“Fuck you and your happy little life, you will remember what you are, Dorian.”

The voice cracked through the void, sharp as a whip, searing into his skull like white-hot iron.

“I know what I am,” Dorian snarled. “I’m the next champion of the valley, and you won’t stop me!”

They clashed. Power cracked like thunder between them, each strike rippling through the darkness. Dorian flung bolt after bolt into the shifting mass of his enemy, watching them vanish on impact. No matter how many times he struck, the creature wouldn’t fall.

“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” He roared, desperation bleeding into his voice.

A wordless cry ripped from his throat as he unleashed everything he had. His Shade erupted in a spiral, a force of raw will slashing through the void. But the beast was already gone.

And then, laughter. A sound that didn’t belong. It echoed, stretched, crawled beneath his skin.

Dorian’s breath hitched. His Shade coiled around him instinctively. He released.

Dorian woke to his bed collapsing. He hadn't gripped his Shade as tightly as he had in his dream, but he had erupted in about a three foot circumference around himself, destroying his beautiful bed.

He groaned as he looked over the mess. It was completely destroyed, and no matter what he could do he couldn't work wood unless it was living.

Sighing, he found his vest with the numeral on it, and got dressed. He was rinsing his mouth out with saltwater when a knock came at the door.

“Um- Sir?”

“Yes?” Dorian replied as he came out of the washroom.

“I've brought you breakfast, your match isn't too far off so we took the liberty, to uh...”

Raising a brow, Dorian asked, “what is it man?” The boy carrying the tray of food wasn't really a man, but Dorian liked to think that subtle compliments like that might help salve the boy's pride. The Gods know being a runner like that wasn't doing him any favors.

“It's just, uh, your bed.” He said as he placed the tray down on a counter near the door.

Dorian rubbed the back of his head. “You see, I. Well. These Gwendian woman, and well the Kressian one's too. I was hoping to speak with someone about the state of my bed, simply put, I'm not used to bedding being so” he coughed in to his hand, “fragile.”

The boys eyes were wider than the plates he had brought, meanwhile Dorian did his best to hide his grin. “Would you be willing to send someone in to do something about it? Or contact someone who can?”

“I, uh, yes sir.”

Dorian rummaged about until he had found his bag of Vega tokens. He tossed him a full token, not a chip, and said, “that's a good man. Thank you for the food, I'd better.” He gestured to the plate of steaming sausages, eggs, and some kind of flatbread.

“Oh, yes sir, and thank you sir.” Before the man left, Dorian asked his name, to which he replied, “Basil, sir, spelled like the plant but pronounced like a person.” Dorian thanked Basil once more and the young man nodded his head one too many times before he scurried out of the room. Dorian had a good laugh after the door shut. Gods, if only life were always so good.

He smiled broadly as he ate, up to the point he worried it might slow him down in his match. He was scared, someone else with a pointed quarterstaff and someone that knew how to use it was a terrifying notion. There had been many times he had traded blows so long as he had the better of it in points, and as techniques go, one generally didn't think before they acted. He'd ingrained those things into his technique, and he knew it would take conscious effort to keep from those kinds of exchanges. A mistake could cost him his life.

Dressed, and ready as he would ever be, he made his way out to the balcony just in time to catch the commencement.

A much more animated announcer was displayed on the large flat planes above the Colosseum, Master Flint likely losing his spot considering his less than animated announcements the night prior.

“To this day, we salute and celebrate those brave warriors representing the four corners of the valley!”

The crowd cheered, but Dorian didn't really care for it. Hadn't the entirety of the Monastery been snatched away from the rest?

“To the east!” The balcony that had the Gwendians on it lit up a light green and their image shone above. “We have those representing the mighty, the pure, and the righteous! Gwendos' own, we show you your champions!”

There were a few there that were sizable, roughly half male and half female, but they all seemed radiant if not well fed.

“To the west, we have Kressor's own, they who represent duty, loyalty, and pride in their competition. Kresson gifts us with their champions!”

All of them, man or woman, were broad as barrels. They had darker skin, far more tan than Dorian could ever be, with dark eyes and black hair. For all that, they had stumpy little legs. Dorian caught himself chuckling lightly, but stopped as he knew it was inappropriate.

“Next, those who dare temp the dauntless perils of the Wilds, those that stand for life and light. When man first called out in words, when we found fire, from this is where we claim heritage. For the fight for life as we find the Path, Metae's own, Metan presents their champions!”

There were only three, two tall and one squat. The taller boys were just that, boys, but the shorter one seemed a bit older. The other two, however, something seemed to tickle at the back of his mind...

“And, to our host we graciously thank for our northern most combatants. Hailing from the Monastery Mountain, from the initiates to the Way of the Path, we present, you the people, our finest champions!”

Kurt watched, eyes narrowing, and this time, there was no doubt. His little brother stood like a mountain.

The boy he had last seen, soft, rounded, barely grown into his own limbs, was gone. In his place stood a man, broad-shouldered and solid, with a presence that made Kurt’s stomach sink. His face had sharpened, the faintest shadow of stubble lining his jaw, though Kurt could still see their mother in him. Except for that chin. That chin was pure Cook.

His hair was cropped close at the sides, the rest pulled back into a short tail. But it was his sheer size that caught Kurt off guard. He was thick, powerful, not the chubby little thing Kurt had once tousled on the head, but a wall of muscle. Kurt swallowed. Hard.

Several years had obviously passed for Dorian, but for Kurt it hadn’t even been 2. And now, somehow, he stood there eying his brother from across the Colosseum. The thought came unbidden: I might have to fight him.

He forced a breath through his nose, reassuring himself. Nobody that size moves fast. Not fast enough, anyway. He had that, at least.

Still, Dorian’s baby fat had burned away, leaving only a lingering fullness in his frame, nothing like the docile, round-cheeked boy Kurt had known. Holy hell, not what I expected. Kurt had known this moment would come, but nothing had prepared him for this. He cursed himself thoroughly for having shown so much to Dorian. He'd never have guessed it would come to this.

“For our first match of the day, we have a match of old. Directly out of the book of the Path, Gwendon and Kresson fight. Blessed be the blood that stains this ground, for it shall bring our redemption.”

Kurt gave a mental scoff at the notion of those words. He was truly beginning to hate “The Path” and everything it represented. His insides churned, and he was ready to have this all done. The display, the bullshit, the spectacle of it all. He wanted to get his brother the hell out of here, make him whole, and bring fury to the old bastard that now sat above them all.

On the other hand, Kurt had his father back... in a way. The man last night was his father, though he didn't really know anyone. A few hours after that, he grew quiet, that morning he was being led by the hand once more. It was so odd, but Kurt could swear the man was doing better again.

As Kurt watched, Rand looked all around the stadium. It wasn't the placid look he usually wore, but the kind a child gives to the world. Then a sudden sternness came onto his face. He stood.

Kurt bounded over with a quickness. “Whoa now, maybe we should just sit down for a sec there, Da.”

“Da? I'm not your father, boy. I'm off to win my next match. Where's my stave.” Rand was looking around until he locked eyes with Rita.

His brows shot up and he smiled a smile that Kurt never wanted to see again. No child should ever see their parent with that kind of look on their face. No. Not ever.

“Why, hello miss. What's your name?”

Kurt's mother was blushing furiously, and Kurt simply couldn't take it.

“Okay, I'm out.”

“Oh, son, ju-” Rita said before Kurt cut in.

“Oh, nothing. No, nope, not happening. Goodbye.”

As Kurt trudged away, he heard his father say to his mother, “what's got that one's nip in a twist?”

Kurt idled about his room, knowing full well it would be some time before his first bout of the day. This was the rough part, his match would be the thirteenth of the day which meant a fair portion of waiting. His nerves weren't necessarily up, he had been in a hundred bouts and used his staff to protect his own life more than once. It was the waiting. It drove him half mad for how it left him feeling.

The problem was, if he were to do anything of interest, he knew he was just doing it to pass the time. Being aware that it was his intent to pass the time made him more attentive to it, which was the Gods' finest joke as the more one wanted time to pass the slower it went.

Frustrated, and displeased with how bored he was, he simply gave way and decided that he could ignore his parents. Besides, they deserved a little bit of happiness, didn't they? After all, they were people too, and if his father wanted to put the moves on his mother, fine. He just hoped they wouldn't be too “them” about it.

Upon returning to the balcony, however, his parents were missing. After asking a few people, the ones not busy ignoring his existence, he was pointed at a set of stairs that led down from the balcony. Just below, in a small nook, his parents were dining privately. The person, one of those serving the notables that shared his balcony, expressed the need for privacy between the couple as she was the village head. Not surprisingly, Rand's condition wasn't something they could hide, and since it had begun fluctuating others had taken note. As to not disturb the rest of the panjandrums the couple had stolen away. Kurt smiled to himself, glad his father was doing better.

Climbing the stairs, Kurt nearly bumped into a priest in black robes, his presence as lifeless as his expression. The same dreary bastard who had done the announcements the night before. The kind of man who probably drank soup without seasoning.

Kurt smirked and said, “I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”

The boring man paused mid-step, eyes narrowing as he looked Kurt over. “It is a good thing you are not me, then.”

“Oh, come on now, buddy. Unless you’re looking for an impromptu lesson in human anatomy, I’d give them some space. The only occupied stall down there is very, very busy.” Kurt leaned slightly into his stance, casually blocking the man’s path.

His voice remained as flat as old parchment. “I am the authority on human anatomy. Step aside, or I will call the guard.”

Kurt didn’t budge. “Not you, nor Gwendos himself, could make me move right now. My parents demand privacy. And if you-”

The monk’s brow furrowed, something in his posture stiffening. “Your parents?”

Kurt didn’t like the way he said that. The bastard looked at him as if he’d just stumbled onto something valuable, like a man who had been looking for a missing puzzle piece and just found it in the dirt.

The priest folded his hands behind his back. “Come with me. I have questions.”

Kurt exhaled, rolling his neck. “Deal. But you’re buying lunch.”

For the first time, Flint’s expression actually changed, just a flicker, the ghost of a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if some deeply buried part of him was confused by Kurt’s sheer audacity.

It was a reaction Kurt immediately committed to memory. A man like Flint probably hadn’t been caught off guard in years. Maybe decades. He was exactly the kind of stiff-necked, joyless bastard that made excellent entertainment if you knew how to poke him just right.

Unfortunately, the Gods weren’t feeling generous today, because instead of having this conversation on the balcony where he could keep an eye on the matches, they were heading toward the temple-medical-area.

He sighed through his nose. Great. Just what I wanted, an interrogation with a living scarecrow.

The temple smelled of burned incense, old parchment, and the lingering iron bite of antiseptic. Kurt noted the sculptures lining the entrance and snapped his fingers in recognition. “Oh, yeah, I saw this place on my way to check in.”

Flint didn’t respond. Didn’t even glance back. He just moved smoothly through the room, his presence as commanding as it was unwelcoming. Eventually, he gestured toward a stone bench, expecting Kurt to sit. Kurt didn’t.

Flint barely sighed. “I would like for you to express to me your father’s condition, specifically, prior to coming to the arena.”

Kurt crossed his arms, leaning against a nearby pillar instead. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. We just met, and already you’re grilling me? At least buy me dinner first.”

The priest gave him a look so devoid of amusement it could have been carved out of granite. “Your father’s condition. Prior. To. The. Arena.”

Kurt let out a slow, deeply exaggerated sigh. “Fine. But I expect you to laugh at one of my jokes before we’re done here.”

Silence.

“Not even a chuckle? Gods, man, you are a tough audience.”

The man’s voice was hollow, dead-sounding. Like the Gods had taken his soul and left the shell behind.

Kurt shifted, grinning despite himself. “Alright, sure, but before I spill my family secrets, I’d like to know a little about you.” He paused, waiting. Nothing. Not even a flicker of amusement. Not even a blink. Fine. Time to turn up the heat.

“I have a serious affinity for dark meats, I love attending festivals, and moonlight strolls are a must. Foreplay? Not so much.” He smirked. “There. Now you try.”

The priest just stared.

Finally, he spoke, his expression not changing in the slightest. “I am Master Flint, head priest to those gifted in the healing arts.”

Kurt exhaled sharply. “Well. That explains a lot.”

He let the joke linger in the air before continuing, “Sure. My father, Rand Cook, has been an invalid for the last half-year or so.”

Without so much as a nod, Flint produced a charcoal pencil and parchment seemingly out of thin air and started writing.

“Define invalid.”

Kurt cocked an eyebrow. “Uh… well.” He rubbed his jaw, thinking. “He stares blankly most days. Doesn’t respond to much of anything. He listens when you tell him to do something, for the most part, but when you look into his eyes? It’s like there’s nothing there. Not unlike what I’m exp-”

“When he listens, how specific can your instructions be?”

Kurt’s brow twitched. He didn’t like being interrupted. “I wouldn’t trust him to run ledgers, if that’s what you’re asking. But if you tell him to fetch water and wash himself, he does exactly that.”

Flint made another sharp mark on his parchment. “Hmm.”

A pause.

“Do you know what caused this initially?”

Kurt’s stomach tightened. He shrugged, lying through his teeth. “Not really. He went off to the woods when the plague hit Metan. We thought the Kressians were harrying us, so my father took it upon himself to do something about it. When he came back, he was… like that.” He exhaled. “Sometimes I’d catch a glimmer of him in there. Or I’d see him watching me train, like he recognized something. But otherwise-”

“Has he always shown interest in the quarterstaff?”

Kurt squinted. “Have you been living under a rock? Oh, wait.” He snorted. “Yeah, he made it to the semifinals in a tournament about twenty years ago. Lost to my mother.”

“I see.” Flint jotted something down, then lifted his gaze once more. “Your name?”

“Kurt Hunt.”

“Good.” Flint tucked his parchment away. “You may go.”

Kurt crossed his arms. “That it? You leaving them alone?”

Flint glanced toward the stairs. “For today. But before the tournament ends, I will require their attention.” His tone made it clear this was not a request.

Kurt narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps.” Kurt figured he’d try out this asshole’s language tact, maybe he’d actually get his point across.

He turned to leave, then paused.

“Wait. No lunch?”

Flint’s flat, unimpressed stare was so strong it could have turned wine into vinegar.

Kurt grinned as he took the stairs two at a time, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the conversation. He’d had enough questions for one day.

The tournament would play out as it would, and if the Gods had any say, his father would live to see another sunrise. For now, that was enough.

Somewhere beyond the arena walls, a drum pounded. A slow and steady rhythm, keeping in time with the matches below.

All Dorian heard was the sound of his own breath, the crowd’s distant roar now a dull, meaningless murmur. Dorian sat on the bench near the arena entrance, nerve wracked but excited. He could hear the crowd cheering for blood just before they quieted for the next exchange of blows. Deep breaths, Dorian, deep breaths.

Dorian knew that he wasn't worth a twisted tit in a match if his blood wasn't up. Over the last year and change he'd managed to figure a way to keep his mind in the right head space to fight. He was always slow to anger, but when he got there, his mind would clear of all his unending banter and go to a place without thought. Only deed mattered in that space, and that's where he needed to be.

It had taken time to figure out the trick of it. Focusing wholly on his breathing was always the first step. The steady pull of air, the measured release, those were his only concerns. It stripped away his distractions, his doubts, his past mistakes, until all that remained was the present moment.

He was doing that now, forcing himself to breathe, but despite all his practice, his hands still shook as they gripped his staff. The weapon was battered, his lucky staff, the steel cap on one end adding weight, the pointed cone on the other keeping it mostly balanced. The helm he wore was cured leather, its brown crest a simple marker for the crowd.

He felt like he was going to battle. For all intents, he was. Why allow this? It was a bout, a match, not a blood sport.

He worried about it, but too much was on the line. He cared too much. The people who had graced his life with their kindness, he owed them. And if winning could protect them, Ingrid, Benny, Ken, Jack, Brother Michael, Sister Brenda, Clarice-.

The announcer’s voice shattered his thoughts. “Our next bout, numbers five and six, are called to the arena! Between Metan and the Monastery, we present their next champions!”

The crowd erupted, the roar cascading over him like a wave. Dorian barely heard the gate rising. Sunlight crept in, illuminating the vast stretch of the arena floor. His heart slammed against his ribs. No more time to think.

Dorian stepped onto the sands.

Kurt made it back to the balcony just in time to catch the end of the slapdash announcement of the next match. Perhaps it was difficult to hype up competitors when all the announcer had to work with was their place of origin. Still, after the commencement of the match, all eyes were to the arena. Kurt looked down, then up to the projections above. Dorian’s bulk was jogging towards the center, and from the opposite end came Tony. It felt like an eternity passed as the two came to the center, surprisingly, Dorian made it there first.

Dorian paused by the marked line in the soil. He stood there waiting for Tony to take his place. The one making the announcements said, “If the Monastery is ready?” Dorian lifted his staff. “If Metan is ready?” Tony lifted his with a “ha!” “Fight!”

Dorian advanced steadily, but midway to Tony, he eased out of his stance. He held his staff out, far from his body, pointed end out. Tony, catching on, made a comparable gesture and touched Dorian's weapon slightly, nodding as he did. Dorian bowed his head slightly but never took his eyes off of Tony.

Then, Dorian moved with a blur. Somehow, it sounded like the fight was happening right there in front of him. He could hear the “whomp” of Dorian's staff as he swung hard at Tony. Tony, for his part, didn't do the smart thing and back away. Instead, he attempted to block the strike and likely counter. He never got that far.

Dorian's strike came so hard that even from this distance he could see Tony's staff shaking. On the projection above, Tony's face was the image of panic. Dorian came again, much faster than Kurt thought he could, bashing down at Tony's defense with a series of wide arched strikes. After the fifth or sixth strike, Tony lost control of his weapon with one hand and was forced to back away. Dorian didn't let him, but instead of striking Tony, he swung off the recoil of the block and hit the staff again. This time, with only one hand on it, Tony was unable to brace for the blow. He watched as his only defense drifted fifteen feet away.

Dorian was quick, interposing himself between Tony and the staff. He held his staff like a spear, point outwards, coiled and ready to strike. “It's not worth it, yield!” He shouted at Tony, point unwavering as silence gripped the arena.

With a sigh, Tony stood out of his stance. Hands wide, he bowed and said, “I yield.”

Dorian, twisted the staff away in one arm and bowed with fist to heart. “I accept.” The crowd cheered.

Kurt stared open mouthed. The staff he was using was the one Kurt had taken with him when Dorian had first been snatched by Moder's people. That staff... that staff had been pissed on.

Kurt's laughter was drowned out by the cheering crowd, though a few people around him were giving him odd looks out of the corner of their eyes. Kurt didn't care, and he was rather glad Dorian still had it. It seemed it had been repaired, mostly, but he remembered that trip. That's when things changed, that was the beginning of this in earnest, though they couldn't have known at the time.

The next match was between another from the Monastery and a Gwendian. It wasn't a bad match, but the one from the Monastery simply didn't have the same skill as his opponent. Normally, it wouldn't be such a bad thing, but with one end pointed and the other something used for bashing someone's skull in, both contestants would likely leave bloody. Kurt wondered idly if Dorian knew the Monastery fighter, but let it pass. He shouldn't worry himself overmuch, he'd have his own things to worry about before long. Gathering himself, he went back to his rooms for a spell. For the moment, the crowd and their need for blood was too much for him. He simply wanted to be alone. Besides, he'd have his own match to worry about soon.

Dorian reveled in his praise as he left the arena, the crowd cheering as the light of the sun was left behind. Several others were there by the gate, a few entirely too early to be warming up. A few patted his shoulder, even the people from the other parts of the Monastery showed him respectful courtesy.

A priest came up to him, she gave him a once-over. “How do you feel, initiate?”

“Fine, I don't think he even landed a blow against me.”

The priest nodded once and continued, “keep in mind, though we have a temple of Metae here, healing priest is reserved for the end of the day. If you get injured in your next match, you will be healed, but if you're harmed in your first match tomorrow you wont be healed unless you concede the following bout.”

Dorian's brows came together as he thought this over. “Would’ve been nice to know before I went in there.”

“Brother Michael should have informed you, I simply wanted to issue a reminder.”

Dorian exhaled sharply, pursing his lips as he turned to leave. The priest said something but Dorian didn't pay it any mind. Gavin was by the arena gate, judging by the expression on his face he didn't look to be on his game. Dorian ran over, the rush of the fight was still on him and he had energy to burn.

“Gavin, you up all ready?”

Gavin nodded, looking grim.

Dorian frowned. “Hey, don't do that to yourself.” Gavin looked like he was ready to jump out of his skin. “Gavin, you're better than this. I've fought you, I know you are. Take a breath, man. You won’t do a damn bit of good going out there huffing and puffing like I do out of the circuit.”

That got him to calm a spell. Gavin took a deep breath, letting it out in a shudder. “I needed that.”

Dorian shrugged, “whatever is out there, it's nothing worse than what we've already faced.” Dorian put a hand on Gavin's shoulder. “Think they'll be as wickedly fast as Ingrid? Precise as Alex?” That got the shorter man to smile. “No, no way.”

Dorian smirked at him, “good luck.” The announcer called the next match and the gate began to lift.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Gavin stood at the front, light around him like a holy man on the dais. “Thanks, Dorian. You're a better man than I knew.” With that, plumage bouncing, he ran to the center of the arena to take his place against the Gwendian, no hesitation in his stride.

Dorian watched from the slats in gate, arms folded tight against his chest. Gavin wasn't half bad, solid form and reflexes, though Ingrid had always outclassed him. Still, Gavin and the Gwendian went back and forth with a flurry of exchanges. The Gwendian was talented, a bit taller judging by what Dorian could see, but with the height advantage on top of greater skill, Gavin was outmatched. Dorian had a sinking feeling within the first fifteen seconds. By the time a few minutes had passed, Gavin had been bloodied but so had the Gwendian.

Then it happened, a single misstep. Gavin stumbled and the Gwendian took advantage, a sharp, brutal thrust driving into Gavin’s torso. Dorian sucked in a breath, eyes locking onto the wound. He couldn’t see exactly where it had landed, but any thrust that deep was lethal without healing. Dorian prayed to the Gods that Gavin would just lie there. Despite his hopes, Gavin wasn’t done.

With a desperate snarl, he drove his own weapon upwards, catching the Gwendian under the shoulder. His opponent staggered, the crowd roaring at the sudden reversal but rage burned in the Gwendian’s eyes. Then came the first strike.

The blunted cap of the staff slammed into Gavin’s chest, knocking the wind from his lungs. Dorian saw it happen in real-time on the projection above, the runes reflecting the brutal impact in clear, agonizing detail. Then another blow came down. Then another. The arena blurred.

Dorian could barely hear the cheers, but they were there, a hungry, bloodthirsty roar. He swallowed bile, instinctively reaching for his Gia, but found nothing. Not even the small flicker of power it would take to activate his Giasight, to confirm if Gavin was still breathing.

The announcer called the match, his voice barely cutting through the madness. The gates began to lift. It should have been over, but the Gwendian kept swinging. No!

The announcer called again, sharper this time, but the next blow had already been in motion. It stopped at the last second, the combatant barely pulling his strike. Dorian didn’t wait.

He ducked under the half-raised gate and sprinted onto the sand, his vision red, his pulse a war drum in his ears.

Gavin might not have been his friend, not in the way Dorian thought of friendship, but they had trained together for nearly two years. That meant something. Maybe not loyalty, maybe not brotherhood, but camaraderie. At that moment, it was enough.

Dorian sprinted across the bloodstained sand, his eyes locked on Gavin’s limp form. The Gwendian was already retreating, limping away with blood seeping from his arm and thigh. Dorian didn’t care. Not now.

His pulse thundered in his ears as he dropped to his knees beside Gavin, eyes scanning the speckled red across his face, the glistening patch of blood staining his chest. He pressed his ear against Gavin’s mouth. His breath was weak, ragged. Dorian didn’t hesitate, he hauled Gavin up, gripping him tight, only now registering the priests rushing in from the sidelines. They weren’t moving fast enough.

“Show the way!” he roared.

One of them hesitated. “Initiate, you're-”

“Show the way or regret it!”

His voice cracked like a whip, making him think of Brother Michael. The priest flinched, glancing at his companion before nodding.

Dorian ran, as hard and fast as his legs would take him. He knew this weight, known it all his life. It was nothing to him.

He moved like Kressor’s revenge was on his heels, like the sands themselves would rise to swallow Gavin whole if he so much as slowed. He didn’t stop until finding a cot, doing what he could to put Gavin down gently. The priests were already gripping their power, their hands moving, but Dorian was still seeing red. Unbidden, in the depths of his mind, the rage only burned hotter. Why does it feel so… right?

Kurt finally found himself enough space to breath in his quiet room. The bed was large, lavish, and comfortable. However they had managed, it was quiet enough in his own rooms that he could hear himself breathing. Hells, he could almost make out his heartbeat. He washed himself a bit, hydrated, and even managed a nap.

He was roused by some natural instinct telling him that lunch was being served. He came out of his rooms, moving over to the balcony and finding an open spot. He filled himself on roasted chicken, bread, and some kind of mush that, despite not looking it, was quite tasty. He patted his belly contentedly after he finished, looking around for any faces he knew.

Not recognizing anyone, he decided to check on his parents. He came down the stairs quietly as to not disturb them and found the stall they were watching the matches from. He peered in and saw his mother holding his father's hand.

She looked at Kurt. “He's gone again. I don't understand.” She took a long, deep breath, though even if she averted her eyes, Kurt knew they were tearing up. “When did he start getting like this?”

She sniffed, then said, “about twenty minutes ago.”

“Have you two eaten?”

“Not since breakfast.” She shook her head.

“Let me bring you something, then we can start to puzzle this out.”

She nodded, but her eyes never left Rand.

Kurt returned shortly with a healthy serving of food, enough for three. His father was his father, after all. He placed it down on the small table that lie juxtaposed to the two of them. Handing some bread to his father, he said, “here, dad, eat this.”

Kurt moved to lean against the wall. His mother spoke up after a moment, though there was trepidation in her voice.

“I don’t understand it,” she murmured. “This morning, he was just as blank as he’s always been. I dressed him, spoke to him, but… nothing. Then suddenly, he’s here, talking like no time has passed at all.” She swallowed, glancing at Kurt. “Do you think it’s the arena? This place?”

Kurt snapped his fingers. “It could be, it was at a tournament like this that he met you, right?”

She nodded, then said, “well, maybe not like this. I don't think there ever has been a tournament like this. Everyone is so vicious, it’s not just fighting, it’s the people. They're half crazed. I saw one of the tanner boys-”

“Aaaaa” Kurt's father said. Kurt's eyes widened, his head snapping over to his father.

“Yeah dad, what is it?”

“Aaaa” he said, mouth full of bread.

“Yes, Rand. Tell us.” Said Rita.

“Aaa” Rand cut off then swallowed. He started again. “Ale.”

Kurt was confused, brows coming together as he looked over to his mother and back to his father. “Ale?”

“Ale, boy. Ale, before I die of drought. What does a man have to do to quench his thirst around here. Hey, gorgeous, could you find us a drink. We can even,” he looked dead at her, eyebrows lifted once he said, “share.” He winked.

Kurt sighed instead of shuddering, then wiped his hand down his face. “Was he always like this?”

“He could come on a little strong, when we first met, but not this strong. It's odd, but-” Realization bloomed on her face. “Kurt, go get us more food.”

“Huh?”

“The food, boy, go get more now. Whatever’s in it is breathing life back into him!” She exclaimed, her excitement and hope plain in her voice.

Kurt moved, double time, asking one of the people serving up dishes to bring down enough for five. Kurt returned explaining as much.

“Good, I hope you're hungry Rand. We're gonna feed you until you're full and whole.”

To that, Kurt's father leaned over and whispered to Kurt, “now that's the kind of woman you keep. Remember that, boy, a woman with a mind to need you is the kind to feed you. That's a lesson for the ages.” He grinned, mirthful, youthful, and as joyous as Kurt had ever seen.

After a short while, Kurt took his leave. He was more than willing to help bring his father back to health, but sitting there while the man flirted like a needy lecher was another story.

He made his way to retrieve his staff, not wanting to be without it when his match came. The booth section wasn’t far from the so-called “temple,” and the woman manning it informed him his staff was already below. He lingered a moment, exchanging light banter with the girl, not the same one as yesterday, significantly younger, but not bad on the eyes either. The flirtation wasn’t entirely unwelcome, nor undeserved, and he left with a smirk.

He passed the armed guards as he headed down, noting how their weapons were much closer to actual spears than the pointed battle staves he and the others would be using.

Just as he descended, Bo was coming up.

“Oh, great. Now that the class has left, here comes the ass,” Bo sneered.

Kurt grinned. “Great to see you too, Bo. Hey, how are those smelters treating you? Want some oil? I hear getting bent really chafes after a bit.” He rubbed his backside for emphasis, then shrugged.

Bo’s face darkened, smoldering with rage, before he shouldered past him. “Watch yourself, Hunt, or you’ll get what’s coming.”

“Oh, Bo, I think the only thing coming are the smelters.” Kurt shook his head, smirking. “Good luck on your next bout.” Oh, making all kinds of friends today, aren’t you?

He stepped into the storage area and found the weapon rack. Two staves lay beside his, one marred with blunt strikes, the other streaked with dried blood. He frowned. How long was I up there?

Kurt reached for his own, inspecting the work of the Monastery craftsmen. The steel point and cap gleamed, freshly polished. Everything seemed in order, until he saw the mark. Someone had taken a knife to his staff.

Before the “H” in Hunt, they had carved a crude “C.” By scarring the “N” into an “M” and chipping the “T” into a “P,” they’d left him a nice little message: Chump.

Kurt took a long breath. Looked around for some water. He got to work.

It took the better part of an hour to smooth away enough of the vandalism that it wasn’t immediately obvious. Though, if you looked close, you’d still see it.

Oh, I’m going to get that slimy bastard back. I’ll make him swim through a mire of his own-

“And for our twelfth match, hailing from-”

Kurt groaned, his head snapping up. Shit. He’d been so wrapped up in fixing his staff he’d lost track of time. Blackened damn. I hope I get to embarrass the hell out of that self-righteous son of a Gwendian lapdog. Taking a deep breath, he started stretching.

It wasn't long before Dorian had been pushed out of the medical bay, or the “temple.” What made it a temple anyway? The statue of Metae hanging out front? If that's all it took, Dorian would steal it and place it right up-

“Dorian, is he all right?!” Alex’s voice hit like a slap, sharp and raw. Before he could react, she was on him, clutching him tight despite the blood still drying on his skin. “Aye,” he managed, patting her back awkwardly. “He'll live. I made the healers tell me before I left.”

“Oh, Gods, Dorian. I was so scared, I went up to watch, and that-”

“Shh, shh, it's all right now.” He pulled back slightly, resting his hands on her shoulders. “He just needs time. He lost a lot of blood, likely some internal damage. Thankfully, the priests can heal anything short of death. He'll be right as rain. He hesitated, then added, “he'll be pale, exhausted for a few days. They can't make his body make more blood.”

She nodded, stepping away with hands clenched. She was crying. Alex did a lot of things, but Alex didn't cry. Dorian had seen her take a broken nose without flinching, had watched her grin through cracked ribs, had competed with her when pushing themselves further seemed just short of suicide. Alex didn’t cry. Then, it hit him. Either they had been lovers in secret, or one or both had a seriously bad crush on the other. Being upset over a comrade is one thing, but a this? This was something else.

“Promise me.”

“Beg pardon?”

She jabbed a finger at his chest, eyes hard. “You lummox, you promise me you teach that bastard a lesson.”

Dorian exhaled slowly, meeting her eye. “Oh, I promise.” His voice came quiet now, low and edged with steel. “I swear it, on my hope for rebirth, on the Gia that makes my very soul, I'll make him pay.”

Alex studied him. Searching. Looking for doubt, hesitation, weakness, anything that might make her waver. She found nothing.

With a sharp nod, she turned and strode toward the temple. Dorian watched her go, jaw tight.

Dorian returned to the balcony under a tide of open stares and hushed whispers.

Only then did he realize, he was still covered in blood. No going back now.

He exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders to relax as he grabbed a plate and tucked himself away in a shadowed corner. He wasn't hungry, not really, but the motion of picking at the food kept him grounded.

Ingrid’s presence brushed against his mind, the link forming effortlessly between them.

"How is he?" she asked, uncertainty lacing her tone.

"He'll live."

A pause. "You're angry."

"Gods damned right, I’m angry." His jaw clenched. "That kind of savagery. It’s uncalled for."

"You never really know in these situations," Ingrid mused, her voice thoughtful. "Maybe he was trying to send a message to the Monastery. Or maybe he lost someone, like a sibling, to us. You can’t be sure."

"But, I am sure." His response was colder than he intended.

A ripple of skepticism passed through their link, her equivalent of raising an eyebrow.

"And what exactly are you sure of?"

"That retribution is in order."

A sigh. Not exasperated, not dismissive, just tired.

"Don’t get yourself hurt, Dorian."

"I won’t."

"Don’t do anything to damage yourself."

A flicker of annoyance. "Is there a difference between hurting myself and damaging myself?"

"I'll leave you to think on that, oh deep thinker you." There was warmth in her tone now, teasing but affectionate. Then, softer, "Before I go, I love your gift. Be safe."

The link faded, leaving only the distant roar of the crowd and the weight of his own thoughts. Dorian let out a slow breath and returned his attention to the matches.

The match was between a Kressian, though if not for his sun-darkened skin, it would’ve been hard to tell, and one of the three from Metan. The latter was needle-thin, but he moved like quicksilver. Worse yet, he was utterly vicious.

Dorian watched as the lanky man toyed with the Kressian, every strike a mockery rather than a blow meant to finish the match. The cruelty of it made Dorian’s stomach turn. Why drag it out? Why humiliate the man? Was this sport or just another excuse for men to be monsters?

Like a cat playing with a dying mouse, the Metian danced in and out, jabbing with surgical precision, never staying in range long enough for the Kressian to counter. And the taunts, incessantly. "Too slow, you idiot!", "Did they send a plow horse instead of a man?" and

"Come on, you big dumb lout, try and hit me!"

The Kressians in the stands booed, their frustration palpable. Dorian couldn't blame them. Their champion was battered, his legs trembling, his grip weak. Anyone with eyes could see the match was over. The man should’ve yielded. Should have.

But Kressian pride was a terrible thing.

Dorian exhaled through his nose, already preparing for the inevitable ending, one last decisive strike to down him. Instead, the Metian thrust through. Straight through the Kressian's chest, metal point glinting red.

For a moment, the world seemed to pause. Then, the arena erupted.

Dorian barely registered the cheers, too busy staring at the body as it crumpled. The Kressian wasn’t moving. No shallow rise of breath. No stunned groans of pain. Just a heap of flesh cooling in the sands. That wasn’t a fight. That was murder.

A sharp disgust twisted in his gut. His grip tightened on his staff, the worn wood groaning under his fingers. Dorian burned the Metian’s image into memory. "If he makes it to the semifinals, and I face him..." He didn’t finish the thought. Didn’t need to.

He paused. That was two promises now. Best not to swear by the Gods too early.

For now, Dorian forced himself to keep watching. Every remaining fighter on that sand could be a future opponent. If he wanted to win, if he wanted to protect the ones who mattered, he had to be ready. Alone, his stomach churned, and for the first time since stepping into the arena, he felt the gnawing sensation of doubt. Eventually, he processed that doubt, deciding to do what he could rather than fret over what would.

He tensed for a moment, as another unbidden though crossed his mind. Dad would be proud? The strange thought was so far out of nowhere that he checked to see if he was being influenced somehow. Eventually, he brushed it off and focused.

For a while, he lost himself in the competition. Each combatant was a possible opponent, so he showed them the respect they deserved. To his surprise, Dorian wasn't honestly too impressed. A few of the Kressian's with stout builds moved with more flexibility than he'd known them to have, but even they had little on the competition he was used to.

When Alex's match came, she was a testament to the well placed strike. She didn't thrust often, and seldom went wide, but when she did strike it was at the perfect spot and time. It was like seeing a massive brick wall, impenetrable, until the one who built it came along. She, or he, would remove just the right brick, and watch as the rest came tumbling down. She fought like that, all graceful, and all...

“Dorian, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing!” He blurted through the link.

He felt the prickly feel of jealousy through from Ingrid’s side of the connection, making him smirk despite himself.

“Okay, fine. She's all leg out there, do you see her? By the Gods, it would take a fool not to notice.”

“Yes, but not everyone notices quite so intently as that.” Ingrid pointed out.

“Like you don’t intently notice Jack’s broad shoulders every time we eat with him?” Dorian replied.

Defensive, she said, “Hey that is absolutely-”

“The exact same thing.” He paused. “It's okay, I don't hold it against you. I'd appreciate it if you did the same for me.”

“Well, you've got nice shoulders too, Jack has the same shoulders on a shorter frame. Besides, I like my men tall.” Ingrid admitted.

Dorian warmed for a moment. “Hey, stop manipulating me!”

“You're only mad because it's working.” She teased as Dorian shut the link down.

It was another hour after Alex's match before a good match came up. It was the last contestant from Metae, someone nearly as tall as Dorian, though he didn't carry as much weight, he was incredibly light footed. He fought against a Kressian, someone as broad as Dorian and roughly as tall himself. It started well enough, the Kressian coming in with a series of quick yet powerful blows, leaving the last representative of Metae on his back foot.

The Kressian pressed further, pushing hard, but at every turn, the Metian defended, parried, followed or dodged every blow. It was then that Dorian knew the outcome, and he grew a great deal of respect for the fighters. They both had skill, but the Metian's far outstripped that of the Kressian. As the Kressian overextended, a single jab came from the Metian's pointed staff, cleanly striking the right bicep. The Kressian took to defense for a while, but eventually fell back in to his former pattern. After a while, another opening came, and once again a single blow to the other bicep.

The Kressian dragged it out for a good while, made an honest show of it, but before long the Metian started on his offense. It was so fluid. Like water running down a hillside, flowing, finding the path of least resistance. Finally, the Kressian could barely hold his staff up to defend. Shaking he tried, but couldn't keep the pace.

Then the Metian had done something completely unexpected. He held the pointed end out to the Kressian, towards the man's throat and shouted, “Yield, for the love of Kressor's might, yield.” The man tried to become enraged and struck the point aside. Then, the Metian swerved about, ending in the same position, point held to the man's throat. The man shook, trying to move, only to sag to his knees.

“Stop this madness. Hasn't there been enough bad blood between our people all ready? Damn your pride, and show your honor.” He was calm as he said these words, these words not of anger or blood lust, words of grace. As though Metae herself inspired him. The Metian further stupefied Dorian by adding, “I'll even throw in a cup of Yehalla.” The mention of Yehalla, some traditional Kressian drink if Dorian remembered right, caught the man off guard.

The Kressian appeared shocked, if not dreary eyed. He laughed once and said, “I yield.”

As the Kressian finally let out a breath, slumping forward, the crowd’s murmurs turned to a low rumble. Some still hungered for a more violent end, but others, perhaps the ones who understood the significance, began to applaud. The Metian didn’t revel in the victory, didn’t raise his fists in triumph. He simply bent down, picking up the man’s staff as if this was the natural conclusion. The right one.

Snatching the staff up, the Metian bent to a knee and presented it to his exhausted opponent. He said something to the man, the man grabbed the staff, and the Metian lifted him from there. All the while the crowd cheered and cheered.

Jack had explained this to Dorian once, something about helping a man to his feet was considered a dishonor. Instead, to show your opponent honor, you presented him with his weapon. Something about how a Kressian should only ever die old or die with his weapon in hand. Next, by helping him up that way, he salved the man's pride. Kressians were fucking weird.

“You are a man of true honor, I would have you sup with me and mine.”

“It would be a dishonor for me to deny such a gracious offer and accept so long as you would allow me to finish my next bout.”

“Of course, I would be a fool to try and deny you so. You are going to win this, after all.”

“What makes you say that?” Kurt said with a grin as he stood near the man though he didn't help him along.

“Because, I would not lose to anyone but the best. It will bring me great pride to see your victory.” The Kressian smiled broadly, a gap toothed smile that was completely unabashed.

“Then, I shall carry that pride,” Kurt said, smiling. “Though I beg you don’t ask me to join you for the Yehalla, I’d like to still be standing when I claim the championship.

“Then we shall have it after you have taken the championship. To your ancestors, until I next greet you.”

Kurt watched him go, brow furrowing. There was no hesitation in the man's words, no bitterness in his loss, only pride. For all their odd customs, the Kressians knew how to fight, and, perhaps more impressively, how to lose. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. One down, four to go.

Dorian decided that now was a good enough time to get going. On the way, he conversed with Ingrid about little things, nothing important, not now. All he wanted was to bask in her presence, even if she wasn't there. She was a wonder for that, a kindness he felt he didn't deserve. He told her to wish him luck as he descended the stairs for the last time that day. The link cut out just a few steps down, which was a good gauge as to when his Gia would no longer be available. He tried it and found nothing just like when he was on the arena floor.

He wasn't surprised, and was happy for it. If he could access his Shade, it wouldn’t be a bout, it would be a slaughter. His other abilities we lackluster but even being able to send a bit of flames into someone's eyes would simply make the match unfair. He was alright with that, he'd prefer a fair fight here, though, at that particular point, he was unsure as to how fair he was willing to be. Gavin hadn't regained consciousness yet, and the cruel bastard responsible was likely warming up at that very moment. Dorian took to his forms, breath steady, body loose. He readied his fury.

Dorian watched as another one of the Monastery champions left the gate. It lowered slowly, but judging from there he could tell his opponent was a monster. Some big shot Kressian, he had the first match of the day and won solidly. Dorian watched, mostly because the way his hands were shaking was becoming such a distraction that he needed to take his mind off his nerves.

The match was brutal and swift. After it was over the announcer called, “And we have our next named contender. Going on to the second day, Marcus Tender, representing Kresson and its outlying pastures. Lets have a cheer for him!” The arena cheered, but it wasn't nearly so enthusiastic as the cheers during the match itself.

The gate began to rise, the loud grating sound of heavy metal straining. A short time after, the Monastery initiate came back through the gates, Dorian didn't know him but he was bleeding from a shoulder. His chin cast down, he carried the walk of one defeated soundly and not very happy about it.

“Any tips against that one?”

The other initiate looked over at him for a moment, turned his head and continued walking. He seemed as hallow as Master Flint. Dorian shrugged it off, not bothering with it. He was up, and he was as ready as he could to be.

The gate lifted, and Dorian stepped onto the sand, his path arcing toward the center. Dried blood caked his arms, his tunic, enough to stir a reaction from the crowd. The Gwendian smiled, but Dorian had no smiles left to give. This wouldn’t be a match. It wouldn’t be fun. He had no intention of showing the bastard anything but the same savagery he’d shown Gavin.

“Blessed be the blood that stains this ground, for it shall bring our redemption. Is Gwendon ready? Is the Monastery ready? Begin!”

Before charging, Dorian leveled his staff, pointing it straight at his opponent. “I'll give you one chance to concede. Just one.” His eyes were hard, and his insides churned. He felt the slightest tickle of… an influence? He brushed it off, his focus was on one thing. The bastard in front of him.

The Gwendian man stared at him, smirking. “Seem’s I’ll have to teach you the same lesson I gave your friend.” He smiled even broader and charged. The blood lust in the Gwendian's eye was all Dorian could to see.

“So be it.” He bellowed, wanting all in the Colosseum to hear it.

Dorian's opponent thrust outward, a testing jab, but with enough commitment to act upon. Dorian wasn't going to give the man a single chance. Instead of backing off, he parried the blow, a man swatting at an insect. Without breaking stride, he stepped in, smashing the front of the Gwendian's face with the broad side of his staff. The blow made a sickening crack, blood erupting from the Gwendian's nose. As the arch of blood sprayed, he recoiled, trying to get away from Dorian.

Dorian wouldn’t allow it. He pressed forward, relentless, shoving the Gwendian hard. His opponent stumbled, falling back, scrambling to roll through and regain his footing,but Dorian was already there. He brought the metal-capped staff down with all his strength. He didn’t care if the blow landed flush or glanced off, only that it hurt.

Then, like the first breath of winter’s chill, realization struck. This isn’t just me. The fury was external. It clawed at his mind, surging through his limbs like a fever. The runes of the arena had taken hold. He had made a mistake. He had fed his rage into the arena’s hunger and it had latched onto him. Now, it roared back, an overwhelming force he couldn’t fight. For all intents, he felt the starving hunger of a beast after a long winter’s sleep. Except, instead of food, rage. He hungered for it, needed to be filled with it. It took over.

The blow landed, glanced off his opponent’s head and solidly striking the shoulder. The Gwendian dropped his weapon as he called out, cupping his shoulder, he rolled away. Those in the grandstands were shouting, a thrumming, the pulse of his own heart echoing to the thunder of their voices.

For one last fleeting moment, Dorian fought it. He hurled his own weapon away, praying the act would snuff the flames inside him, break the tunnel vision, slow his heartbeat. Wrath. Wrath was all, there was nothing more to him but this overwhelming feeling. The need to move demanded, it ordered him forward. Against his will, he obeyed.

Surge.

Dorian was on him snarling, the man cupped his shoulder but was scooting away which only infuriated Dorian further. He struck the fleeing Gwendian, it glanced away, then again, and again. Suddenly, the man in front of him was cowering. How dare he? How dare he?!

Sitting astride the man, he swung meaty fists, one after another after another. The fear in the Gwendian’s eyes said that he was coming to grips with the idea that his life was in danger, that Dorian wasn't doing this because he wanted to win, that even a win wouldn't stop him. The tainted pleasure Dorian felt was oozing over his mind. Enwrapped, entrapped, enveloped, entwined, ecstatic elation.

Screaming now, Dorian put all his weight on the man's shoulder with one hand. The other was the hammer driving the nail, over and over. Was his foe saying something? Was he pleading, begging? Disgust, disdain, decompose, despisement, deprecatory, decay, destruct, destroy. Destroy. Destroy!

Three people were on him, his opponent getting away. How dare they? Like so many worker ants, they hauled him, pulled him up and moved him. But, his objective, he had to... What? He had to win a match, right? For his friends, for his love. He had to defeat...

“Our winner, Dorian Hook!”

The crowd was cheering like he'd never heard. They called his name, his name?

In a varying tones they called “Do-re-an! Do-re-an! Do-re-an!” The high pitched sound of the of the overall cries were a blur, but in low tones he heard the Monastery and their choir. They sang it like a chant. “Do-re-an.” And he harken to it like a chime on the wind, felt the concussive force of destiny as it echo through eternity.

For a moment, time stopped. The people holding their positions like so many statues. He noticed bread flying out of one man's mouth, and children jumping on their seats. Of woman raising fists, shouting for the sheer elation of it. The bloody smear of a man once dressed in white.

Something gripped his heart and pulled. Every riptide taut cord of his body tugged. That sleeping bit of him coiled tightly around the core of him. Now it moved, and Dorian felt that spot expand. Every blank bit of himself suddenly surged, right down to the marrow of his bones. The sensation gnawed through him- Wake up.

Everything came back into focus. The gates were lowering. There were priests, they were asking him questions. “Do you understand what we’re saying?”

Dorian shut his eyes, half out of shock, and opened them. “What are you saying?” He was a bundle of autonomous response now, which was better than before.

“Are you okay? There's a lot of blood.”

Dorian looked down at himself, a mass of fresh red blood covered everywhere that wasn't already covered in dried. Here and there a bit of white or gore had glued itself to him. He began to pick it off himself, then faster, and he was shaking. Wet ran down his cheeks. His knuckles were raw.

“I, I would like to rinse off now.” He held his sobs, held his internal need to wrack himself, wheeling, weeping. He began walking, not sure in his direction, he didn't care. One priest followed him closely to a small washroom. He shut the door quickly behind himself. What he held wasn't a weight he could bear for long.

What have I done?

Kurt was speechless. His mind drew back to years ago, to when his little brother had leaped like a jumping spider at a Giant monstrosity and felled it like a great cat on a deer. This time though, it was man to man, and even without his hopped-up strength, Dorian's opponent hadn't fared much better.

Kurt had a sick feeling ripping through his insides, the chaotic cheering around him was louder than he'd heard yet. The people, they loved it. They were going near mad for this violence, between that and witnessing his little brother covered in all that blood, Kurt was left dumbstruck. The first two priests had barely slowed Dorian as he pummeled his opponent into mincemeat. The third was only helpful because with his help, the three of them could finally lift Dorian up. Even then, he looked savage, feral, a caged beast furious for it's captivation.

Kurt couldn't stomach it, he had head back to his rooms to think on whether or not getting his brother back would be worth it. On one side, it could be that the person he was now was incomplete and his docile little brother still lie asleep in that monstrous man. On the other, this could be what was there all along, what if by waking his little brother it only made things worse. Deposing the Grand Elder was removing an evil, according to everything he'd been told, but what good was that if he was replaced by... by whatever that was out there.

An hour before his match, he moseyed his way on down to the arena chamber. It was getting on in the day by now, his was the second to last match before the end of the day's games. Though not quite near sunset, the sky no longer shown through the slats of the gate, the shade being cast by the Colosseum itself had left the chamber eerily dark. As Kurt took to his forms, he had the strangest sense of being watched.

“Uh, hello?”

Kurt waited a moment for a response. Even if he didn't hear anything or see any movement, he could have sworn...

“How did you know I was here?” The voice was feminine, it came from the blackness at the furthest part of the chamber.

“I felt your eyes, now what do you want?” His voice was strange in his ears. Why had he sounded agitated?

“Pretty brutal, your brother.”

Kurt's brows knit together, and he found that he was in a defensive stance, sharp point aimed at the darkness. “I'll only ask one more time, what do you want?” He clipped each of the words off, adding a bite to it he hadn't intended.

“That thundercloud on your brow is telling me you're being affected by the wards too. Listen close, Kurtis, for I don't have long. Do not grow angry in the arena. After the first death, the other Metian, something on the arena grounds has changed. If you show anger, fury, rage, whatever, it will fill you. You'll go mindless, you'll feel an overwhelming need to be violent. Resist it.”

“How? You can't fight your feelings.” Kurt said, brown still heavy.

“Yes, but you can focus on certain ones. I don't care which ones you focus on so long as it isn't based in anger.”

Kurt thought this over and noticed something. Like a nagging sensation, as though he were right on the edge of irritation and was ready to plunge in to a rage. He took a breath, closed his eyes, and focused on his curiosity instead.

“How do you know he's my brother?”

“Oh, I've been working with Moder since I came to the Monastery. I'm not the only one, that's all you need to know.” Kurt thought he could hear a smile in her voice.

Kurt thought for a long moment and nodded, not taking his eyes off the dark.

“Can I trust you, Kurtis Hunt?”

He shrugged, “depending. I'd tell you twenty lies if you intended harm to my kin or myself.”

The woman though for a moment, then gave a “ha” sound as a letter seemed to flow out of the darkness. It landed in front of him.

“You can read it, but it has some rather scandalous information about your father and mother in there. I'll leave that at your discretion.” The letter was addressed to “Rita Hunt, Second to the line, First to the house.” Second?

“Who are you?”

As if far away, an echo more than hearing the words direct. “Fight well, nephew.” Nephew?

The word rattled around in his skull, but before he could process it, he heard a click. An unknown door shut, leaving him with nothing but the whisper of her voice in the dark.

As the arena gate raised, Kurt couldn't make out much beyond the roar of the crowd. They were crazed, manic even. He didn't wait to hear his name as he doubted he'd be able to. Heading out, a Gwendian stood in stance against him, she was very ready. The crowd calmed enough to hear the announcer give his blessing, then, pausing just enough to create some tension, he shouted, “fight!” The crowd echoed the announcer, and before Kurt knew it he was on the defensive.

Though, the strikes fell rather short of what he expected. He didn't even worry as he parried, dodged, and countered each and every strike. The woman was blindly executing every ill-favored attack most novices should know better to avoid. Kurt actually laughed as she tripped over herself in one move, then attempted to compensate by releasing a flurry of quick attacks. Laughing, he countered each with little more effort than his warm up.

“Hi, yes, do you know how to use that” he let that sit for a few seconds before he added, “hon?”

It was the most condescending thing he could think of, not his worst considering ten thousand people screaming at him. They didn't even laugh, which left him feeling a bit underwhelmed.

Realization dawned on her face before she screamed, “I'll kill you!”

Kurt just smiled and shrugged. “You know, I give free lessons in Metae. Come down some time and-”

She was swinging again. Her movements now clunky as hell, he'd seen mummers shows with more grace. Kurt just kept laughing as she kept coming. Was nobody else embarrassed by this? Gods above, his brother at twelve had more grace, and he was basically a walking talking sack of potatoes back then. This was the championship?

She screamed in frustration, and Kurt nearly doubled over in laughter. She was heaving, great large breaths, her lungs working like a bellows.

“I'm sorry,” he said mockingly. “Do you need me to get you some water?”

And, grace be to the Gods, someone laughed at that. It caught, and several others seemed to pull out of that crazed blood lust enough to enjoy some of Kurt's fine humor.

She charged him, point forward, clumsy as a newborn. He rolled his eyes and tripped her after blocking her strike. She fell down in a heap of frizzled hair, sweat, and dusty dirt.

Kurt turned and felt the beginnings of a yawn. He didn't fight it, going so far as to forget about his staff, it dropped to the ground bouncing once before coming to rest. She still hadn't picked herself up yet.

“Um, hello? Are we fighting? Or is this a Gwendian mating ritual of some kind?”

Kurt picked his staff back up, intending to nudge her, but before he could the announcer called out. “It, uh, seems as though she is unconscious. Under this circumstance, if we don't have a response from her within a ten count, the match is over.” He began counting, the crowd joining in about mid-way through.

Though the match was over, he was curious, so he kicked away her staff. Turning her over, her whole body looked bruised. He stepped back as the bruises seemed to flow through her body and out again. She was beginning to convulse. She began coughing, hacking really. From a distance, it looked like blood, but Kurt knew what that was. That black shit, the way it seeped into the arena floor, could only be one thing. Kraken, Bacchus.