The priests and priestesses sprinted down the street, but Vaela kept still. She closed her eyes, shutting out the world, and Reached into the Coin. Shadow lapped at her mind, an ocean of Power. She tried to grasp it, but it slid away from her like water between cupped fingers.

Surah shook her shoulder, footsteps pounded closer, her own heart pounding even louder in her ears. She shoved it all away and dove back into the Shadow. It enveloped her, roiling around her body as she tried to find her bearings. Too wild. Too slippery, like oil. Pounding, pounding in her ears. Footsteps, blood, panicked words.

Too much.

She gasped and her eyes jolted open. The clergy bore down on her. Surah pulled her arm, dragging her away.

No!

She could do this.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The Shadow filled the spaces of her mind, so tight, hard to breathe. Over and over, she Pulled it to her. It slammed into her will, rebuffing her efforts. A foreign feeling, Hermit’s essence, so elusive. Nothing to hold onto. In desperation, she tore at it, trying to bend it to her will, to break the Shadow open, to rip it apart and release its Power. It wriggled away, leaving her barren of Power.

Pounding so loud. Shouts or screams, at her, for her. She had to. The Shadow flooded her mind, pulled her into its depths. She struggled against it, now lost in its grasp. Hot breath on her neck, pleading in her ears. No, no. This Power. She had to. She had to…

Get away!

She tore herself free and reeled back several steps, wheezing in the cold air. Only a few feet away, one of the priests raised his spear. Surah’s hand, tight on her arm, jerked her as he desperately tried to drag her away. She stumbled and swung her stick at the priest. He batted it away with the spear and Vaela tripped. The cobblestones rushed up to meet her and her shoulder collided with the hard street. She rolled, stick lashing out blindly.

Surah tackled the priest and they both fell to the ground, the spear clattering across the stones. The rest of the clergy, a priest and two priestesses closed in on them. A horn resounded from behind them, now only a street away. Vaela scrambled to Surah and the priest and scooped up the spear. She flung it towards the coming priest. He dove to the side, though it sailed wide of him. The priestesses flinched as well and skidded to a stop. As the spear hurtled past, they each drew a sword.

Surah and the priest wrestled, both writhing on the ground as they vied for the upper position. The priest flipped Surah and mounted him, hands on Surah’s throat. Vaela braced her stick with both hands and smashed the butt into the man’s temple. His body went limp and Surah bucked him off. The priestesses split and prowled towards Vaela from both sides. Surah scrambled to his feet and let out a feral cry. He grabbed the unconscious priest and bodily flung him towards one of the women. She stumbled back, arm flung high to point her sword away.

Vaela tugged Surah and sprinted past the woman. The priestess twisted, bringing her sword down. Vaela whipped her stick overhead and parried the sword with a sickening thwack. They fled down the street and more priests flooded out in front of them.

Vaela skidded to a stop and Surah hauled her to the side. They turned down an alley, the sounds of their hunters raking at their backs. Left, left, right, left. Vaela lost track of the twists and turns as they bolted around any corner they could. Fire burned her muscles and lungs and still they ran like sheep from the slaughter.

They turned down another side street, seeking the cover of dark. Her hand slipped from Surah’s and she stumbled a few steps before falling to her knees. He fell to all fours a few feet in front of her, his body heaving with loud, grating breaths. She braced her hands to her burning thighs and strained to pull more air into her chest. The cold air stung over her raw throat and for a minute, all she could hear was the blood rushing through her ears and her own wheezing. As her breathing slowed and deepened, she strained her ears. Distant shouting in a chaotic array. Some neared but then twisted away down a different direction.

They had lost them.

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Timura!

Vaela jolted upright. She didn’t have time to catch her breath. Who knew how long before Timura entered a match?

She planted her stick against the ground with her trembling left hand and braced it with her right. A notch, unfamiliar to her fingers, caught her attention and she pulled her stick close. Where she had parried the sword, a cut, like a gash, marred the top of her stick. It wept no blood, but Vaela’s throat constricted. A split second off and the sword would have bit into her neck. And all because she couldn’t use her Power.

She shoved to her feet, legs screaming in protest. Her right knee buckled and she stumbled a step. She stomped her foot into the ground. Not yet. She wasn’t done yet. She wouldn’t be weak. Couldn’t be weak.

Surah clambered upright, chest still heaving, and shot her a weary look. “Don’t suppose… you’d wanna… call it a night?”

“Timura.”

He groaned and nodded. Timura’s robe clung to his body, matted with sweat. He braced a hand against a wall and waved for her to lead the way. Her body wasn’t ready to run again. She walked as quickly as she could back through the streets. The apothecary. Just get to the Hoops arena, that’s all she needed to focus on right now. As she walked, she pulled the Coin from her pocket. It felt warm, almost. Pulsing under her fingertips as if it had its own heartbeat. Why hadn’t she been able to use Hermit’s Shadow? She had tapped into Surah’s Warmth. The circumstances had been dire, then, too.

In the depths of the Coin, the Shadow throbbed. An invitation, but almost taunting. She shoved it back in her pocket. She was weak and for how long? How long had she never known the dangers of the world? She’d dreamed all her life of setting out on adventure, of traveling the world. A world filled with wine and laughter, excitement and beauty.

But this world, the real world, was no dream. Here, the wine ran thick with blood, the laughter cruel to her pain, and beauty only in her suffering.

She ran her fingers over her stick, catching the new notch. Evidence of her failure, of her weakness. Her grip tightened and she lifted her chin. No. This wound in the wood, it would never heal. This part of her, her heart made physical, would never scar over. But she wouldn’t stop. She would become stronger. Not just stronger, but strong!

She would be more than blood, pumped where it was directed with no will. More than the heart, so easily broken.

She looked over at Surah, his shoulders hunched with fatigue. He cocked an eyebrow at her and made a show of straightening her robe. She grinned and shook her head. From her pocket, she fished out the Coin, Shadow whispering from its depths. No, she couldn’t conquer them yet. With a flick of her thumb, the Coin flipped end over end through the air. She wouldn’t be a priestess or Forger. She caught the Coin and slapped it onto the back of her other hand. Surah leaned over to look at it and she tilted her hand. The frog emblem peeked at him from between her fingers and she winked at him.

She would be the Charmer.

From the darkness, they stepped into the dimly lit apothecary. Surah led her across the store and through a closed door. Steps took them down to a supply room and a distant hum almost seemed to emanate from the floor itself. At the end of the room, a man sat hunkered next to a shelf filled with ingredients. He peered at Surah and waved to the shelf. Surah caught the edge and heaved. The shelf swung on hidden hinges, revealing a burst of light and sound.

Vaela covered her eyes with an arm, blinking in the sudden light. As her eyes adjusted, she stepped forward into the hall beyond the shelf. Torches lit the way down the sloped hall which sharply turned right. From around the bend, the clamor of voices, hundreds of them, pushed against her ears like a wall of sound. She rounded the corner and gasped.

The hall opened into a cavernous space. Was all of this really just beneath the streets of Xufont? People milled through the open area with most of the foot traffic flowing towards a series of tents. Surah grinned and pointed to them. “That’s where the money is made.” He threw an arm around Vaela’s shoulders and swept his hand to encompass the space. “And this. This is Hoops!”

Her heart pounded in response to the cacophony pressing all around her. Palpable excitement danced through the air. The raucous laughter, the angry shouts, the frantic dashes to the betting tents on the far left. All formed the ebbing and flowing surface of the ocean of sound she was adrift in. And every few seconds, a wave crested, the crowd roaring and the sound threatened to submerge her. It came from the central area in front of them where a crowd of people gathered. They were ringed around an arena that descended by tiers until it opened into a huge pit.

Surah nodded towards it. “And that’s where the blood is spilled.”

A voice jumped out from their right. “Vae-loo-la! Surah-rah-rah! You two made it.” Hermit waved his staff and ambled over to them. He clapped a hand down on her shoulder, making her wince.

She brushed it off and glared at him. “Yeah, no thanks to you.”

He held the back of his hand, a thin scab crusted lengthwise on it, up to her face. “I gave you everything you needed to escape.”

She swatted his hand away. “I wasn’t able to use your stupid Shadow.”

He rubbed his hands together gleefully and danced out of reach. “Oh ho ho, of course not! And you never would have.”

She leveled her stick at him, the new notch on display. “Why not?”

“Haven’t figured it out yet, huh?” He shook his head. “Shame.” He walked away to the crowd. “Better hurry. Timmy entered one of the wings a few minutes ago. She’ll be fighting soon.”