Hiemal awoke within a swirling haze. His head swam about in a disorienting play of numbness and agony; his vision ever fuzzy as he struggled to focus on anything substantive, and nausea threatened its dismal appearance at any moment. He could hear the activity around him; he was abstractly aware of its presence, but his addled consciousness struggled to translate coherence out of the gibberish he was hearing. His legs were a thunderous assault of pins and needles, not even the most earnest of demands convincing them to stir. And, of course, that everpresent cold was still there, stronger than ever as his weak form failed to fend the fiendish ice in his very bones.

With a push of his arms, Hiemal made to stand, but that threatening nausea immediately proclaimed its displeasure, jumping to the back of his throat. A blur pressed on his chest, gently pushing him back down, and he just managed to swallow his bile as the blur muttered soothing nonsense. He focused his mind on this entity, and soon, his vision and hearing started the painful process of reclaiming their competency.

"Don't push yourself too quickly. You took a pretty bad hit." it took Hiemal a moment to connect the voice to Doyen and a moment further to realize he lay in a hospital wing. Where last he remembered night, now he could clearly see the brilliant rays of day shine through the large greenhouse windows; he felt the uncomfortable frame of the bed he rested on and the concerningly wet sheets that covered him. Conversation kept spewing abound at a rate too harsh for his aching head, but it did help him to build an image as, one by one, his brain reconnected memory to sensation.

"Are you still with us? Any brain-damage? How many fingers am I Holding?" Three sharp stabs of pain pierced into Hiemal's skull, along with the harsh irritant of Doyen's query.

"Don't snap at him; loud sounds must be awful for the poor thing." The breathy melody of Tort's soft cadence.

"What a weird saying. If you think about it, it doesn't make any sense. You're not like, actually physically holding fingers, like in your hand." The humorous crack of Radix's developing pubescent voice.

"I stopped this crazy kidnapper once who, when her victims woke up, would do that bit while literally holding her victims' severed fingers." The deep baritone of the typically quiet Errant.

"That's horrifying! Why would anyone do such a thing?" The insecure exclamations of the meek Shirk.

Slowly, the haze in Hiemal's mind lifted; he could see, hear, and most thankfully, interpret everything around him, though his head was still pounding and his stomach still contemplating dramatic evacuation.

Hiemal groaned out, "Four fingers..., why are my legs dying?"

Doyen chuckled, a tension clearly leaving him as Hiemal's improving condition was confirmed. " Oh, the weird slug thing is napping on your lap. I would take it off, but I don't know if its supposed to be healing you or something. Besides, the Matron is terrifying, and I don't want to piss her off."

Hiemal felt a different nausea surface. "Is that why I'm so wet? Is it drooling on me?"

"Secreting mucous, actually."

"I'm sure it's a kind of balm."

"It's kind of cute." The final comment drew disturbed looks toward Errant.

Radix slapped his thigh, sending a disorienting sting into Hiemal's head and drawing everyone else's attention. "Whelp, since we're all up and about, shall we relocate somewhere more comfortable?"

Hiemal groaned out, "Why are my legs dying?"

In a voice barely harsher than a whisper, Tort gasped disapprovingly. "Absolutely not... Errant and Hiemal are in no condition... to go anywhere."

Errant smirked at Radix, "Why? Don't like hospitals?"

Radix tugged at the sticky leaves pressed against the crusted burn marks around his arm stump. "I think I'm developing a complex."

Errant sputtered a laugh but quickly stopped as it aggrieved his bruised ribs. "Well, you'll have to tough it out. Was the pain worth it at least?"

Hiemal groaned out, "Five fingers."

Doyen's mood immediately soured. " If by that you mean, did we capture the Sin-Eater? No."

Shirk was quick to inject some optimism, "But there were no casualties at least."

"No thanks to you." Errant bitterly bit back.

Tort interjected her words, fighting through coughs, "What about Livy?"

"What is that supposed to mean?" Shirk defended.

"Did something happen to Livy?" Hiemal asked.

"Sin-Eater was your opponent! Why weren't you in that fight helping us? You just stood back and watched as we risked ourselves to fight your battle for you!"

Tort softly asked again. "Do we know if Livy is okay?"

"Relax, Errant. He's not a real Tournament contestant like us. He would have just been another weak point to worry about."

Hiemal answered Tort. "No, I'm fine,"

Radix answered Tort. "I think the Dragon took her."

"That's not an excuse! Radix tried to help."

Radix sputtered indignantly, "Hey!"

Tort sputtered out, "The Dragon!? We have to help her!"

Hiemal groaned, "Did something happen to Livy?"

"I would have helped if I even knew there was a fight! I wasn't awake like the rest of you."

"I think the Dragon was on our side at the end."

"I wasn't useless."

"Half the town was awakened by the fight, yet you, who was right next to it, didn't. You're just a coward who left us on our own!"

Hiemal was a little insulted, his own shout causing dizzyness in his skull. "I was knocked unconscious!"

"You don't understand! The Dragon wanted something from us, Livy isn't safe!"

"I took him on one-on-one for a while there."

" Radix, you were fine. Errant, don't let out your frustration of losing out on the kid."

"I think the two were in agreement."

"I'm twenty-six."

"I haven't agreed with anything."

"No, the Dragon."

Hiemal groaned out, "Did something happen to the Dragon?"

"We don't need them. Humans can solve their own problems."

"Which one?"

"There was more than one!?"

"Both?" / "Any."

Hiemal angrily shouted out, "Whose talking about what!?"

"We're changing your bandages." The Matron spoke matter-of-factly, entirely uncaring of Hiemal's distressed tone.

Hiemal reeled back at the sight of the Matron, his brain hurting even more, "When did you get here?"

Doyen paused his conversation with Errant and Shirk, giving Hiemal a concerned look. "Hiemal, she's been here fifteen minutes. You greeted her when she came in, don't you remember?"

Hiemal groaned in both frustration and pain. "I feel horrible."

The Matron continued with her unsympathetic bedside manner. "Concussions will do that to you."

"Do you have any painkillers?" the words croaked out, burning Hiemal's dried throat with a painful chafe.

The Matron tsked in disappointment. "No, you don't want any of those toxic concoctions in your system. There are so many different chemicals in those things nowadays that you have no idea what you're putting in your body. Here, bite on this leaf."

Before Hiemal could protest, she shoved the plant in his mouth, immediately igniting his face with hundreds of tiny stabbing pricks. Hiemal instantly gagged and spat the leaf out. "Whab the hell! Wab tha stingin neddle?"

"Nature's anesthetic." She genially smiled back at Hiemal's rapidly swelling face, which broke out into harsh red rashes.

"My mouf ib on fire!"

"But it distracted you from the pain, didn't it?"

"It ib the bain!" Himeal cried out, struggling to hold himself back from scratching the horrible itch in his throat. "Oh god, it ju get worbe wif time! Why ib it so poten?"

"My personal selectively bred cure. It should help with your concentration."

"I think I might be allergic."

"Exposure therapy is the greatest antidote for an unfamiliar body."

"Is thib bunishment for the thight?"

The Matron answered with a harsh smile.

Radix paled at the treatment of Hiemal, his face turning ashen white, "Please tell me this isn't how your medical system works."

Doyen laughed. " No, she's a total quack. Any sane doctor would be trepanning him."

Radix turned to Doyen, "What's trepanning?"

"Drill a hole through the skull, alleviates built-up blood pressure."

Radix paled even more, "I want to go home."

Doyen chuckled again, "We'll get you there. In the meantime, why don't you just heal him?"

Radix looked confused, "How would I heal him?"

"You got your powers from the Devadoots, right? So did Iatric-" Doyen briefly stopped, remembering Radix's foreign status before quickly adding, " Oh, that's my wife by the way. She has all kinds of different healing abilities. I'd ask her to heal Hiemal, but she'll only be coming in-" Doyen took a moment to remind himself "-about three weeks for my fight." Doyen turned to look at poor Hiemal. "I think he'd appreciate getting healed a little earlier than that though."

Hiemal barely blubbered a response through his bloated lips, "Yeb blease."

Shirk gazed up at Doyen in awe, "Princess Iatric is coming?"

"You're married to a princess?!"

"Yes. Can you heal him?"

Radix lamented, "I don't know how."

Doyen gave Radix a reassuring pat on the back, utterly ignorant to the cracking of dried flesh and Radix's pained wince. "Well, how do you manifest the Devadoots' power? I'm no Iatric, but she told me a bit about how it works."

Radix's gaze fell to his toes as hesitant embarrassment played embracing accompaniment regarding the man-turned-myth beside him. "I don't really know; I sort of have this glowing paper stuff that I fold a bunch and it makes stuff happen, but I don't really know how it works exactly. It's going to sound stupid, I know, but the paper kind of tells me... ish, what to do?"

Radix tested a nervous glance up to Doyen and caught his disarming smile, "That's not stupid. It sounds like spell formulation."

Tort gaped at Doyen. "You know magic?" Her question was punctuated by a string of increasingly guttural coughs, and the dainty lady snuck a pleading look to the Matron.

The Matron remained silent and unanswering as she continued to work on Hiemal with an increasingly bizarre assortment of questionable vegetation. Despite Hiemal's protest and Radix's concerned glances, Hiemal's head was, in fact, slowly clearing and his pain abating.

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Doyen answered Tort. "I basically grew up with Ken nagging my ear off every day, so I picked up a few things."

Tort cocked her head and asked, "Ken?"

Doyen quirked a single eyebrow at that. "Yeah, you know, Ken the Preeminent, fellow member of THE Saviors, two-time Tournament invitee, living legend. You know, that Ken."

A subtle blush painted Tort's cheeks, the modest act seemingly draining her of all her strength, "Sorry, Most news doesn't make it to where I live."

Doyen's second brow rose to match the first. He turned to Radix, teasing, "Hey, Radix, I found your perfect match." Then suddenly, Radix was blushing enough for the both of them. The teen's overdramatic response forced a small titter from Tort. That ever-so-slight laugh seemed to steal away the girl's final breath; the giggle turned into strained choking, and the jubilant atmosphere quickly turned to concern. Doyen and Radix hovered over the gasping Tort, unsure how to help. The girl's chest painfully heaved, forcing larger and larger gulps of air until, finally, a quivering intake ended the sudden attack.

Doyen asked concerned, "Tort, are you okay? What was that?"

Tort forced a pained smile and replied with barely a whisper slipping past her lips. "I'm... alright." She slowly tilted her head to the Arena Matron. "Ma'am, could I have a drink, please?"

The Matron turned away from Hiemal's bed and took in Tort's pale, weak form. "Certainly. I just harvested some blood this morning." The Matron nonchalantly exited the room, leaving the place in stunned silence.

Errant was the first to speak, "Some what!?"

Tort sunk deep into her chair, her eyes averting from the discerning stares of all the men, their gazes each redefining the woman they thought she was. Doyen stepped forward; his voice, which had always been tender when directed at her, was now steeled, his face severe. "Care to explain Tort?"

Tort still refused to return eye contact. "It's just anemia."

Radix sputtered in astoundment, "You drink blood to cure Anemia here!?"

Shirk immediately answered, his voice laced with calculating suspicion. "No, we definitely don't."

Doyen hardened his glare, "Tort." his harsh tone made her flinch, sapping at Doyen's fight. As Doyen was about to interrogate again, Shirk beat him to it. "Tort, whatever the reason is, I'm sure the Tournament Corporation wouldn't have let you in if you were a danger in any way. You can tell us."

Tort opened her mouth to reply when a deep baritone roar shook the very walls of the arena greenhouse, speaking in a matter-of-fact monotone, "She's a parasite."

The noise immediately redoubled Hiemal's migraine while everyone else quickly spun around to see the gargantuan head of Muse the Dragon outside staring back at them.

As soon as Tort spotted her sister's assailant, she lashed out, "Where's Liv-" The abrupt action aggravated the frail girl's sore throat, sending her into a series of painful coughs.

Muse answered, his voice rattling the room's fixtures. "Livy is with my sister. I'm here to take you to her." He then addressed the other contestants and said, "Inform Director Yu that Livy forfeits from the Tournament."

Radix questioned, a little worried. "Is Livy alright?"

Shirk jumped into the conversation. "Sorry, are we just going to ignore the parasite thing?"

Tort was entirely focused on trying to get to Livy, but no matter how she protested, her body was too exhausted to even wheel her chair out. "Please, Muse, take me to her."

Errant seemed unsure, "Can someone just forfeit like that? Don't we need her to say it herself or something?"

A feral grin grew across Muse's face, "Livy is unable to speak for herself at the moment. As I am the only one who can speak about whether she loses her match or forfeits it, I have deigned that she forfeits."

"By lose her match you mean..."

"Dies."

That single word shot a sting of panic into Tort. "Please, Dragon, Muse, please take me to her!"

Shirk added, "Kind of want answers about that parasite thing."

And then the Matron returned. "Alright Tort, it's a little- Dragon! Do you know the damage and chaos you have caused in my town? I will have your head for this!"

"Oops, time to go." The Dragon then punched through the glass wall of the Arena, sending shards to rain over the bedbound Hiemal and Errant. Shirk and Doyen quickly jumped back, Doyen grabbing the less reactive Radix with him. Muse easily enveloped Tort with his one massive arm, picking her up, chair and all.

The Matron burst a screech to rival the most shrill of banshees. "Dragon, I will kill you!"

Before she could make do with her promise, the leviathan troublemaker had already flown away.

A cold breeze brushed through the room, forcing the freezing Hiemal to huddle further into himself.

Errant grimaced as he swatted broken glass off his bed, "Well, that was rude."

"Does Tort still need that blood?"

"Really wish we got clarification on the parasite thing."

"Can we finally leave this room now? I mean, broken glass cannot be safe."

"Will she be safe with the Dragon?"

"I would-dn't mind heading out-t-t, its too c-cold here."

"He seemed friendly enough, I'm sure she'll be fine."

"Wouldn't call punching the wall friendly."

With a great heave of exhaustion, the Matron trudged out of the room without a word.

"Think they'll come back for the blood?"

"You're always cold."

"Gah!" Everyone turned to Errant, a small dribble of blood cooling down his finger, "Sorry, glass knicked me."

"Maybe we should head out."

"It's always cold."

"What's the blood even for?"

"So you said you could help Radix with healing?"

The Matron returned with a broom and dustpan, ignoring all her hated guests and began cleaning the mess.

"Anemia, right?"

"Sure, I don't know origami, but if it's like spell formulation, I can tell you the general shape needed."

"I hate all of you."

"You don't believe that, do you?"

"Is it okay to help teach a rival how to use his abilities?"

"What else could it be? Hey, can I have a bandage for my cut?"

"Don't worry yourself about being my opponent; take it as a learning experience."

"Are you okay?"

Errant pouted, "Hey, you have to make it past me before you even worry about Doyen."

The slug creature happily wiggled its many tentacles as it made a content gurgling sound.

"Hey, who cares about that thing? I'm bleeding here."

"And Doyen also has to beat me first."

"Blood can be used for lots of things."

"Anyway, don't worry about the fights. So the general shape Iatric used for concussive healing is-"

"Doyen also has to beat me first."

The arena matron cooed "You would never break my greenhouse, would you."

"Blood is rarely used for anything innocent, is all I have to say."

"I might be having second thoughts, should my first ever attempt at healing be on someone's head."

"Hey, Doyen has to beat me first."

"My finger is still bleeding."

"Who are we kidding? Doyen is going to beat me."

"Think of it as a learning experience. Cuts are easy, and I see Iatric doing those basically every day."

"What's it like being married to a princess?"

"You could at least pretend to be a little concerned about our fight."

A massive crash bellowed once more through the newly made broken entrance, knocking over the Matron's dustpan and spewing broken shards of glass all over the floor. Everyone quickly turned to see the Dragon once more at the entrance. "Would you still have that blood vial for Tort?"

"Knew it."

"Oh, about that parasite comment."

Seething rage boiled under the surface, but with an exasperated sigh, the Matron gave up and simply handed the vial of blood over.

"About the parasi- and he's gone."

"Get out."

"To answer your questions, very tiresome, and you're concussed."

"Get Out."

"Maybe we should make our way out."

"But I'll be healed by the time we get to our fight."

"Would it be so hard to give us an answer?"

"I was trying to be nice."

The Matron screeched out at the top of her lungs. "GET OUT!"

----------------------------------------

The soft chime of a bell rang with the opening of the shop entrance. The shop, playing host to aisles upon aisles of bizarre nonsensical timepieces, tocked away the seconds unconcerned by the entering guest.

Shirk casually entered the clock shop. He hated how that bell alerted of his presence, and he surreptitiously scanned the room. His eyes immediately caught a tall figure by the teller, dressed in ubiquitous white. White Witch, entrance bell chimed, back turned, she didn't notice. Shirk silently slid over to an adjacent aisle and crouched so he didn't stand over the shoulder-high shelves. Shirk painfully watched as the entrance door slowly slid closed, extraction difficult, assess.

The White Witch was here, probably not in Ark, which wasn't immediately suspicious; she was a contestant after all, most of them would surely visit the booky, even if only for the information she had available. The White Witch was speaking with someone, and he recognized the current speaker as that of the clock shop booky's, "-just spoke with Marion by the way, he had some of his grandkids with him; they're so cute together. You should really introduce yourself to them Pen, they'd love you. I'd let you bridge through the shop if I could, but I guess you could still Immerse yourself if it isn't too costly."

The White Witch and Booky, the Witch was definitely dangerous and the Booky too friendly with her for his liking, two possible hostiles, and he now had the Witch's true name, Pen. The heavy thump of walking reminded him of the brass automaton that was always with the Booky. Its child-like appearance made him want to write it off as a threat, but by the weight behind those steps, he knew better, three possible hostiles.

"Perhaps another time, We are too busy at the moment for family reunions. How about after our work, Pen? Maybe if you don't mind, I could come along."

So Pen was a third bogey, plus the amalgam, four possible hostiles. The White Witch made a sharp, seething sound, and then the Booky asked, "Does your eye still hurt?"

"Just stings a little. The blood makes it seem worse than it is."

The Booky tsked disapprovingly. "Well, I'm not just going to have my guests bleeding all over my floors. Sweety, could you get some ice and a cloth for Aunty Vvitch?"

Aunty, The Witch and Booky were very familiar, which was bad, but with a potential injury, of the eye no less, which was good. Shirk waited for the heavy thumps of the amalgam to recede into the back room before testing a peek over the shelves.

The White Witch stood on one side of the cash, her wide-brimmed hat resting on the counter. She dabbed carefully at a streak of blood that drooled down from under her eyepatch. On the opposite side of the counter was the Booky, and beside her was a short woman with big bushy hair held back by a yellow headband; that must have been Pen. In the centre of Pen's forehead, the yellow headband seemed slightly stained with blood, so potentially two injuries. A fourth person stood off to the side, on the customer side of the counter. A young girl, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, though she wore the same red frock coat as Pen, which unfortunately brought the potential hostiles to five. The young girl was distracted by one of the clocks on a nearby shelf as she kept trying to stop the swing of its pendulum, but her finger would twist and wrap around it unnaturally, unable to touch the pendulum.

The brass amalgam returned far too quickly and tugged on Pen's sleeve. The short woman smiled at the child-like creature and easily lifted the beast up and onto the counter. The amalgam wrapped its metal arms around Pen's neck, giving her an embracing hug and then, with an apprehensive shyness it did not have for Pen, handed a block of ice wrapped in cloth to the White Witch. The White Witch pressed the ice against her eyepatch with only a slight wince, entirely dismissive of the nervous automaton, "On the topic of family, I heard Luna paid you a visit."

Shirk crouched back down and decided to just listen for a while. The Booky spoke next: "He was so disappointed you didn't tell him about The Tournament, Pen. He might be coming to you soon for some betting money," she teased.

The White Witch asked, " I'm sure Arete wouldn't mind donating a small allowance. And him? I thought Luna was a she now?"

"He just transitioned, I think, a week before I last spoke to her, I mean him. He changes so often. It's hard to keep track sometimes."

The young girl scoffed. Shirk heard the shuffling of clothes, probably the girl turning to face the rest of the group. She made a sound as if to speak but suddenly aborted, a moment of silence, then she spoke, "We're not alone."

How did she suddenly sense him? He hadn't made a single sound to draw attention. The White Witch responded, " I thought I might have heard the entrance bell; you really do have too many clocks in here; it's impossible to hear when you get new customers." The Booky grumpily mumbled something about no one ever buying them. Shirk could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, somehow knowing exactly where he was. "No need to frighten them Névé, it's probably just our snoopy friend, the Bulwark. Would you like to introduce yourself, little hellion?"

There was no point in hiding anymore; Shirk stood and saw a Cheshire smile appear, looking far more unnerving on the God-killer's face. "Ah, and now there's a face to the mischief." The White Witch turned to face Pen. "I told you we'd be able to intercept him here. We shouldn't waste so many resources immersing when we don't have to." They were here specifically for him. That was very bad.

The White Witch returned her gaze to Shirk. " You truly are a Hellion, you know. Really threw us for a loop there. Slaying poor Jocund, having our Mulct chased all over Ark, being a veritable ghost in the flesh. You've certainly given me a lot more work."

Shirk was paralyzed; frontal confrontation was not his forte, and he was now the sole attention of perhaps the three most powerful people in the entirety of the Tournament. The White Witch continued, "So then... are you going to intro-" Pen placed her hand on the Witch's shoulder and she stopped speaking. The Witch turned to Pen with mild surprise, "Oh."

Pen brought her free hand up to her head and pulled off her yellow headband. Her big, puffy hair sank a little, but still not quite enough to hide the large, angry eye in the centre of her forehead. Streaks of dried blood pooled around the edges of the eye, and the skin was red and sore. The eye sported five large abyssal pupils over a terrifying pink iris. The five pupils slowly merged into a single massive black orb, which then constricted into a sharp, focused dot that stared right at Shirk. Suddenly, he felt a level of nervous dread he previously believed impossible.

Although slightly surprised, the White Witch did not seem particularly bothered by the alien revelation before her, "Are you good now?" Pen turned away from Shirk, her two human eyes moving to the Witch, but that third grand eye never lost its focus, constantly staring straight at him. Pen nodded, and the Witch turned back to him.

"So, how about that introduction?"

Shirk nervously glanced between the White Witch and that third eye; dozens of escape plans and contingencies were being thrown away as quickly as they were thought up against the impossible situation he found himself in. As a secret operative, his personal information was something he guarded zealously. Then, his gaze fell on the only person who was ever able to find that information on their own.

The Booky raised her arms in placating defence. "There is some information that I do not bargain or sell. If Vvitch wants your name, she won't get it from me."

It was a small mercy, but the confirmation that not everyone in this room was entirely conspired against him did help relieve a lot of his tension. Shirk mustered whatever confidence and bravery one who lived eternally within the shadows could and confronted the epitome of evil might, "I don't think I can share that with you."

The White Witch laughed and waved him off. "Of course, you can; we're friends. All children know you can share anything with friends." The White Witch paused momentarily but didn't allow Shirk any time to respond, " We are friends, aren't we? If we weren't friends, then how would I be able to nicely ask you to concede from the Tournament?" The White Witch tapped her chin, contemplating, "In that case, I would have to find a different way to have you concede."

"Shirk," He managed to grit out with frustration, much to the pleasure of the White Witch.

"Nice to meet you, Shirk; most title me the White Witch, but if you really must have a name, then you can call me Vvitch. Can I ask, between friends, of course, who killed Jocund?"

The question confused Shirk, and he answered uncertainly, "I... did?"

"No, people as smart as you never kill people like Jocund the Wall. You merely draw the blood."

Shirk really didn't like where this was going. He desperately hoped he could skirt the issue: "I don't think Jocund's killer would like to be known."

The White Witch smiled innocently, "I'm just asking as a friend."

Shirk squeezed his hands into fists, battling against his frustration and weakness. "This isn't something you can threaten out of me; if I told you, then they would just kill me."

The White Witch furrowed her brow in annoyance; it didn't seem like she was angry at him, but it was more like she was working through a puzzle. She spoke again, but this time, it was more to herself than directed at anyone in particular. "Killing Jocund was smart, very smart, very delicate. Not something that could be done eight times over, nor do I think the Corporation is pliable enough for such a thing to even be managed."

Then her eye sparkled, the puzzle was solved, and a teasing smirk appeared. "My Shirk!" she spoke falsely, aghast. "I thought you were smart. You defected for a wish? Arrogant, too, in that case. Surely, the type of people who get the type of things done by your type of people would already want you dead for abandoning them so unceremoniously like that. Don't worry; your friend can help you."

Utter defeat had never so casually been handed to him. "The Tabulate Syndicate."

Where Shirk had expected a victorious grin was instead astonished horror, "Oh."

Névé awkwardly idled to the side, oblivious of any of the meaning exchanged, while Pen kept her otherworldly gaze on Shirk. The White Witch seemed to be on the back foot for the first time since they started conversing. After a moment of deep contemplation, she spoke. "This isn't entirely unmanageable. But you don't need to worry yourself about these sorts of things. As a friend, I can protect you from their retaliation, and I'm sure, as a friend, you wouldn't mind doing me a few favours here and there. Oh, and of course you will rescind from the Tournament, as a friend."