Like fire, it is an agent of destruction and rebirth

A hero’s downfall

A villain's triumph

As fragile as a butterfly’s wings

As inevitable as death

You can find darkness within

And without

In it is the spark of greatness

It is the beginning and the end

We all have it for someone

Or something

A tragedy to some

A beacon to others

Whether it kills you, or makes you stronger

Love is a fickle bitch

-author unknown

503 A.F. 

Old York - Arena

Jack scratched at his shoulder straps.  He noticed li’l Sug looking nervous so he clapped him on the back “Don’t worry man, the world can only end once and it has already happened” he said with a smirk.  Li’l Sug was a wiry lad, with bones that looked ready to burst from his skinny frame. The dented pads hung loosely from his spindly legs and his jacket, obviously a hand me down, swallowed him completely. Pale skin and big bald head, he looked like the boy that time forgot. Lil’ Sug looked at him with chagrin but said nothing, he glanced over at Cro and shrugged. The three of them sat mounted on their mechanical stallions, engines rumbling and purring beneath them. Jack looked at his friends, eyeing the pool of viscous brown liquid beneath Cro’s bike. Cro was too big for his mount, a broad shouldered boy who overshadowed the others in the arena.  Dark skin and a somber face, he was as mild tempered as they came. On the bike he sat, the exhaust was fraught with a decade of rust, and the panels were scarred from years of use. Cro teetered back and forth, like a boulder precariously perched atop a castle crenulation. As Jack looked around, he noted the stoic faces and the sharp, black lines of the other helmeted boys. Their bikes gleamed with polish, a menagerie of bright house colors. By contrast, Jack’s crew looked as if they might have stolen their father’s gear and snuck into the competition. But it didn’t matter to Jack, all that mattered was that he had made it. His father, the bastard brother of the King, still had some clout, much to the dismay of many of the other lords. This competition was to be the Prince’s celebration. As with any name day celebratory coliseum match, the Prince was to be the victor, and Jack’s father had told him not to upstage him. Jack was still sorely reminded as he looked at the Prince’s crew, adorned with lavish gold trim and their considerably more powerful mounts. 

Jack’s father had shoved a sword into his hand as early as he could remember, so he was no slouch. But gaining entry into the coliseum required more than skill, you had to know the right people or get lucky. With a little fortune, and a considerable payment, his father had cut a deal with the quartermaster to let the boys compete with loaner gear. Cro and Li’l Sug had been his friends since… forever he guessed. While the other lordlings and aristocrats had private combat masters, Jack and his friends only had his father. When he could spare the time, he drilled the boys like mini guards, making them commit the oaths to memory by the time they could speak. He paraded them around in drill formations, giving them bent iron rebar for swords and teaching them to spar.

Today, they didn’t carry swords. Instead, Jack snapped his baton to the side, tapping it vigorously against his heel. With a spark, the baton illuminated with a dull white glow. He spun the baton in a flourish, careful not to glance at his tattered chest piece. One touch would turn your chest plate red and you were out. Sug and Cro finished tightening their harnesses; Jack chuckled as Sug tried to wrangle a loose strap, his active baton flailing about as he carefully tied the black cord in place. While he was lost in thought, a repugnant and all too familiar voice beckoned him with a righteous sneer.  Chad, a grotesque lordling’ son, leaned over and spat at Jack’s feet. The sharp nosed boy looked at Jack. His brown eyes, too close as to be natural, appraised Jack’s bike and armor with a decidedly disgusted look. “I know your father paid your way in, boy” he sneered. Jack, with a twinge of rage looked Chad dead in the eyes, careful to restrain himself as his father had ordered. “You don’t belong here peasant”, Chad said mockingly as he turned back to his squad. His teammates chuckled and clapped him on the back.  Cro looked at him with his eyebrow raised.  Jack grinned slyly and said in a hushed tone, “Alright lads, new plan”.

Mary sat tucked away in a stately booth, high above the ordinary crowd. She waved her hand in a charming, elegant fashion at her cousin, seated in an alcove across from hers. The King of First Reach, draped in red fineries, was staring intently at the coliseum field. His gaze swept keenly between squads as if trying to divine which boy would fall first. Mary continued to wave patiently until the bearded King’s attention ceded, turning towards her booth. He reluctantly lifted his hand from the pommel of the chaise, as if dismissing her with a half hearted wave. Technically, the King was not her cousin. His Highness was her father’s, Lord Malcom’s cousin, the details of which she was irritatingly reminded of by her tutors and scholars. She had been educated on the lineages of the various houses during her tutelage. Mary pined over stories of fabled houses, powerful Queens, and storied heroes. Her favorite subject was on the pre-fall civilizations and the cities of old. Her own father’s castle, Coldmar, laid atop the decimated remains of a past urban center called Toronto. Once a thriving city, or so the histories say, Toronto was a neutral city during the wars. After a few decades, it was toppled by a foreign invader seeking to establish a foothold in the Northern territories. It seemed nobody was immune to the global bloodshed, even the most benign of nations.

This month, Mary was visiting First Reach. The coliseum here was smaller than others she had visited. Citizens sat in orderly, faded blue rows beneath her, stretching upwards nearly fifty rows. Below them, the riders were performing warm up laps around the not quite triangular field like so many insects milling about randomly. She spotted her brother Chad among the riders, carelessly exchanging jibes with his friends. She scanned further, looking for her betrothed, the Prince. Aiden, dressed in brilliant purple armor with resplendent golden inlays, was diligently surveying the field, riding up to each dirt mound and inspecting it with a meticulous eye. The Prince was an intelligent young man. His brows seemed to bare a permanent furrow, as if he were perpetually deep in thought. Mary had only exchanged the ceremonious pleasantries with the Prince so far, as was the norm for betrothed royalty. Prince Aiden had been busy preparing for today’s tournament, flitting off to the quartermasters or getting his armor adjusted.

A horn echoed insistently across the field as the riders dispersed into bands of three at each starting block. Mary inched forward in her pale blue chair. The riders were bouncing and jostling on their mounts, the roar of engines filling the coliseum. Helmeted heads turned tensely, side to side, appraising the other riders. Mary could see the faint outlines of the batons buzzing with energy. As the smell of metallic smoke and firing engines rose, a klaxon screamed, causing Mary to flinch in surprise. Sounds of crashing thunder roared as the riders jettisoned forward out of the blocks. Bikes exploded to the center of the field, like dozens of gunshots racing for the heart. As the riders hurtled towards the center, a flock of them suddenly broke away, changing direction and surrounding a small group. A rider in red and black sped towards a small dirt berm, careening over the top and aimed right at another rider in faded green. The boy in green glanced over to see the plummeting rider in red and quickly changed direction. He swept towards the oncoming rider and lashed high overhead with a baton. The swing was unsteady, but it clipped the descending rider, sending him off balance. In a crash, the red and black bike shot forward, its occupant folding unnaturally into a heap as he tumbled to a stop. Another two riders were fervently pursuing the pale green mount. The boy in green led them on an ambitiously difficult chase, weaving into uneven mounds and swerving sporadically. One of the pursuers turned too late on a sweeping curve and flew headlong over the wall, splashing into an unexpecting crowd. 

The second pursuer, painted with dashing silvers and still dangerously close, brought the front of his mount banging into the rear of the green boys, causing him to wobble uncontrollably. The bike looked ready to throw the rider, but he managed to wrangle the bars straight and came screeching to a halt. The pursuer overshot the green bike and with a panicked look, whipped his mount around facing his opponent. The two riders accelerated toward each other. The green bike lifted, front wheel floating precariously above the ground as it lunged forward. The silver rider, outmatched, tried to swerve away from the oncoming rubber. Negotiating the move too late, he was met with a smashing tire across his torso. The silver body was ejected. As he scrambled back to his feet, the boy in green rode past, and with an effortless tap of his baton, the silver torso turned a bright, electric red.

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“Who’s the boy with the tattered greens and the… is it a raven’s crest?”. Mary’s attendant looked at her and glanced at a large armored man standing next to the king.  “It was the bastard's son, young miss”  Mary knew King Dom had a bastard brother, but had never seen the boy before. As was evidenced by the spectrum of colors swarming the green rider, she felt that he was being singled out. The green bike was buzzing furiously, as the boy narrowly dodged another swing. He zipped up a ramp, barely escaping two oncoming riders. Mary called for another glass of wine, beckoning her attendant wistfully. Her thoughts wandered to the tournaments of old, stories of valiant knights atop shining mounts.

A murmur swept the arena, hushed voices amid the roaring engines. Mary scanned the field, where she spotted a dismounted rider. His bike was mangled. As he struggled to rise atop shaky legs, he turned warily in his black helmet. The boy was clearly jarred as he stumbled towards his bike. His legs collapsed again, sending him rolling to his back, revealing the icy blues of Coldmar. Chad! She realized it could only be her brother, as she spied the Coldmar Crest emblazoned across his armor and the red glow of his stricken armor. Who would unseat him? Could it have been a mistake? He was to be today’s runner-up, second only to Prince Aiden. The boy in green circled Chad, spraying dirt with a flourish as he sped off. Chad lurched at the boy in green, falling once more to his knees. “What’s his name, the boy in green?” asked Mary.  “Jack” replied the attendant “Jack Storm”

The anxiety was creeping up on Jack. The pressure was mounting. He was riding in a field of only 10 or so now, and he could sense the spectators’ gazes pressing down on him, expecting a blow at any minute. Jack was confident in his abilities but he was feeling sorely out matched. The other mounts were faster and he could feel the heat swelling from the engine beneath him as it whined reluctantly. The straps on his legs were coming loose now and his helmet’s visor was tinged with moisture. Sweat pooled around his eyes as he reached a gloved hand under the helmet to wipe it away. The smell of exhaust and oil stung his nostrils. Everywhere he turned there were more close calls, bikes zipping bye with batons swinging wildly. Jack continued riding fervently, tucking his head down and wrenching on the accelerator for another jump. He plowed through obstacles, dashing wildly like a lone rabbit being hunted by a pack of ravenous wolves.

Cro and Li’l Sug had been tailing him at a distance, prowling behind the high dirt berms and steering clear of any major engagements. They had slowly picked off riders as they pursued Jack, preying on the slower riders and disengaging to return to the outskirts. He realized that their plan must be working. The air felt a little clearer now, and he had spotted several more boys walking off the field with glowing red chest plates. As he maneuvered around a steep bank turn, a mess of fallen bikes and riders stretched out in front of him. Lil Sug was straining to heft up Cro’s massive form. The two boys exchanged a victorious high five, as they looked around at the other four fallen riders. Jack rode by with a nod, his head tilted in thanks to his friends. Sug and Cro put fists to their chests in a sly salute. Jack swore he could almost see a smile through their tinted visors. Jack wished the two had survived the melee, but they knew the plan as well as he. 

Without warning, a baton flashed into Jack’s view. He recoiled, bringing his own stick up to parry. The blow was staggering, as the two whirring batons struck together with a cracking buzz. The rider, side by side with Jack now, steered right and then came barreling back at Jack’s bike. Icy blue armor crashed into Jack like a wave, pushing Jack off course into an unexpected mound. Off balance, he stuck out a foot and corrected before toppling over the meter high dirt pile. Jack raced forward at the blue rider, baton at the ready. The two exchanged a flurry of blows, both bikes locked on a perilously close melee. The handle bars were nearly tangled as the two wrestled to keep the mounts on course. In front of them, a massive ramp was approaching quickly. Jack had only a second to decide. A whirring baton came flailing at Jack, just as he kicked out at the other bike. Jack barely blocked the blow, his baton slipping from his grasp as he fumbled to regain control of the bike. The blue rider was sent tumbling away. Jack braced as he reached the pinnacle of the jump. Dirt turned to air as he sailed awkwardly, hitting the ground hard on a downslope. He breathed raggedly, trying to steady himself for a second. The rider in blue circled around and swiped Jack’s lifeless baton from the ground, stowing it on his belt. Jack was defenseless now, or so they would think. A grin crept up the side of Jack’s mouth as he revved his mount, spewing dirt and rocks. Jack released the brake and went charging headlong into the blue rider.

Mary was on the verge of standing, her head and neck threatening to carry her off the edge of her seat. Her father had left minutes ago, storming out of the booth in furious fashion. The moment her brother Chad had been unseated, he erupted with rage, spouting obscenities and demanding an explanation. He bellowed aimless threats at the air, cursing the boy in green.  Mary was still quite content. This was like the stories of old. A true tournament, not some extravagant show, no fixed charade. A slow swelling of chants was circling the arena. Mary strained to hear the words. “Little Raven” Mary thought she heard. They were cheering for the peasant boy. She spotted the tattered greens, racing across the arena one of her riders. The boy held no baton. Surely he was ready to forfeit. Instead, the bike hurled towards the other rider, flying sideways in a burst of dirt and dust. Her Coldmar rider faltered, skidding to the ground. The boy, Jack, handily swept forward, stopping on the mounts nose. The back tire swung around viscously, slamming into the blue riders chest. The bike was a flurry of movement now, as two more riders encircled him. The green bike slid to and fro, a wild hurricane of dirt and flying rubber. Jack managed to dodge another blow, snatching a lost baton amid the commotion. He ducked an oncoming strike, felling another rider with a low sweeping motion. The last rider circled him in a predatory posture, baton swinging in circles, inviting a challenge. His engine screamed as it kicked up dirt and debris. The circles were growing tighter, the boy in green seemingly trapped. With an audible “thud”, the circling rider’s chest plate flashed red. Jack raised his palms, no baton in hand, and shrugged at the astonished rider. 

Jack swept by in a rush and snatched up the fallen baton again. He surveyed the field, spying only two more riders. Ahead, vibrant red and gold swerved in and out of view behind an ominous black. The Prince was struggling to fend off baton strikes as the boy in black swung wildly. Jack pursued the pair, almost on the other side of the arena now. He watched as the black bike swerved repeatedly, knocking into the Prince’s royal mount. The Prince looked to be outmatched, barely getting his baton hand up in time to catch another strike. After another collision, the red mount wobbled uncontrollably, and in an instant, the Prince was careening over the handle-bars, tumbling to a stop. Jack had nearly caught up now, watching as the black rider spun around toward the Prince. Unseated, his purple and golds were smeared with orange and brown, as he stumbled to his feet. Jack figured he could wait as the Prince was tagged out and then strike from the side, catching the rider in black off balance. Jack tightened his grip, patiently waiting for the right moment to launch.

Mary was on her feet now, mirroring everybody in the crowd. A wave of silence swept the crowd as the Prince was unseated. Across the way, even her the King sat forward, watching with rapt attention. The arena was deadly quiet except for the whine of a sole engine. Her Prince had fallen, though his chest was still without the ominous red glow. She watched as the black rider circled back, aimed squarely at the teetering Prince. There was no way he could recover in time to defend himself. The black bike rocketed forward, a jaguar pouncing on wounded prey. 

Jack twitched, slamming the gas. The bike whined in strained refusal, shooting forward reluctantly. Jack lowered his body, crouching and wielding his baton with agonizing anticipation. His heart pounded in tandem with the screaming pistons, the vision at his periphery turning a hazy black. He saw the black rider, barreling down upon the helpless Prince. At the last second, he changed his trajectory hitting a jump. His bike took flight, the feeling of weightlessness overcoming him. His muscles protested as he leaped from his mount, sprawling over the prince. Airborne, he managed to orient his baton squarely in front of him. Flying headlong, he crashed into the rider in black. The impact folded Jack into a tangled mess, his head and shoulders impacting the bike or the rider, he wasn’t sure. He felt as if his spine and neck were crushed. Laying unmoving, his eyes staring emptily at the ground, the world went black. 

Onlookers gasped, staring at the heap of mounts and bodies. The little Raven had collided most unnaturally with the rider in black, saving the unwitting Prince from a cutting blow. Everyone stared helplessly at the riders. Women looked away, eyes clenched from the obscene crash. Children covered their eyes in disbelief or terror. Mary sucked in an unexpected breath, hand to her mouth. Both Jack and the rider in black lay unmoving. She watched the Prince as he looked over at the two riders, still stunned. Shaking his head, he hobbled over, rolling the boy in green onto his back. Behind a streaked brown layer of dust and dirt, his chest plate glowed red. The Prince unfastened his glove, casting it aside, and reached down for Jack’s helmet.

Jack felt sweaty fingers probing under his helmet, fumbling for the straps. Wincing, he opened his eyes. Through a mask of grey and brown, he saw a vibrant purple helmet, cracked across the temple, looking down at him. The Prince slid the helmet off of Jack carefully. Jack looked up, eyes adjusting to the bright arena lights. Prince Aiden removed his helmet and offered his hand. With an effort, Jack grasped his hand, warily making his way to his feet. His shoulders felt as if they had been pummeled by a jackhammer, and his back was on fire. Aching, burning flames shot up through his torso, torching his skull with an excruciating pounding sensation. The prince stood next to him, looking at Jack appraisingly. He clutched Jack’s hand and hoisted it high. The prince glanced out of the corner of his eye. “Thank you,” he said. Jack looked around the stands until his eyes landed upon the King’s booth. It was a flurry of commotion, as a Lord in icy blue robes stomped and waved vigorously. Jack could feel a pair of daggers boring into him as spotted the King, eyes narrowed towards him. Attendants surrounded him, clapping vigorously and cheering. More Lords hovered and bobbed, vying for the King’s attention, offering congratulations. Just behind him, Jack’s father stood unmoving, halberd planted, trying to hide a miniscule smirk on his face. Jack looked to the Prince,  “You’re welcome” he replied through gritted teeth. He looked back to his father; but I didn’t do it for you, he thought quietly.