Dorian stood at the heart of a grand city, bathed in golden light. It soaked into his skin, lifting him, making him feel weightless, like a leaf caught in the wind. He drifted effortlessly, reveling in the warmth until something shifted.
A tower loomed ahead, tall and black as the void between stars. It stood in stark contrast to the brilliance around it, an unwelcome blemish upon the dream’s serenity. A thin section of its surface peeled away, vanishing as if something inside had slithered free. Curious, Dorian drifted closer and peered into the darkness beyond the missing sliver.
An eye peered back, decidedly not a human eye.
"Hello, little Dorian," a voice rumbled from within. Deep, guttural, more beast than man. "Have you come to play?"
Dorian hesitated. His voice, when it came, was small. "No."
Another sliver of the tower sloughed away, dissolving into blackness. More of the thing inside was revealed, pale, slick flesh stretched over a body twisted and wrong, its jagged teeth glinting like shattered glass.
"Oh," the thing murmured, as if disappointed. "That is… unfortunate."
"I'm sorry," Dorian said automatically.
The creature stilled. Another section of its prison peeled away. Its flesh was crawling, tumors writhing in ceaseless motion.
"Sorry?" It repeated the word, its lipless mouth curling as if tasting it.
"Yes," Dorian whispered. "Sorry."
The thing’s expression twisted, shifting between rage and revulsion. "Sorry?!" The word exploded outward, making the world tremble. The last remnants of the black tower slithered away, revealing the full horror of the being before him. Abhorrent. Tortured. Twisted. Piteous. Malignant. The echoes of these words hung in the air like a curse as the city around them collapsed into nothing.
Now, they were alone. The creature regarded him, its mouth curling in something that might have been amusement. Or disgust. "What has happened to you, little Dorian?"
Dorian felt the weight of the question burrow into him, as if it had hooked into the depths of his being. He looked down and found himself as he was now, no longer a child, but the man he had grown into.
The creature exhaled, tilting its head. "Oh. I see. So, you've found peace, then?"
Dorian hesitated, then nodded. He held the thing’s gaze, unwavering.
The creature’s expression darkened. "Peace?" Then, it screamed.
The sound wasn’t sound, it was a force, a wave of rage and despair so powerful it devoured the space around them. "This is not the time for peace, you cur! Is your word worth so little?!"
The words struck like hammer blows, stripping away all pretense. There was no need to process them, no time for doubt. The truth of them sank deep, and something inside Dorian stirred, an old, familiar fury.
"What are you to question me?" he demanded.
The creature sneered. "I question who you are."
Dorian straightened, his breath even. "I am Dorian."
The words rippled through the void.
Silence, then the world vanished.
Only the faintest whisper remained, curling around him like a breath against his ear.
"Is that all?"
Dorian sat upright gasping, his vast bed shaking as his momentum came to rest.
“Gwendos and his sack, Dorian.” He heard a moan from the slowly stirring form next to him.
“Sorry, sorry. Go back to bed, I'm gonna go walk a bit.”
Her tone, despite being barely awake, was exacerbated. “Just say what you mean, you have to piss.”
“Yes, I have to piss.”
“See, that's better.” She mumbled before drifting off.
He knew she knew what he meant, he seldom took his bracelet off any longer. It sat on his wrist, inlaid with old stone, the collage of fossils instilled in it still catching his attention nearly as often as her thoughts had. He sighed, knowing he was too soft. Boldness was the way with her, but he could seldom manage unless his blood was up. That was one of the small problems, though numerous, it didn't even make his list.
These nightmares, however, were becoming a serious problem. This thing he'd dreamt up was becoming a nuisance, it seemed no matter how much he fought it he couldn't be rid of the monster. He had no idea how his imagination had manifested it, but for several months now it had been paying him visits. As the tournament grew closer, it seemed to come nightly. Now, just a day out and prepared to leave The Monastery for the first time in memory, he knew the thing would pay him a visit.
Leaving the room, he heard the raucous snores of Ingrid. He found it oddly endearing, even if she shook the walls of the stone chamber like a willow in the winds. She always snored when she was exhausted, or if she had a few drinks, but with both? He knew what to expect.
Stepping into the hall through the sliding stone door, he closed it softly behind him. The “clubhouse” as they called it, had accommodated their needs, and had even thrown a celebration for them. Still, though, he had to dim the lights in the hall as he had just left a pitch-black room.
“Hey, who's turning it down?” Someone in the largest chamber called over the soft music.
“Just letting my eye's adjust, sorry.” Dorian silently swore at himself, he'd been apologizing far too often lately, and even if it was polite to say it, he'd rather not lie. Another part of his mind told him that apologizing like that was a sign of weakness, which is why people used to treat him so poorly. Then again, if he didn't, he was just as bad as the classless jackasses that shit on people for the fun of it, which wasn't Dorian either. He sighed to himself as he entered the privy, arguing with oneself wasn't a sign of confidence either.
After taking care of his business, he felt surprisingly awake. His sleep schedule was always a wreck whenever he came out of the training grounds, he was happy he wouldn't have to make that adjustment again. He decided to mingle, briefly, with those still awake. Vinny was there, though without Malik. Vinny was always incredibly polite to Dorian, likely because he still owed Dorian money.
“Hello, Vinny. Still burning that midnight oil?”
“Evening, Dorian. Fine of you to join us.”
“Fine of you to have me. Seems so quiet tonight, I'm surprised you're still up.”
He shrugged one shoulder, gesturing to the few still up. One person was idly fingering some kind of string instrument, while a few others were playing cards. Dorian took a seat next to Vinny and poured himself a cup. That's when he spotted Jack with his lady love, tucked away, whispering soft nothings to each other. Jack had paired up with a very quiet Danae a week ago, or month as Dorian saw it.
It surprised him initially, Jack was true to his lineage, he was like a living stone. Rough around some edges, but goofy and kindhearted if you knew him. If you didn't, you likely saw him as stalwart, somber. The people that thought that simply didn't know Jack. Still, the soft and quiet Danae was an odd mixture with the stone man. She was obviously Gwendian, fair haired and with a light complexion, and you didn't get any more Kressian than Jack. He hadn't grown an inch, even after he spent a few weeks in the training grounds, though he was as broad as Dorian despite being a hand shorter. His hair cut short for his competitions, black haired with a complexion closer to mud than clay. Jack would be competing in the Colosseum as well, just not in the main event.
Vinny noted Dorian looking over the couple's way and smiled. “Surprised?”
Dorian shook his head. “Not really. They actually blend quite well. He's very tender with her, it seems.” Dorian smiled, happy for his friend.
“I think so too. Speaking of, how is Ingrid? Malik hasn't spoken of her in weeks, and I haven't had the time to catch up with her.”
“Quite well.” Dorian gave a happy smile. Vinny gestured for Dorian to continue, he did so reluctantly. “We've kept ourselves busy, she has so many Primes and she struggles to keep up in her studies. Of course she's still excellent as ever, and I like to think I bring her enough joy to make it worth her while.”
Vinny smiled broadly, flashing his teeth. Dorian thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but he could swear it didn't meet Vinny's eyes.
“That's good to hear. Ready for the big day tomorrow? Leaving the Monastery, It will be the first time in a long time for me.”
Surprised, Dorian said, “oh? You've left before?”
Vinny waved it away. “Missionary work, helping those to the path and such. I was allowed to travel with one of the priests for a time. I spent time helping with simple things, irrigation systems, water veins, moving aquifers, I even spent a few days shaping new homes for Metan after the plague.”
Dorian hadn't heard of this and was intrigued. He took a drink and asked, “Metan had a plague?”
Vinny nodded somberly. “Poor folks, cut their population in half. I'm surprised they've even been allowed to present competitors to the dueling brackets, they've basically restarted from scratch. They did find their Steelfyre though, and that put them in good graces with everybody.”
Dorian gave a contemplative “hmm” before having another drink.
“So, think you'll win?”
Dorian shrugged. “Won’t really know until we know.”
Surprised, Vinny said, “that is a surprisingly nonchalant attitude for someone about to stand before thousands of patrons.”
“Oh, that part... Ya, well, I'm freaking out about the beginning ceremonies, unpracticed and all, but for the competition itself? Meh.” Dorian shrugged. “I've trained as hard as I could, and if there's someone out there better than me, fretting about it now won’t do me any good. The die has already been cast, we just need to see how they turn up.”
“Wow, it's that simple to you?”
“Well, yeah. Besides, everything else disappears when the match starts, and I know that. When it's just me and the staff, and another trying to take me out, there is nothing else. Maybe I'm stupid or just can't pay attention to more than one thing at a time. What I'm sure about is that I've spent the last year and change of my life dedicated to being in that space. Doing it somewhere else is just different spices to the same meal.”
“You are something of a wonder, Mr. Dorian. I'm glad to have known you.”
“And I, you, Vinny.” Dorian shook hands with the man, starting to get up.
“Oh, and one more thing, Dorian.”
“Hmm?”
“Would you say you've been happy?”
Thrown off by the question, he gave Vinny a confused look before he smiled. Laughing it off, Dorian said, “of course, Vinny. I don't know if I've ever been so happy.”
For whatever reason, Vinny was delighted to hear it. “Good. I had to ask, and I have a gift for you, Dorian. Don’t open it until the finals, whether you make it or not.”
Vinny handed Dorian a small stone, it was surprisingly light. “Have Ingrid open it, you’ll know what for when the time comes. Consider it a bit of motivation.”
That’s all Vinny would say on the subject. He was suddenly very animated in getting Dorian back to his room, which he obliged as he was ready to go back to sleep.
“Dorian, it's time to go.” Ingrid said, shaking him awake.
“Eh?” He replied, before turning his face back into the pillow. It was warm and cozy, and brought all the comfort of the world, the notion of turning away from it was dreadful. Meeting his day, he took the charcoal mixture that was next to the bed, drinking it in one swig. Following that, he dressed half dazed. Ingrid was already dressed, hair in a tight braid, and was heading out the door before Dorian stopped her.
“What? I'm going to be late.”
“Hold fast, I haven't even greeted you yet. You wouldn't let me go about such a venture without a kiss before parting, would you?”
“Oh, of course I would.” She started turning, but Dorian was quick to step out into the hall. He grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her, placed the hand at the small of her back. Now inches away, he could feel the heat of her breath. Cupping her cheek, he gave her a proper kiss, the kind he'd like to give her every day.
A few people Dorian hadn't noticed hooted. “Get a room!” Called one, making Dorian grin and blush before releasing her. She smiled quickly at him, turned, and left down the hall. Dorian watched her braid bouncing, and took a passing glance at her perky backside. Gods, she is a beautiful storm, he thought before turning and gathering his things.
The dining hall was filled to the brim, and had Dorian not headed towards where he knew Clarice would be, he would have had to wait all morning. Luckily, between helping her prepare dishes when she served her time on the training grounds, as well as sharing a few more recipes with the staff, Dorian was more than welcome to come in through the back and get himself a hardy breakfast. He cooked his own eggs, though. He liked the yolk, and the sloppy scrambled concoction they served for the general initiate simply didn't compare. He spoke with Clarice briefly, but she had to hurry along. This was going to be a very long day for the cooking staff, most of the food had already been transported, but they had to haul all their gear down with them. It was less task and more torture, as they had to finish cleaning the dishes after breakfast, pack up and be on their way.
Dorian, like all the other initiates, had already packed for their stay. Dorian didn't have much save for his tunics, a ceremonial robe, his quarterstaff, and a few books. He'd leave the books behind, too much weight and all, but the rest were ready and packed in his rooms. He had to stash the journal and it's copy, one he kept in the walls of the clubhouse, the other he kept in Jack's rooms.
Dorian finished eating in quick order, he knew he had to meet the rest of the competitors on the first floor within the hour.
When he arrived on the first floor, there was barely any room for him. The crowd of people mulled about and the chatter was loud enough to make his ears ring. So many people, and this is the small group.
He found Jack, though with so many about it wasn't easy. If Dorian hadn't been so tall, he likely wouldn't have. Jack stood with the other throwers, that being the nickname Dorian had given them. They came to the training grounds a few times, practicing one of the oldest form of competition ever.
“What's happening Jack, glad to see you bright eyed and bushy tailed.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Dorian's hands went up, “actually.” His hands went down, “I don't really know what it means. Something about being up early?”
“Oh.” There was a pause, “where did you hear that?”
“Not really sure about that either.” Dorian rubbed the back of his head. “So, how is Danae?” He drew the words out. Jack's face, though it was hard to see, turned a little red.
“She's great.” That goofy grin.
“Good to hear, any idea when we're getting out of here? I'm ready to get this done.”
“What's got you in such a hurry, you had ice in your veins last night.”
“Yeah, well, that was last night. There's too many people, the air stinks like morning breath and body odor.” Dorian sniffed himself. “Oh, that might be me.”
Jack laughed, only then did Dorian notice how tense he was.
“How about you, excited to get your wins?” Dorian asked Jack, hoping to relieve some of his friend’s tension.
“Yeah, I'm ready.” Jack replied, then he said, “I just don't want to walk so much. It'll be more than eight hours from now, that's a long ass walk.”
Dorian nodded, then they fell into the habitual banter of old friends passing time. Before long, Master Flint came to the front of the library steps. He took out a cone shaped thing and spoke loudly into it.
“Quiet!” It startled Dorian, it was significantly louder than he expected.
“If the competing initiates will please settle down, we can begin instruction. Those of you that are to compete in the Quarterstaff please take your leave to the far wall across from me. Brother Michael, if you would.” Brother Michael? He's back?
The far wall split apart and folded away, the stone shifting with a fluid grace that Dorian had never seen before, except for the day the Grand Elder shaped the Colosseum. But that had been at such a distance that he couldn't make out the details.
Here, the movement was closer, more tangible. The stone didn’t crack or break; it flowed, like water thickened to sap, bowing outward before splitting at the base. Morning light poured through the widening gap, flooding the chamber with warmth. The scent of farmland drifted in, rich with earth and growth.
Dorian breathed it in. The air, even tinged with soil and livestock, was a welcome reprieve from the stale, heavy dampness of the stone halls.
“If you please, take your leave. Remember, when you approach the edge of the time bubble, do not dally. There are repercussions you can't even imagine.”
“I guess that means me, see you in the quarters.”
“Sounds good, Dorian. I just hope the quarters aren't tents around an open fire.”
“Why's that? Trying to sneak your girl over?”
The mock offense Jack took as he gestured to himself spoke for itself.
After more than five hours of travel, Dorian finally drew close enough to the Colosseum to make out its finer details. The sheer scale of it was staggering. At first, he told himself it was a trick of the eye, an illusion of distance, but with every step forward, the enormity of it became undeniable. Nothing crafted by human hands should stand so vast.
The towering columns were a gleaming marble white, while the layered sections between them were pitch black, creating a stark contrast that made the structure seem almost unreal. Ornate carvings adorned its surface, though from this distance, the details blurred into a grand display of craftsmanship. The walkway leading up to it was checkered, the alternating stones forming a pattern that seemed almost deliberate, as if marking the path to something greater than mere spectacle.
Around the perimeter, massive spires jutted skyward, each supporting colossal flat sections that loomed overhead. Four of them tilted inward, arching toward the center like the ribs of some ancient beast. It gave the illusion of a dome, yet Dorian doubted their purpose was simply to shield from the elements. There was intent behind their placement, some purpose he couldn't yet fathom.
Even as he stood on the approach, staring up at its vastness, his mind struggled to reconcile the reality of it. The Colosseum was not merely a structure, it was a monument to something greater than men, something beyond mortal ambition.
When he stood at the base of it, looking up gave him vertigo. The polish of the walls reflected the light of the sun, and even the distant city of Gwendos could barely compete with this single large structure. The smell was oddly dusty, strange for the season. Autumn usually was excessively muddy, though the season had just begun.
He frowned suddenly, as he wasn't sure how or why he knew that. It felt like he was tapping at something in the back of his mind.
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It's time to wake up, little Dorian.
With a shiver, Dorian turned back to the people milling towards him. The procession was a long one, a continuous line of people heading all the way back to the Monastery proper. The Monastery Temple, basically the manse that the Grand Elder and his Priests stayed in, was on a rise to the north east. It stood there, black as tar, seemingly in judgment of them. As he stared at it, his curiosity was piqued. He looked through his Giasight, entertaining a simple thought, when he gasped.
The entire Colosseum was covered in intricate runes. He knew much more now than he had back when he had first discovered them, but this was so far beyond him. He didn't even know where to begin. Some of them were connected, he could tell by their angles and the way they flowed, but others stood alone. Some seemed to say “exhilaration” while others were chained together in a way that he had no idea what they meant or did. He recognized a few that Ingrid had shown him, one of the large broad stones above had a large rune on it that meant reflection. Reflect what?
Jack had managed to catch up to him, he was laughing maniacally. “Can you believe this, Dorian?! Look at it! It's unbelievable!” His voice echoed back from the archway they stood near.
“I know, I know,” Dorian laughed.
Before Jack had a chance to say anything else, Master Flint used his cone to inform them as to where they should be heading.
“Posted inside, there are directions for each group of the competitors as to where your quarters will be. Please take your leave immediately. Do not stand about. We have many more to settle in before this day is over. Thank you.”
Shrugging, Dorian walked just behind Alex and the few other combatants that he hadn't met. They headed directly to a large parchment posted to the wall. There it listed all of the various groups that comprised the Monastery initiates. There at the top left of the page read: Quarterstaff Competitors, Section 1, Quadrant 1: Overseer: Brother Michael of the stone shapers.
Finding the map, Dorian saw that his were the closest living quarters to ground floor. Also, according to the map, its hallway led directly to a large balcony for the show. It was close, unbelievably so.
“Well, Jack, I'm off to get settled in.”
He nodded once before going back to finding where he'd be staying.
“Before I forget, if you see Benny and Ken, you're all welcome to drop in on me. I'm at one and one, and if you manage to forget, well, you won’t be welcome anymore.” He smiled ruefully at his friend.
Jack clapped him on the shoulder, “good thing because you're not welcome in mine.” Dorian knew he was joking, until he thought about Danae, then thought again. He pondered it as he left, shaking his head all the while.
As he approached his quarters, Dorian marveled at the pristine condition of everything around him. The sheer level of decoration was staggering, especially if the entire Colosseum had been furnished as elaborately as the halls he had passed through. Portraits of past Grand Elders lined the walls, their stern gazes watching over the corridors. A rich red carpet ran down the center of each hallway, leaving the stone walkways on either side bare.
Sections of the walls had been shaped with precision, forming alcoves that held torches, vases, decorative weaponry, and intricate tapestries. Towering pots of shrubs stood at the entrance to each archway, adding a touch of life to the stone corridors. Even the public washrooms boasted running water, an impressive feat of engineering. It was, without a doubt, a wonder.
Reaching his section, he turned down the first hallway leading inward. Each door bore a letter with a name, sunlight streaming in from the far end. He walked slowly, scanning for his own. Midway down, he found it. Pulling the letter free, he opened it to reveal a small note and a key. The note read:
Dorian,
I know we haven't spoken in a while, I'm glad to see you've come into your own. This is the key to your room, don't lose it as I have the only spare. Your attire is inside, everyone has been given three sets. Win or lose, you get to keep them. You are welcome to invite up to two others to join you in your rooms until lights out. That would be an hour after sunset, do pay heed to this as the first round of the day will be two hours before noon. Attend the balcony tonight for the sermon at sunset, be sure to wear your robes. If I don't see you, Good Luck-
-Michael Miller
The first thing he noticed was the last name. Miller? Really? He hadn't a clue, furthermore, Dorian found it very odd that the man didn't use his title but instead used his name. The second thing he thought was how he would find Ingrid in this entire mess.
Sighing, he came into his chamber and laughed out loud. It was an almost exact replica of the rooms he had slept in when he was attending the training grounds. Say this for the Monastery, they didn't care much for variety.
Kurt woke early that morning, just as he had every morning since reuniting his father with the rest of their family. Some days tested his patience, his resolve, and his endurance. Other days were simply miserable. Still, Kurt took his licks like anyone else and kept moving forward.
Coming out of his tent to the predawn light, it would be the last time he'd see the sunrise from the trees. He'd come to find that waking this early was worth it, the rest of the challenges of his day weren't so bad so long as he had taken to his training.
It had been nearly six months since he first woke to the sight of his ravaged village, smoking houses, makeshift barricades, the ghosts of what once was. Since that day, and since his first encounter with Quena, he hadn’t let a single day pass without spending time with her. Even when she grew distant, retreating into herself, he made sure she never felt alone. Regaining her memories was difficult, and sometimes he wondered if she might have been better off without them.
Still, when he first handed her a staff and told her to defend herself, she was surprised by how natural it felt. She had once mentioned, in a dark room surrounded by Moder’s gremlins, that she remembered having calluses on her hands. Now, with every sparring session, he helped her rediscover why.
Kurt had moved through the seven stances and their three accompanying forms, then repeated the drills with the spear. A few months back, Quena had joined him for the spear work, and she had taken to it as effortlessly as a bird to flight. As the sun finally crested the mountains and filtered through the treetops, both of them had worked up a solid sweat. Kurt typically continued until the rest of the Metians stirred, while Quena would slip away before anyone else woke.
Occasionally, one of the caravan guards or his older cousin, Vincent, would step in to spar. But none of them could hold a candle to Quena, let alone to Kurt. That was just the way of things.
Kurt had been the obvious shoe-in for the three representing Metan. One of the outskirts trappers had shown his willingness, a gruff sort but he was too short by half to get far and most everyone knew it. His name was Anthony, but everyone knew him by Tony. The other, unfortunately, was Bo.
Bo was still a swaggering pile of scat, as far as Kurt was concerned, and had come out of the situation in Metan completely carefree. He had taken over as head of the Smith's, his father too wracked by illness had died during the plague. The requisition of Steelfyre making him extraordinarily wealthy, leaving him with enough sway to egg his way in as a contestant. The bear scat.
He wished that Quena could have competed, despite her haughty disposition, she had the knack for it. If only the girl would gain some weight, but she refused to eat meat after they had returned to Metan. Something had happened and she refused to talk about it. That was Q though, reserved as she could be, she was a solid pillar in Kurt's life.
At times, Kurt regretted refusing her.
After their return, something had sparked between them, undeniable, unspoken, but there all the same. She never said it outright, but he recognized the look in her eyes, the lingering touch, the slight quirk of her brow. He knew what it meant. He had seen it before.
Against his want, he had held back. Not because he didn’t desire her, Gods, that wasn’t the problem, but because it would have been a disservice to them both. Too much of Diana lingered in her, and Kurt refused to let his attraction be muddled by the past. He had something with Diana once, and Quena wasn’t her. They couldn’t have been more different.
Diana had been warmth, nurturing in a way that wrapped around others like a blanket. Quena, though cut from the same cloth in many ways, lacked that instinct entirely. She wasn’t a mother bear, nor a lioness. She didn’t protect with gentle hands or soothing words. She was something else entirely, something sleek, dangerous, untamed. A black panther, striking from the shadows, guarding what was hers with claws and teeth rather than comfort.
And that, in truth, was what made the temptation so damn difficult. Because for all his reasons, for all his restraint, he couldn’t deny it, he wanted her for who she was. Not as a reflection of her sister, but as herself.
Now that he had finished his daily routine, he readied himself and his father for the upcoming walk. Randall Cook was no longer the bright-eyed head cook, even if he was technically the first of the house, he couldn't bask in the success that Moder had given them.
Moder, the spiteful bastard, had played his hand well. By supplying them with raw Steelfyre ore in staggering abundance, he had inadvertently filled the Smiths’ coffers with wealth beyond reason. An unfortunate consequence, but at least there was some justice in the fact that the Smelters, holding the real power in the exchange, had been wringing every last coin from them. From what Kurt had heard, the Smiths were being bled dry in turn. Still, there were resounding profits that the smiths had been making. The Smelters had been sticking it to them harder than a plowman could. Kurt grimaced, then smirked. Poor taste.
Shaking his head, Kurt washed himself in a portable basin before turning his attention to his father. Rand still hadn’t fully recovered from his ordeal with Bacchus. Since his return, he spent most of his days staring into nothing, drooling absently, a hollow shell of the man he had once been. Occasionally, he would mutter in tongues, fragmented whispers of something long lost, but even those moments were rare.
Still, there were glimpses, flickers of the father Kurt remembered. Watching him spar seemed to stir something deep within Rand, holding his attention in a way nothing else could. It was enough to tell Kurt that his father was still in there, buried beneath whatever nightmare had consumed him. The challenge was pulling him back out.
After his father was dressed, Kurt took to breaking down their tent, gathering their supplies and preparing themselves for the last leg of their journey. It had been a long walk, the caravan slowing down their speeds, and his father besides, they had been on the road for six days now. This was the first and only time in his memory that the entire village had been summoned. This Grand Tournament was supposed to be grand indeed.
Kurt's mother had taken to village head, as was expected. Agatha Weaver had stepped down willingly, which wasn't much of a surprise. She had shamed herself in her responsibility to the village, but she didn't mind. She had her heir, even if she couldn't announce it yet. Quena, simply by existing, had given something back to the poor old woman. She wasn't half as broken as when Kurt spoke with her last, her grief over Diana still wore on the elder woman but Kurt thought that she could bear the brunt of it in Quena's presence.
Finally packed, Kurt loaded his father up with his travel bag. He might not be all there in the head, but the man was still relatively massive, he carried the heavy pack without a single complaint. Kurt nabbed his own, and they were off to meet the day.
Kurt sighed as his father veered from the path yet again.
“No, Dad, this way,” he said, gently guiding him back. Rand hesitated but resumed the walk, his vacant eyes drifting ahead as they finally broke the tree line.
Gwendon stretched before them, its wide-spaced buildings looking just as he remembered. What he wasn’t looking forward to was the stench of the city. Thousands of people crammed into one place—it took all his willpower not to turn around right then and there.
Glancing back at the rest of the village, he saw them for what they were. Haggard, tired, still recovering from the plague. They were his own, and as one of the chosen for the arena, he couldn’t turn his back on them now.
The morning dragged, a slow crawl of footsteps and weary voices. It wasn’t until just before noon that the final wagons of the caravan reached the city gates. His mother was there at the rear, urging the stragglers forward, making sure no one was left behind. The other village heads were there too, every trade house accounted for. Rita caught sight of him then, waving with a smirk. “All hail to the King of the Wilds,” she called. Kurt pursed his lips, unamused.
Though the men had no memory of that night in full, they somehow recalled his drunken proclamation. “King of the Wilds,” or something close to it. He hadn’t thought he had said those exact words, but that hardly mattered now. He was the one who had brought the men back, and in their eyes, that made him something worth toasting, mocking, or both. Shaking his head, he kept his father close and fell into step beside his mother as the end of the caravan caught up.
She halted abruptly, looking to the elders. “I need a word with my son. If you would?”
They hesitated, then moved ahead, widening the space between them. Bo lingered longer than the others, his glare withering. Kurt smirked at the pompous little pimple of a man until Bo finally looked away. That’s right, you wretch. If the Gods are good, you’ll get yours.
When the space was clear, he nodded to his mother. “How has the morning treated you?”
She let out an exhausted sigh. “Like every other. One person has a plan for this, another has a plan for that, and nine times out of ten, there’s no way to balance it. I burn almost all of them.” She turned her gaze to Rand. “How is he today?”
“The same as usual. He’s been prone to wandering ever since we got near the tree line. It’s like he doesn’t want to be without the trees.”
“Sounds about right.” She shifted Teresa in her arms. “Come, we have a few things to discuss.” She raised her voice. “In private.” The remaining villagers took the hint, pressing forward.
She passed Teresa into his arms, freeing herself. “Really, I just wanted those ones to move along. I can’t get a moment to myself these days. Here, take your sister.” Kurt took the baby, cradling her close as he handed off his staff.
His mother turned it in her hands, admiring the craftsmanship. “Did Dorian really make this?”
He nodded, a sad smile touching his lips. “Said I’d need it for the tournament.”
“Well, he was right.” She handed it back. “I’ll take over from here. You need to head up with the other contestants. And don’t get any ideas, but you’ll have your own rooms.”
Kurt raised an eyebrow.
“There’s a sermon tonight, and you’ll be on display. I packed robes for you, remember, you’re representing us to the entire valley.”
She gave him a pointed look, clearly catching the reluctance written across his face.
“Oh, stop that. You’ll do fine. You’ve already made me proud, so don’t waste time worrying about that. Just do your best.” She reached for Teresa, trading him the staff in return. Kurt took it, scanning the procession ahead. His eyes searched for Quena.
Rita took Rand by the arm, steering him toward the city proper. His mother turned back. “And another thing, those rooms of yours? I expect you to be asleep by lights out. And don’t go talking to those hussies from the city.”
Kurt pinched the bridge of his nose, already knowing what was coming.
“You’re a nice boy. Why don’t you consider settling down? I know that Weaver girl has an eye for you.”
Kurt shut his eyes. It was the only way to escape the shame of it all.
After parting with his mother, he caught up to Quena. Since she wasn't supposed to be there to begin with, he figured his rooms would be a sight better than sleeping in the ditch or camping out on the plane. When she took this as Kurt being forward, he swiftly corrected that he needed someone to keep all the groupies away from him since he'd be taking the win. She laughed but gave him a shifted eye before following him along. By chance, he ran into Tony on the way out and told him that the combatants had private rooms in the Colosseum proper. To this, Tony was delighted. He joined their motley crew, heading in the direction of the large circular building, its tall spire not seeming so far off.
He was wrong, painfully so. What he had expected to take an hour dragged on for nearly three. The Colosseum was massive, far larger than he had anticipated, and the sheer number of people heading toward it was just as overwhelming. A seemingly endless line stretched from somewhere off in the distance, steadily feeding into the great structure.
Kurt frowned. “What’s with all the people?”
“Initiates,” Quena said solemnly.
He turned at the sound of her voice, only to find her looking unusually pale.
That was saying something. She was already fair, but now she looked as if all the blood had drained from her face.
Tony spit, grumbling something about vagabond priests, and Kressor's chosen. Kurt wasn't sure what the older man was talking about, and he didn't really care either.
They came to the main entry, mostly vacant, though there were a few individuals milling about. A large sign that sat atop a table had the word “combatants” seared into it, a coinciding arrow pointing down a hallway. Kurt shrugged and turned to his companions. Upon doing so, he spotted someone in the distance following the same path they had taken. Even from this distance, that lanky form could only be Bo. It was odd to Kurt that a smith had not been broad, but somehow Bo was as thin as a line tree.
“Ah, Gods damn it all.” Kurt said, sounding frustrated. “Could that lanky bastard just bugger off somewhere?”
A grunt of assent came from Tony and a careless shrug from Quena. Shaking his head slightly, Kurt led the way from the entrance following the arrow as directed. The halls were immaculate, entirely too clean for his liking. He didn't mind order and all, but this level of cleanliness was unnecessary. Even the sconces that were placed throughout the hall hadn't been there long enough for the soot to accumulate. It was odd, like the master work of the most anal person to ever walk the earth. Perhaps, that was an occupation in the Monastery. Master of the Puckered Arts.
“What are you grinning at?” Quena asked, head tilted displaying her long and elegant neck.
Kurt coughed into a closed fist. “Oh, nothing appropriate, I assure you. Hey, I think that's where we're heading.” Kurt pointed, glad to change the subject.
There was a break in the stone, inside it sat a middle aged woman, one that looked oddly familiar.
“Hello, we saw the sign. We're the combatants from Metan.”
“Ah, I see.” She moved about behind the counter, pulling out a ledger and three keys. “Which one of you is Kurtis Hunt?”
“I am,” Kurt said as he stepped forward.
“You'll have to leave that here.” She said this with such absolution that Kurt didn't even think before he handed over his staff.
He stalled midway, “I'll be getting that back for the matches, right?”
“Well of course, but we have to make sure it's up to code. There may be some alterations, but I'll get your ascent before anything is done to it. Oh, that is quite nice.” Kurt let go and she took it into hand. She marveled at it momentarily before she gently placed it underneath the counter. “Here is your key, you'll be contestant 26 until the second day.”
Kurt brought his brows down. “Wait, I don't even get to display my name until the second day? Why the heck not?” He wanted to say, “Why the hell not,” but didn't think this to be the place for swearing.
The woman laughed at Kurt, making his face flush red.
“Let’s just say there's a rule change, one you don't agree with, and you concede. Would you want the name of your house to be labeled cowards?”
Kurt thought for a moment, then he said, “well, no I-”
“Say you come out to your first match, and the sight of so many people watching you sends a cold shiver up your spine. You freeze up, or even worse, wet yourself? Is that something you'd like your family to take responsibility for?”
“No, I-”
“Say you get to your second round of the day-”
“Okay, okay, I get it. You've made your point. Where are my rooms?”
“Combatants are on the second floor with a great view of the grounds. You'll have a communal balcony, though since Metan has smaller numbers you'll have to share the balcony with the community leaders.”
“With what leaders?”
“Oh, there's your own leader, Rita Hunt, and the City Heads of Gwendon, and the Kressian-”
Kurt's eyebrows shot to his hairline, “I see.” He said it completely deadpan. So much for throwing a party, when his mother, along with the other big names, inhabited the same floor. Kressor's blackened balls, that sucks.
“Is everything all right?” The woman asked.
“Yes, fine, thank you. Will that staircase take us where we need to be?”
She nodded. Kurt was going to head that way, taking Quena with him but before he had a chance to snag her attention, she was speaking in hushed tones with the desk jockey. Kurt had picked up a trick over the last few months, focusing a bit of Gia into his eardrum, he could hear far more clearly. He did so.
“Yes, you see, Bo is kind of my... beau. He's very busy, you see, head of the Smith's house in Metan. I figured I'd surprise him before his big match, maybe give him something to motivate him.”
Kurt let it drop after that, walked to the staircase and waited there. After Quena came over, she winked at him before taking a seat on the stairs.
“Don't you want to head up?”
“It will look too obvious that you were waiting for me if we don't wait for Tony. Just sit tight, Bo still had some walking left and I saw a crowd of people heading our way from Gwendon. I don't think he'll make his way this far for another hour at least.”
Just then, a sudden chatter of people came from down the large entryway. The crowd, the patrons, the very beginning of what made an event like this so important. Spectators had begun arriving.
Climbing the stairs was quick, Tony being the only one talking. He babbled about how much the woman behind the counter looked like his mother, though Kurt didn’t see it. When they reached their floor, Kurt and Quena took their leave of him, but not before Tony awkwardly stalled, firing off several questions about their schedule. When they had to be where, how the rest of the evening would go, what was expected the following morning. Kurt told him he knew as much as Tony did, and they’d figure it out as they went. With a nod, Tony left for his room, just a few doors down.
Kurt opened his door to find a marvelously large bed. Beyond it, sparse but well-crafted furniture filled the space, with additional rooms branching off. Quena let out a haughty chuckle, remarking that the layout was identical to the Priorius chambers back at the Monastery. She gave him a brief tour, ending in the center of the room. When she looked up at him, her big brown eyes nearly made his knees buckle.
“Can I see your key?” She asked innocently.
Confused, he slowly reached into his trouser pocket, then checked the other. His hands patted over his shirt, searching, as if he might have absentmindedly tucked it there instead. When he glanced at Quena, he caught the mischievous grin spreading across her face.
“You sneaky wench.” He shook his head.
“You've caught me, whatever will you do about it?” She smiled at him, glint in her eye. An eyebrow quirked as she looked at the bed.
Kurt was about to say something when she said, “hold that thought.” Reaching down to a small pouch she had on her, she rummaged through it. The sound of rocks clacking against each other came from the movement. Not surprisingly, she pulled out a small stone. Holding out the key, she closed her hand around the stone.
Kurt could tell that she was doing something with her Prime, and when she opened her hand she held a copy of the key. She placed it into another pouch before presenting the original back to him. The back end had been reshaped.
“Loop your belt through that end, this way the only way you can lose it is if you lose your pants.”
“I wouldn't place bets on that.”
“You keep me much longer, and I wouldn't either.” She leaned in suddenly, planting a light kiss on his cheek. Kurt was stunned, likely looking like a turkey drowning in the rain. “I'm gonna go get lost for a while, don't wait up, and don't worry. I'll let myself back in.” She smiled wanly at him, gliding from the room, she was as graceful as a swan. Without another word, she left and locked the door behind her.
Shaking his head, Kurt let out a sigh, unsure what to make of it all. He moved toward the bed that would be his for the next few nights and sank onto it, his thoughts drifting. His mind wandered first to his chunky little brother, wondering how in the world he had managed to get himself into the tournament. Then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to Moder, where the bastard was, what this so-called "key" might be. Why now? Why this way? He had puzzled over it before, convinced he had grasped some understanding, but now, it all felt just out of reach.
Dorian had to mature, and Moder could only show him so much. Furthermore, Moder had once explained that there was something in the halls of the mountain that made the Priorius mature more thoroughly. Something about an engine, making the fuel more potent. Kurt had assumed it was much the difference between burning dried Gwam to green oak. Regardless, the tournament would be the only time the Monastery mingled with the populous. Damn Dorian, why did he have to compete? Why couldn't he have simply remained passive?
But he knew the answer to that too, Dorian tended to surge. Even at that early age, Kurt knew Dorian could lose his head and become surprisingly bold, if not brash. Wonder where he picked that one up, eh? I should never have taught him the staff, or the spear for that matter. Little bastard, shouldn't have shown him all my tricks.
Kurt fell asleep, smiling to the memories of sparring with his little brother, their laughter as they played pranks on the young girls in their village, and the adventures they had exploring the ever-changing woods of the Wilds.
Quena left the room feeling rather smug, a satisfied smile playing on her lips. She knew, without a doubt, that before all was said and done, she would get what she wanted from him. And he would give it.
She chuckled softly through her nose at the thought of labeling him. Sometimes, in her mind, she thought of him as boy. He was barely younger than she was, but this wasn’t her first show. She had been through this dance before, more times than she cared to count. The gaps in years, however, left her reeling at times. The memories came in waves, slowly knitting themselves back together, all thanks to that thing Kurt called Moder.
At first, she had been outraged. As the memories of her prior deaths surfaced, raw and unrelenting, they left her seething. The so-called Grand Elder, she scoffed at the thought. What a self-aggrandizing fiend.
In lives past, she had knelt before him. In different bodies, she had carried out his will, committed atrocities that made her stomach twist to recall. A shiver ran up her spine as the memories came, sharp as daggers. The things she had done in the early days to cement his rule, to spread his tyranny, were nothing short of abhorrent. And what had been her reward?
To be fed to the engine like all the others.
This time, however, she had slipped through the cracks. It shouldn’t have been possible, or so she thought. The alternative was that she no longer mattered, but that couldn’t be it. Still, here she was, walking freely, existing beyond the cycle that had claimed her again and again.
One of his agents had even confronted her, one of the countless lackeys compelled to pacify the initiates, to dull their instincts, to make them complacent. The initiates were given a place to vent their frustrations, an outlet for their rebellious nature. And when that wasn’t enough, they were fed intoxicants that made their Gia bloom like weeds, primed and ripe for the taking. Then, ascension would come. And like always, it would all be returned to the valley, saturating the land, enriching the cycle of death and rebirth, feeding the reserve that had kept them all trapped for generations.
The valley had changed, twisted by centuries of sacrifice. The land was so thick with death that even the trees had adapted, their roots drinking deep of Gia. Everything here had evolved, reshaped itself in response to the greatest and most persistent threat, mankind.
She had glimpses of before, fractured memories that had survived each rebirth, but they were brief, disjointed, impossible to piece together into something coherent. What she did know, without question, was that she was trapped. Trapped like a caged beast, bound to this insignificant valley while an entire world lay beyond.
Freedom.
The open sea. Endless plains. Towering forests, sprawling cities, wonders beyond imagining. She knew it existed as surely as she knew she was alive. As surely as she knew desire. As surely as she enjoyed toying with that young man's head.
And she knew there had to be a way out.
Whether this fat kid was the quickest means to an end hardly mattered. She had clawed her way through enough lifetimes to understand the path to freedom was paved with power. Power and knowledge. And she had a damn good idea where to find both.
After setting the final rune in Bo’s room, she placed the key back in the slot, the glow of the markings humming with potential. Her lips curled into a smirk as she turned away, laughter spilling from her lips, echoing back through the empty halls as she made her way to the Monastery Temple. Down to the basement. Through the hidden draw tunnel behind the false wall.
If there was a chance to seize true power, to shatter the chains of this wretched valley for good, then she would take it.
And damn the cost.