Luckily, even as I collapse to the ground, I maintain consciousness. If not this entire thing would have been for naught. Two unconscious combatants mean no one passed the trial.

I sit up and stare at the king’s face while breathing in and out through the pain. I don't try to get up again. I don't think I'll succeed.

Moving anything hurts so I just focus on staying conscious.

The King's eyes are bright and red with fury.

He didn't think I would win. He didn't want me to win, because then it would prove him wrong.

Caster is astounded. His mouth is hanging open, his hair sticking up around his head like he pulled at it. He's on his feet again, or perhaps he has been the whole time.

Halo's expression is interesting. He's seated, staring at me with an intensity that I don't know how to translate.

Why is he looking at me like that?

General Halo and I have only had a single conversation in all three of my previous timelines and it was not worth writing home about. So why he is acting like he knows me?

The crowd grows restless waiting for the King's decision. Some are betting he'll cancel out this battle altogether, but he won't. He doesn't have a legitimate reason to do so, and King Drogo likes to appear fair if only to set him apart from the treacherous, deceitful Pangeans.

I suppose he's waiting me out, to see if I'll pass out due to the pain so he won't have to award me the victory. But I bite my tongue to stay conscious. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of succumbing to oblivion. I've been through a lot of pain in three lifetimes. I experienced true torture at the hands of a vicious evil being.

This will not break me.

Finally, after what feels like centuries, the King raises his hand approving the results of the battle.

Cheers ring out from the crowd surprising me. I didn't think anyone would be rooting for me but as I glance around, about half the arena is clapping.

Someone even shouts, "Amazing fight, Muzungu!"

They chant the slur, Muzungu, Muzungu, over and over, but the sounds start getting farther away. My vision is getting hazy, my grip on reality slipping.

The next thing I hear is the pitter-patter of feet followed by arms that carry me into the stretched bed. I'm chartered away from the field, through a door opening between the two booths off the field.

We enter a small abode, dark and stuffy, sectioned with curtains.

“I can’t tell if you’re incredibly brave or incredibly foolish.” The wry comment comes from the other side of the room, where one of two lanterns is lit. Footsteps bring the voice closer to me and grizzled hands sweep open a curtain, revealing a room with a bed.

I'm quickly swept onto the bed and movement jostles my arm again. I bite back a scream but a little moan escapes.

“Stop all that crying,” the voice says again. "No one begged you to put yourself in this situation."

The owner of the voice walks into the path of flickering light. She's a wizened old woman, small and lean and just a little bent over. Her dark hair is shorn close to her scalp, and her skin is pale but not as much as her eyes, which are white as snow.

A diagonal scar splits her face into two from her forehead to the tip of her chin. It's further proof of who, or rather what, she is.

A Farrow Witch.

I can't help but flinch a little as she comes closer, bringing an otherwordly chill with her. Instinct has me shifting in bed until my back is against the wall.

She doesn't take offense, nor does she act surprised by my reaction. She simply plucks my damaged hand towards her, uncaring of my bitten-off screech, and inspects the elbow.

“This will require a potion,” she commented.

“Po-potion?” I stammered, half out of fear and apprehension. All the while my heart races from pain and also because the Farrow Witch is standing too close to me. She smells of incense and herbs, but her touch is surprisingly gentle.

Still, I can't let my guard down. The Farrow Witches have not been kind to me in any of my lifetimes.

Frequently, they were instruments used in my torture.

I can't stop my visceral reaction to her touch even as she coolly inspects even more of my arm, tugging to find if anything else was broken.

“Boy, bring the potion,” she announces sharply and I flinch at her tone although her words are not directed at me. Her eyes flicker up at instinctive movement and she raises an eyebrow.

“Out there you seemed to be a falcon, soaring and bravely pecking at a man three times your size," she says, monotoned. “But now you have turned into a mouse.”

I swallow the fear, try to hide my reaction. “Pain turns even the bravest men to mice. And even though I'm grateful for the help, I'm not a fan of healing potions...or healers."

She doesn't smile but I get a feeling I amused her. “Very few people are." Her eyes flicker a little and I wonder distantly if I hurt her feelings.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Then I tell myself I'm being ridiculous.

Witches can't feel much pain or joy according to what I know. They don't have feelings. Only duty.

It's an open secret that the King keeps a Farrow Witch prisoner, and employs her at times, but I've never seen her before. Most of the city hasn't. I suppose he reserves her skills for healing only his Elite Soldiers and the Royal Family.

At that moment, the curtain opens, and a younger man with glasses and curly dark hair approaches. He greets me with a smile and familiarity hits me.

Seir Callistus. The genius mage from the South.

Or he will be in the future anyway. For now, it seems he's just a healer's apprentice.

He turns his attention to the witch, immediately handing her a vial of green liquid.

“This will heal you but it's not going to feel very good,” he warns me. “I can give you something else so you can sleep through the pain.”

I shake my head. I don't want to be unconscious in front of the witch and the fewer of her concoctions I imbibe, the better.

“You handle her,” the witch says. “I need to save my strength in case his younger highness gets his pinky toe hurt in battle today.”

Seir snorts, but it takes me a second to remember that she's talking about Caster. That‘s right, this year, Caster is also taking part in the Elite Battles. Being an Elite Warrior and eventually a General is part of his training to become the future ruler of the North.

And if memory serves correctly, his fight is one of the final ones.

He's likely why the Farrow Witch is here.

The Farrow witch leaves us the curtain swinging closed behind her. I finally breathe easier once she's gone. Seir drifts closer to me.

“It really is going to hurt,” he says. “Are you sure you don't want the elixir?"

I shake my head. "I don't want it."

He sighs resigned. "Alright then. You may scream if you need to, but not too loud so you don't wake up the rest of the patients. Feel free to take your rage out on the pillow below you or bite your tongue but please don't hit me. I have a low pain tolerance and I hate potions too."

I smile at his tone. “Even if I hit you, I don’t think I would cause a lot of damage feeling how I do.”

“Oh, I wouldn't be so sure,” he comments. “From what I saw, you looked like you can certainly dole out your share of damage. Where did you learn to fight like that?"

I shake my head and bring the index finger of my undamaged hand to my lip. "It's a secret."

Seir grins slyly as he puts on his gloves. "I'm very good at discovering secrets." Then, he uncorks the potion and pours the green liquid directly onto my elbow. At first, it begins as a simple stinging sensation but then it slowly gets more layered and intense.

And then Seir proceeds to rub it into my skin.

“Ah!” The sound rips out of my throat.

“I warned you it would hurt. Try not to shout."

“Shit! Motherfucker. Cocksucking Bastard!”

Seir sighs resigned.

“Ok then,” he croons. “Get it all out.”

“I can’t feel my fingers.”

“That’s normal,” he said. “The burn will spread up to your shoulders and down your side too and then you won't be able to feel anything."

Oh, how I crave the sweet bliss of nothingness right now. My vision swims and I try to block out the pain as much as I can but it's impossible. Nothing has ever felt this bad before.

"When is it going to stop?"

"Soon. It might help if you distract yourself by talking."

“I can’t remember my own name, much less have intelligent conversation.”

"It doesn’t have to be intelligent. For example, we can discuss at length the benefits of growing Pharis herbs in brown soil as opposed to black soil as has been traditionally used. Black soil tends to have higher traces of ox dung but it's also densely packed which makes it harder for the root to aerate and the plant to grow. Of course, soil with goblin excrement works best, but I don't suppose you find much of that in North do you?"

I bite my lip as the pain continues, rolling through me, stinging every inch of my skin.

“Or perhaps I can recite to you the Cyrus Manual that Farrow recently had me read from front to back. The book is as thick as a table. That should put you right to sleep, as it always does to me."

"Sure go ahead.” I bite out and squirm to get into a comfortable position but none could be found.

And so, Seir talks. He lists all the different herb combinations to make different potions. I don't remember much of what he says, or for how long it goes on, only that he refuses my request to stop talking until I glare at him.

He chuckles. "There we go. You must be feeling better."

I sigh, my annoyance waning. "I suppose. Thank you, Seir."

The humor falls from his face. "How do you know my name?"

I freeze. That's right. He never introduced himself.

I'm saved from having to answer when the witch barks out, "Boy! Get over here, we have another one coming we need to clear the beds!"

"I'm coming." Seir gives me a final curious look and then walks away.

I get out of bed, grateful that the pain has subsided enough for me to move.

Now that it has, I can finally savor my victory. I won the first trial, against the odds.

I can now proceed with the rest of my plan.

And I have the added benefit of meeting Seir.

Apart from Wolf, he is another big anchor in my plan.

As I make my way back towards the entrance, I peek through one of the curtains and spot the water girl in bed. Curiosity wins and I walk in briefly and run my hand over her nose.

At least, she's breathing.

One eye opens and meets mine. I don't say anything. Neither does she.

She closes her eyes again.

I continue outside where everyone is focused on the match, but I don't head back to the stands.

The winners are sitting in a winner's tent beside the left booth. As I approach, I feel the weight of their stares but I ignore them, sitting right at the back.

I turn my head to watch the match but meet Brute's eyes instead.

I stare back, audaciously. He can't do anything to me, at least not here.

Even if he could, I'm not scared of him.

At least that's what I tell myself.

A wicked curl of his lip and I rip my eyes away.

But when I finally see who's fighting, Bruce is quickly forgotten. Every other thought leaves my mind as my world seems to stop.

A red-haired girl is facing up against an unknown man, wielding a short sword. She moves like the wind floating around him as she avoids his strikes, almost mocking him with her gracefulness. She does it with a smile on her face too. There's an artistry in her neat nimble moves, the natural poise and the effortless flow of a dancer. She's a true performer, her curly hair swirling around her like and with every hit she scores, she addresses the audience, bowing to them, winking cheekily, and blowing kisses.

The audience loves it cheering their minds out for her, unable to keep their eyes off her.

Neither can I.

Savannah.

My heart leadens inside my chest, growing heavy with regret for a future that had not yet happened yet.

I'm sorry I failed you, Sav.

I’m sorry I wasn't there when you needed me.

I won't fail you this time.

She turns and our gazes meet. Or at least I feel like it does, even though realistically, she probably can't see me from all the way back here.

Her opponent tries to take advantage of her distraction to swing his sword at her, but she doesn't even spare him one glance as she flips over him, in a move similar to mine but much more expertly executed.

She lands behind him and then when he turns around, she spins and drives the side of her foot into his chin. His head snaps sharply to the side and he drops to the floor, unconscious.

The audience goes wild and Savannah curtsies, dancing and smiling and waving like a true queen.

Finally, she turns to the King, who grudgingly raises his hand without delay. Then Savannah skips to the winner's podium. As she takes her seat up front, I shrink back so she doesn't see me. I'm not ready to meet her yet. Not ready to face the guilt I feel.

I may never be ready.

I'm so busy avoiding her gaze that I almost don't see it.

But when I do, I can't look away.

Right there, beside the middle booth near the entrance of the arena,

There's a shift in the shadows and someone who wasn't there before now is.

Wolf.