“Just leave!” A ceramic pot burst overhead to shower Kailehr in clay—it had been part of the set his uncle had given them for their wedding.

“Jia, don’t be like—”

“Don’t ‘Jia’ me! It’s Jiahn to you, you all-together asshole!”

Jiahn nabbed the next matching pot in line, loaded it back, and launched it. Kailehr snatched it from the air and set it down on the floor.

“Stop throwing shit!” A pot took him square in the face.

In a burst of rage, Kailehr shot across the sparsely furnished flat, vaulted over the bartop, and clenched Jiahn by the throat as she reached for more kitchen containers. He slammed his body against hers, sandwiching her to the bartop, and glared at her light-grey eyes. A thin trickle of blood fell down his face.

“I said stop,” Kailehr said, icily.

Jiahn grinned at him triumphantly—this was what she wanted. Kailehr hated himself for letting her get to him yet again. Releasing her, he moved determinedly for the door.

A hand caught his, pulling him short. Kailehr’s sigh could have folded a fahika tree.

“Strength, woman, let me leave!” he said, turning.

As he did, Jiahn pulled him close into a kiss. It held for a couple of heartbeats before breaking. Her face softened, with her straight-blond hair pulled back to showcase it. She would have been beautiful if it didn’t feel manufactured.

“You know I love you,” Jiahn lulled. It was eerie. Still, he simply nodded, not wanting to start another argument. Kailehr checked his wristwatch—three minutes to seven—fuck.

“I’ve really got to go.”

“Go, then,” she glowered, pushing him toward the door. “Or are you going to see that whore? Do you even care about the Selection anymore?”

Kailehr yanked on a boot with a pull. “Of course I care.” It felt like a lie as he said it.

“That bitch is poisoning your mind, Kai. Can’t you see that? You had such Strength, such purpose, before meeting her. Had I known, I’d never have let this go on as long as it has.”

He rushedly slipped on the next boot before throwing over his nice cloak, securing it with the Thymos house broach. “I understand how you feel.” Kailehr slid open the door and stepped into the hall. “But nothing has changed. I’m committed to you, my country, and my people. All that’s changed is the frame of reference.”

Jiahn flopped onto the cushioned sofa like a beached serpent, ignoring him as she flitted through the daily paper. As she did, a sinister smile crept up her face. “You’re right,” she said too sweetly. “Now go meet Fate.”

The door slid gently closed with a latching click. A chill clung up Kailehr’s back.

“That woman has problems.”

Kailehr darted down the hall, the faint rattle of the newly installed radiator pipes vibrating along the walls. He dodged past a cleaner and their cart, flowing past another tenant leaving their flat for work. Leaping down the staircase, from platform to platform to the base floor, Kailehr fired out into the busy morning street.

Steam whistled in the distance, mingling with the calls of a crier and scents of sweetly charred meat from food stalls as they flared up their fires—he hadn’t had breakfast. The smell made Kailehr’s mouth drip as he pushed past the crowd, angling for that distant whistling calling departure.

“Selection today! Come back in the afternoon for live updates! Printed Fates issued tomorrow!” The pitchy squealing of the crier battered the masses, demanding to be heard. “Read today about the Arbiter’s son! The undefeated fighter is in the mix to represent our city in the games!”

Kailehr jerked to a stop. Another piercing whistle promised they’d leave soon. Still, Kailehr followed the crier’s voice and found the small Lesh boy at a sidewalk corner, a stack of dailies at his side.

“How much?” Kailehr asked impatiently.

The crier perked up, glancing Kailehr up and down. “D6, Gold.”

That was certainly a lie. Still, Kailehr tossed the child the stone, snatched the paper, and sprinted off. Ahead, he noticed the tram jolting into motion.

As he exited the main thoroughfare, a clear straightaway free of bodies opened up to full sprint after the chugging trolly. Cobbled streets blurred, and the wind buffeted him, but he closed in quickly. Kailehr caught the trolly as it labored up a steeply graded hill, grabbing to the metal baluster railing before leaping aboard—those seated closest startled back.

“Hey!” a gruff female voice carried over the stiff breeze. The conductor, an aged Leshar woman wearing a backward city cap, swung their head out from the leeward cabin to face him. “Buffoon! Get your arse off my carriage.”

Kailehr smiled his prettiest.

“I’ll pay double!” Kailehr shouted upwind.

The woman scowled.

“Ain’t no room, boy. You’ll have to take the next.”

Using the railing, he scaled the tram’s side over to her and fished out a gold D20—ten times the standard fare. He glanced at the woman’s chest tag: Jas Kinny.

“Come on, Miss Kinny. Can’t we work something out?”

Jas looked at the gold stone die, then at him, before settling her eyes on the broach on his chest. Recognition widened her eyes.

“Sultiva, eh? Related to the Arbiter, I reckon?”

Kailehr peeked back at the carriage passengers before leaning into the cab window with a whisper. “He’s my father.”

“No shit! So you’re Kailehr,” the conductor laughed. “Quite the popular topic.”

Kailehr blinked in surprise. “How do you—”

“I can see it. You know, I met Olenar once. It’d be about—” she looked up into her memories— “well, it’d be long before you—before he was him, truth be told. And the next time I see him, it's on the blasting rag.”

Kailehr waited, awkwardly hanging off the tram as it crested the hill and accelerated on the downslope. Jas sighed.

“Alright, fine. Just sit on the steps,” she gestured to the wooden boarding staircase.

Nodding his thanks, Kailehr used the roof’s lip to swing through the large conductor’s window, vaulting over the woman before settling onto his “seat.” Today’s paper had crumpled during the mad dash, and he smoothed it out with the wall.

THE ARBITER’S SON:

KAILEHR SULTIVA AND A BID FOR FATE

The heading jumped off the page in bold lettering. He was too stunned to think. Who had written about him? Better yet, why? Selection candidates received little, if any, attention before being drawn and made official. Kailehr read through the article quickly.

Kailehr Sultiva, the twenty-six-year-old son of Arbiter Olenar Sultiva, is a surprise name in this year’s Selection. He cultivated an impressive undefeated record during his first circuit crack, netting his name in the pot. If chosen, he’ll represent our city in the 21st Tenaga Games of 64.

Controversy follows his meteoric rise. At six feet, four inches, and only two hundred pounds, Kailehr is an average Mestarian build, raising questions about his odds. Some believe he doesn’t have what it takes, while others whisper his father had a play in his fantastic record.

Yan Bolton, a decorated competitor and a past opponent of Kailehr, accused Kailehr of using Moment to gain an edge in their bout. “He burned my arm,” Bolton claims. “It was a cheap trick. Weakness runs in that family. Mark it.”

Does Weakness taint the Sultiva bloodline? Did Kailehr earn his victories, or is the Sultiva name tipping the scales? With the Selection looming, Novo Cicaado waits to see if Fate will favor the Arbiter’s son—or expose him as a sham.

It was full of lies. They implied Kailehr’s father fixed his fights when Olenar considered it “barbarity.” And what was this about being mixed? His family, mutts? It was laughable. Kailehr shredded the thin print and let it blow out the tram entrance.

If a Leshar was in their line, would that be so terrible? The strength of the body was second to the strength of the mind and machine. The Mestarian way was dying, replaced by Moment power. The Leshar had that gift, ten to the one Mestarian. What would be their place in this new world?

City frontage slipped by in a thoughtful haze. After the first stop, Kailehr found a middle-row window seat, worked off his clock, laid it over, and sat down.

Three stops from Central, the buildings edged to ornate, decorated with carved stone facades, and set with colorful stained-glass windows.

As working men and women left the cabin for a day of work, the fashionable wealthy replaced them, leaving the seat next to Kailehr empty. Sporting a simple coat, plain white-ruffled shirt, and archaic warrior topknot, he was distinctly out of place.

The feeling wasn’t unusual. Throughout Kailehr’s entire life, he was a fruit in the frost lands. Being seen was a constant battle—too average to be one of the “elites” but too persistent to be ignored. Finally, after years of sweat, he’d won that fight. A chance for Selection stood before him, and regardless of the outcome, that meant something. Who were they to question it? If he was mixed, what did that say about them?

Kailehr played with the Thymos house broach, letting the bright silver catch rosol’s rays through the drawn window shutters. At the center was a four-pointed star, shorter than it was wide, with a miniature replica at the center, the symbol of Moment.

“End of the line, folks!” the conductor yelled.

Kailehr’s head shot up, and he pulled up the blinds. Central mirrored the Colosseum in design, if not function. Enormous stone blocks constructed the foundation and main walls in a ring, with a canyoned slot near the top to let in a spotlight. Flags from every large city in Cabor flew from the top of the structure, dancing to the wind’s chorus.

The others filed off before Kailehr pulled on his cloak and slipped into the aisle.

“Excuse me,” a small, impatient voice squeaked.

Kailehr slid back into the seat row as a tiny Leshar girl dressed in oversized overalls pushed past him toward the front cabin. Jas, the conductor, handed the girl a vial that glowed faintly between blinks: Moment. That girl was this tram’s engine.

He let Jas pass him wordlessly to the windward cabin before slipping back into the aisle and moving for the exit. Kailehr hesitated down the last step. That small voice perked up behind him.

“You leaving or what?”

Kailehr turned to that girl sitting in the leeward cockpit, her legs dangling well above the floor. “How old are you?” Kailehr asked, looking at her name tag: Chandra.

“Too young for you,” Chandra said with a grimace that wrinkled her pale face, fingering the simple metal pin that held her city cap tight to her tiny head. Kailehr chuckled, hands up.

“Nothing like that, promise. It just doesn’t seem right to be working at your age. Your parents are okay with this?”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Chandra’s eyes narrowed. Seconds passed in awkwardness before she spoke. “Are you serious?”

“All aboard, outbound!” Jas bellowed at the tram’s new front.

A few plainclothes workers and aristocrats sidestepped past Kailehr, but he paid them no mind. They paid Chandra as they passed. “Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“You Mestarians truly are oblivious, aren’t you? Hot water and electricity don’t just come from nowhere.”

“Get out of the way!” a lumbering Mestarian man grunted, roughly pushing Kailehr to the side to board. Kailehr stopped himself from battering the bastard by taking a deep breath. The Leshar girl giggled at that.

“So there are more like you?” Kailehr asked.

The girl fished out a sandwich wrapped in parchment paper and took a bite. Mouth full, she replied, “Those with the talent? All of ‘em, I bet. Like my pa says, ‘If you have the ticket, use it.’”

It was Kailehr’s turn to grimace. He pulled out another gold D20 and offered it to the girl. Chandra looked at the stone warily but still took it. “Thanks,” she said timidly.

“Take care of yourself, Chandra,” Kailehr said, fully stepping out of the tram and flipping his hood up against a spitting sky.

The wind was cold and gusty. It ruffled Kailehr’s cloak as he passed between two of the many spaced fahikas encircling Central. He pulled his cloak closed and walked, head down, toward the tower.

The stone-set promenade between him and Central displayed tiled mosaics in a rainbow of bright hues. These pieces, wrapping around the building in rings, illustrated hundreds of years of Caborean history, depicting events from the First Assembly to the Great Zeerashee War.

Kailehr stopped at the outermost incomplete ring, looking down at the final mosaic set into the stone. The mosaic depicted Olenar, tall and strong, holding a hammer in one hand and a book in the other. Behind him was a four-pointed starburst design he’d taken for their representative house sigil. The investor, philanthropist, and inventor was the longest-standing Arbiter in living memory. They would teach his story in schools for ages to come.

Making a point to step onto his father’s face, Kailehr strode across the remaining promenade with swiftness. Checking his wristwatch: fifteen past seven. That meant he’d missed the opening itinerary and announcements, but still, a lot would be left. Selections tended to have more gust than gusto.

Central’s massive arched entry loomed as he passed into the vast entrance corridor. It was unnaturally bright within the windowless hall, lit by electric lamps in glowing amber—of course, Central would be one of the first to install them. Kailehr broke at the corridor’s end, circling the building’s radius to the structure’s back.

A winding staircase led to the observation platform overlooking the court. Thousands, Mestarians and Leshar alike, settled into tiered seating to watch the proceedings below. Their whispers pierced the silence during what seemed to be a short break before the next speaker.

“Apologies,” he whispered as he squeezed through, reaching the back where he spotted space. Kailehr shuffled to an open benched spot next to a portly Leshar woman in baggy, rented finery. He nodded to the woman as he settled in, but she didn’t seem to notice, eyes wide as she took in the majesty of it all.

Kailehr understood that feeling. Years had passed since his father had first brought Kailehr along during Olenar’s first years as a Ninety, long before being elected as Arbiter. Still, Kailehr remembered staring at the grand chamber in similar amazement. Pure, natural light lit the atrium’s center through a large circular opening, that celestial spotlight overexposing the raised speaker’s dias while casting everything else in relative blackness. It was striking.

Today, Kailehr was numb to it. Now that it was here, he could hardly bear the weight of waiting. Fate decided whether it was worth the labor, the spilled blood, and the doubt. Regardless, it all ended today. There was a sick sort of peace in that realization.

No matter what happens, Kailehr thought. My path will be clear.

A slap bobbled his topknot, partially spilling the captured hair. Kailehr snapped around, fists balling, and found Malliki Kalil grinning back, eyes darkened with makeup. Kailehr turned before working the stray hairs back into the knot.

“Why in the hells are you up here? Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the representatives?”

“No more voting today. Besides, I’m not waiting any longer.” Malliki nudged the Leshar woman aside. “Excuse me, miss?” Vaulting the bench, he squished into the seat.

Malliki stared knowingly with his infuriatingly handsome face. Of course, his friend was modeling the most fashionable peacoat Kailehr had ever seen, its wide collar and offset buttons, with the topmost three undone to expose a hairless chest, the pinnacle of current trends.

“You like it?” Malliki asked, looking down at his jacket. “Custom made from Chiadani cotton and dyed in Zeerashee blue. There’s a piece of the Iko in each part and parcel.”

Kailehr rolled his eyes. Another person thumped down to Kailehr’s other side.

“Hey, Kai,” Cael whispered. Cael’s massive body caused the bench to tighten further, with angry whispers directed their way. Kailehr groaned and slumped into the bench.

“Why are you here?”

“You thought we’d miss this?” Malliki looked offended. “Did you see the paper? Son of the Arbiter: Kailehr Sultiva!” Malliki spread his hands as if painting it in the air. “Very catchy!”

Cael clasped Kailehr’s shoulder. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

Kailehr slumped deeper. Cael pat him gently.

“You alright?”

Malliki leaned in across Kailehr, using his thighs as a table for support, and whispered a shout.

“We are absolutely not alright. This bastard,” Malliki gestured to Kailehr, “thinks it’s a better use of time to go out every night without us to some run-down Lesh club in the Outers. At the very least, he should put that much effort into our friendships, no? Danik City, in May?” he turned his attention to Kailehr. “Have you, at least, considered it?”

Kailehr hesitated.

“Honestly, I don’t think I’ll have the time. I don’t know what I will do if I’m not Selected—or worse, what if I am? In everyone’s eyes, it’ll just confirm the rumors. Either way, it's a no.”

Cael, lips quirked and pursed, chimed in, “Come on, you’re letting the press get to you, seriously? Oh, I almost forgot—my father will help with that. We talked this morning.”

Alahan would help out? His stepfather never liked him, with their conversations barely more than greetings and goodbyes. On Jiahn and Kailehr’s wedding day, the man had barely looked at him twice. What would he possibly say?

Kailehr looked at Cael annoyedly. Cael shrugged.

“I don’t know what he’ll say. Alahan Polk does what Alahan Polk wants. Anyways, we were planning for a few weeks four months from now—plenty of time to get your shit together, Selected or not. Side note: did you know they have heated floors now?”

Malliki spoke under his breath. “It’s not like you’ve got any realistic chance at being Selected. The odds aren’t all that great—a hundred to one, Kai.”

“And if I do?”

Malliki perked up. “Let’s make a deal. If you’re Selected, you won’t go. Otherwise, you’ll come with us, no questions asked.”

How could Kailehr communicate to them he just didn’t want to go? That sort of thing didn’t interest Kailehr like it once had. It felt wrong to treat people like they were servants—like they were less. Despite his silence, Malliki continued, unphased.

“Let me paint the picture,” he paused, hands splaying out as if revealing an incredible vista. “The Last Light’s Kiss.” He finished by pointing nightward towards the Andhera. “You wouldn’t believe what the women there will do. To you. To us. And that’s not to mention all the gambling, the food, and the hot springs. Oh, the hot springs are the best out there.”

He accentuated each item with another point nightward, ending it by gazing up with pleading eyes accented with exaggerated blinks. The man was ridiculous. Kailehr couldn’t help his stifled laughter from growing louder than appropriate.

“I don’t think Jiahn wouldn’t appreciate all of that,” Kailehr said as he regained control.

“Jiahn!” Malliki said it like a curse. “Like you care what Jiahn thinks!” The Leshar woman from before leaned to glare at Malliki—they were being far too loud. Malliki smiled at the woman with an extended pinky. “Fuck off, tiny.”

Kailehr punched Malliki in the shoulder. “Sorry, miss. He’s addled.”

“Ouch,” Malliki rubbed his shoulder. “Unnecessary. Entirely unnecessary.”

“My sister will accept it,” Cael said. “She understands a man’s nature. Last resort, I’m sure Father will back us up. Jiahn swallows whatever he says.”

Kailehr shut up. They wouldn’t take no for an answer. Malliki seemed to take that silence as agreement.

“Glad we agree! Make the time, talk to your wife, and let’s have some fun.”

“Everyone wants you to be there,” Cael said, smiling. “It’s been a while.”

The room quieted as a man dressed in silken, colorful brocade crafted into a traditional robe stepped into the spotlight: Alahan Polk. His mature, dark features contrasted nicely with the harsh spotlight. As he reached the podium, Alahan beamed brightly and waved to the crowd of onlookers before confidently addressing the room.

“Good morning!” His voice effortlessly carried to Kailehr despite the distance. “It is an honor to represent house Theria in speaking today.”

Alahan pointedly waited, letting the silence build before breaking it.

“I understand we’re all excited about this Selection. And you should be! Thanks to our great Arbiter and his accomplishments, Cabor is more prosperous than ever—with innovation unlike anything we have ever seen. And with great wealth among even the poorest of the poor.

“However, our enemies are closing in—they want what we have. And with wealth, some of the Weak have grown bold. They conspire against the established order, all for power. What we have, we must protect. Now, more than ever, we require extraordinary Mestarian Strength!” Alahan pumped a fist to the crowd, eliciting a cheer from Malliki, Cael, and many other Mestarian observers. As the cheers subsided, Alahan continued.

“The Tenega Games allows us to show that Strength. Then, you may ask, why Kailehr Sultiva?”

A hushed whisper carried through the observers. Most would have read the article.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Alahan cut them off. “How does Kailehr deliver? He’s average, at best. In the games, size is as important to victory as skill. All else even, Strength wins.”

The whispers muttered agreement, and Kailehr’s face flushed as his back stiffened.

“This is help?” he said to Cael, who looked as shocked as he felt. Alahan started up again before Cael could reply.

“But Kailehr is worth twice his weight.”

The whispers stopped, curious.

“Kailehr is a Mestarian of Cabor, the greatest nation on Calaria.”

Whispers shifted to shouting approval.

“How will it look when an average Caborean beats their best? What honor will that bring? That even our middling are strong?”

The crowd roared, transfixed. Even the seated Leshar stood up and cheered. Kailehr felt he would have vomited had he eaten.

“Kai, are you—”

Kailehr held up a hand to Cael. “I’m fine.”

Alahan bathed inside that moment, with hands outstretched as if accepting it all until the masses calmed once more.

“Kailehr, my son,” Alahan continued, leaning into the pulpit. “You have the support of a nation. Our eyes are on you.” Alahan seemed to look directly at Kailehr, up in the seated darkness. With that light, there was no way Alahan could see him, but still, it seemed those steel blue eyes found Kailehr. “We know you won’t disappoint us.”

Seemingly finished, Alahan turned and walked out of the spotlight into the dark. Before conversations could start, another voice boomed over the assembly as their hulking form entered the spotlight.

“Thank you, Representative Polk, for that vote of confidence in my son. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Olenar sported a meticulously groomed auburn beard that shimmered in the harsh light. Fluted tassels connected to a stiff jacket swayed in a stepped rhythm as he approached the center podium.

“Now…” Olenar smiled. “Who is ready to see what Fate has decided?”

The hungry crowd yelled affirmations. Olenar raised a hand, and a piercing bell sounded over the chamber. The cheers hushed.

“This year, we had a record number of applicants—well over a thousand total qualified for Selection. This sacred tradition has persisted since the first Tenaga Games over two hundred years ago. It was before the five cities—when we were little more than tribes armed in Strength alone.”

Malliki nudged Kailehr at the side, whispering, “Daddy really loves the sound of his voice. Let’s get on with it, yeah?”

Kailehr ignored him as Olenar continued.

“As you know, this will be a historic competition—the first of the games to include all other countries on the Iko, save Lakhash. Holding it in Cabor reveals our progress as a nation and reflects our standing as the cultural center of the Iko. It is a chance for a lucky few to represent our country and show the world the strength, power, courage, and resilience of the Caborean people.”

On cue, an attendant came up with a metal box with a hinged lid. He unlocked it and handed Olenar the results from within. Olenar held them up and read.

“Those for representation in the Tenaga Games of 6484 are as follows:

“Danik City selects Holt Granger of house Lesh.

“Shaple selects Shian Bracken of house Donira.

“Dunvail selects Taryn Allenson of house Iso.

“Novo Cicaado selects—”

Olenar hesitated, shaking his head and looking around—as if to find whoever was responsible for the name written. Kailehr felt bile climbing as each breath quickened from the one before. Olenar regained control quickly with a controlled inhale.

“Apologies. I didn’t—.” Olenar pinched his eyes tiredly. “Let me continue:

“Novo Cicaado selects Kailehr Sultiva of house Thymos.

“Lastly, Arcrest selects—”

A deluge of emotion captured Kailehr’s every faculty, threatening to drown him. After Olenar read his name, reality slowed to a point. Distantly, his friends screamed excitedly, shaking him like a leaf in the wind, but he was like a distant ship lost at sea. The room burst into motion as presence returned in a flood of noise and chaos.

“Kailehr, hello?” Malliki said, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Wake up! You got it! Scrap me off the floor, but you did!”

Kailehr forced a smile, letting himself pretend to be happy.

A rumbling was followed by pure darkness as the spotlight cover closed and the ceremony ended. Yellow light flickered to life from electric lamps on metal stands surrounding the space. Comparing it to the spotlight’s past brilliance made him feel empty and aimless. A crushing weight settled onto his shoulders—the weight of a nation.