Dawn came, and Trarn was worse for it. His confidence flickered like a tallow lamp, but he held to his ambition. Beetle-raking farmers were low class, barely above Cloudkin slaves. His father had bent himself, breaking his own body, twisting it through years of pulling up cage lines for the beetle traps. All for what? To be sneered at? To be the downfeathers of the great bird that was their people? Enough of that! To his surprise, his father met him early, before the sun broke the cursed fog. By lamplight, he helped him prepare, speaking only a few words:

"Your uncle is one of the best swordsmen in the sky. By rule, he won't have a blade on him, but mind me. When you shoot at him, do it while he doesn't see you or at a range under 30 digits. Otherwise, you may as well be shooting smoke."

Trarn nodded. He wondered at first, but then he knew, his father wouldn't fight for anything, but he would support what he desired so long as skin wasn't in the game. That alone made Trarn seethe a little. He tried to rally the anger to his strength as best he could. At the training grounds, military loudmouths and brats from 50th feather families had always teased and pushed him around. It irked him and threw off his game, but here. I have trained with a full-grown man's crossbow since I was twelve. Not those weak things they had us training with. His quiver was loaded with glass bolts. Not splitters, not piercers. Just common glass. But the draw strength alone could send his bolts through two leatherhead skulls back to back; there was no shield Trarn knew that would stop him. His hands still shook, though. Every desire, every reassuring thought he brought to his mind to try to comfort himself. But one thought pushed past his meager fortification: Uncle Atran accepted so readily. What did he even gain from squashing some cuckoo nephew? Dawn light rose, casting a pink glow over the few clouds. The tallest of the jungle trees occasionally rose above the cursed fog; their upper foliage shimmered pearl pink and green. From this altitude, the massive kapok trees looked like tiny sprouts of broccoli poking up from a bed of mashed potatoes. Today, few clouds adorned the heavens where the ships sat. The two crafts hung suspended and alone. It was as if the sky itself waited for Trarn's fight. Then, two small vessels approached on the winds, gliding into view of the match. Trarn and Atran had both signaled with smoke all of the previous day. Without a witness, the fight could not have proceeded. Trarn eyed the two ships; they looked like farm vessels. Their stubby wings made them barely more than balloons. Trarn felt sure their captains would not lie if he won. Farmers were less likely than officers to side with Atran. At least Trarn hoped. Cloudkin were supposed to be above cheating...

Once the ships were docked and informed of the rules, the time had arrived. Trarn took his place on his uncle's ship. He was at the back end of the vessel. It was a high glide, low buoyancy ship, same as most combat-class ships. Shape-wise, this meant a relatively small balloon (it was still massive) with big wings. Cloudkin vessels had a coveted design feature: stubby tails. Every other combat-class ship available to other nations had bigger tails. This meant each ship needed a heavy counterbalance at its face. Instead, Atran's ship looked like a fat vulture with no head. The top of the balloon housed a canvas control tent with a wide slit running entirely about its middle. The slit was constructed at eye level to allow for piloting with protection from standard crossbows. There was no cover on top of the ship otherwise. The lift balloons were too high up to hide behind. If Trarn wanted to get better cover, he would have to climb down the ship's balloon to the mid deck. That deck was massive by mid deck standards, like a small house. All Atran's servants and family had been moved to his father's ship. So, that route was tempting, but he didn't want to risk his one shot in close quarters. Despite what Trarn's father had said, Atran could close the distance and make it a slugging match. Or... they might both shoot each other and tie in death... It would be better for him to stick to the top deck. Trarn could see Atran through the circular gap in the control tent. The fabric of the tent was silk composite weave; it could stop his uncle's bolts, but his should pass through. The problem was they would deflect at odd angles. Trarn swung his crossbow from his back. His hands shook as he pulled the hefty bone lever.

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Click.

The mighty crossbow cocked. Memories flooded through his mind. His father had given this to him on his 12th birthday. Trarn remembered with shocking clarity what he had said then:

"This isn't a toy, son. If you shoot a leatherhead, be sure no one is standing behind it."

Tears welled in Trarn's eyes; he felt so foolish and weak suddenly. What in the beneath am I doing? I am about to fight my own uncle probably to the death! This bow can kill a giant vulture in one hit to the chest. A single bolt, and uncle's organs will be shredded!

"READY!"

Atran's voice rang out from the ship's face. Trarn's blurry eyes could still make out his uncle's imposing figure through the slit in the control tent.

"READY!"

He shouted back, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. His voice cracked, but something in him had to do this. He could not back down. They both waited for the signal. Trarn leveled his crossbow at the slit and leaned forward to charge. Atran held his dual short crossbows loosely at his sides.

"FIGHT!"

The signal rang out. His father had refused to call the fight. It was one of the witnesses from the farm vessels floating above Atran's ship who gave the signal.

Trarn sprinted forward. Atran ran low to the ground. He kept his body below the slit as they both charged the control tent. Trarn was closer, but Atran was faster. They would reach it about the same time. Trarn knew he couldn't get that close! At that range, those small crossbows could be brought to bear much faster than his large one. The further back he was, the better. Atran likely had splitter bolts. If Trarn kept his distance, the glass shards would spread too much and might miss him or only hit him partially. He ducked low and scrambled off the side of the ship. Neither contestant had a tether line, but Trarn ignored that and clambered under the ship's right wing. He had to let his crossbow swing by its chest strap, and he hoped to heaven that the bolt's front catch didn't slip loose and drop it from the crossbow. Under the wing, he held still and tried to quiet his breathing. His heart pounded like drums in his ears...