-meter walls entrapping me with spectators overlooking the seats cresting them. They are staring at me from all around. I search for a friendly face, but decerning anyone with the spring sun burning my eyes proves impossible.
My body stutters before I reach my spot. My opponent stands a foot taller than me, brandishing a greatsword in a ready stance. They wear an insignia marking them as Hilltrope, making them the second opponent from a great family. Blocking out everything but my target and the sand, I take my ready stance.
“Here we have Vesh’dan, hailing from Willows Grove, opposed by local Silmon, child of Steel. We will have a clean fight until death is determined. Acknowledge your opponent. Begin.”
Realizing they want me to come to them, I start forward briskly, picking up at the halfway mark. Within an appropriate range, I throw myself under the first attack. I barely avoid it as I emerge behind them. I stretch a backward prod that tears at their chain shirt, then shift to face them. A slice interrupts my retreat, but I dip it and push off the wall. I receive a backhand upon my exit. I crash to the ground, and they are next to me, their sword plunging. I roll, but I am too slow. A wail elicits from my lungs, their sword claiming a portion of flesh. I jump up and cradle my broken arm.
“Death-” The moderator begins, but they stop as I stay consciously upright.
I can still do this. I rip off my shirt to make a sling and tourniquet to staunch the imaginary, or possibly internal, bleeding. My arm burns with a ticklish intensity. I grit my teeth and hold up my remaining rapier in a challenge. Hoping to pull out thoughtless rage, I get a loathing glare instead as they methodically swat away my attacks. Due to my decreased capability, I must retract to a guarding stance before long. Heat trickles into their face as I keep away. Am I wearing them out? Some of their swings get partial hits, but I stay outside fatality. I can do this.
With my arm in this condition, I won’t last much longer. I already feel my focus dimming. Moving becomes a fight for survival, each forceful breath challenging the looming fate. Their thrust slips through my guard, stabbing into my side. My ribs snap, and my skeleton curdles. I step back from the strike, stumble, and vomit. My eyes water over as my lips burn with the passing.
I can do this. After not hearing the fatal words, I lift my head and wobble, catching myself in a low stance. I hone in on my advisory through the mess and find pure disgust on their face. I smile, chunks of vomit mixed with blood to discolor the effect. My legs tremble as I march on my obstacle. I thrust out, feeling my second wind. Only one jab connects and, again, only snags their shirt. My attack sparks a rebuttal. When their sword connects with mine, their follow-through tatters my guard and follows through my ankle. The crack of bones reverberates, and I roll sideways into the sand. I can’t do this-
I am in the reeds. A panther’s roar rumbles my pulse as they ready a pounce. My body won't respond, nothing will move, nothing makes sense. When did I get here? To the willows, that is? I have to get up. I am unsure why or how, but I know the first thing to do is stand. I have to move. Putting my arm under myself and crying, I push myself to my knees. From there, I use my sword to stand. The roaring stops. Input stops. Knowledge is my goal in front of me. I take a step forward onto my ankle and falter.
Doing away with walking, fed up with the eccentricities, I drag myself to where I know it is. The clearness on where or why I am going isn’t as specific, but I will go if only to keep those damn panthers quiet. I tear myself across miles until I finally clasp what I want. I seize the thing, squirming to leverage a hold. I receive several painful stuff on my face in the process. I lose progress, then start again. Pain is existence. Focusing on the unrelenting agony disassociates all but my goal, which is associated with relief. I climb up this unknowable thing to do something— to be something. Before I can get to the top to do whatever I intend, my body fails where my will couldn’t. I give one last involuntary shudder of defiance; then everything turns to night.