• Completed • Fade Away

[Malcolm]

13 Ymiden 716

It wasn't easy putting bums in seats, filling thousands upon thousands of rows with crowds of people after so many arcs. The fights weren't as popular as they had once been, with people less excited by the prospect of coming to watch rapists and murderers tear each other apart. No one cared about watching a criminal rip out the heart of a man who deserved it, which was why the arena was packed today, not only did they have the usual array of scum to bet on, but a line up of real fighters. Knights, nobles, and the former Lord Knight Commander, Thomas Endor himself.
Everyone had heard the rumours by now, that Thomas Endor, the former leader of the King's army, had been caught in the Queen's bedchamber, stark and sweaty, with the little white witch wrapped about his bronze body. Needless to say, King Cassander had been outraged, and though he had appeared to have forgiven his queen, the dukes and duchesses of the noble houses assigned to advise him, had seen to it that Thomas was swiftly stripped of his titles and thrown in prison along with the rest of the fighters promised to grace the sands today.
As usual the games began with the low ranked fighters, this taking place after Cassander had one of the barons from House Andaris take the life of the ritual bull. Traditionally done by the King's hand, Cassander was unable to fulfil the duty today, and still recovering from his recent injury, the young King had opted to remain in the safety of his viewing platform, with Queen Freya sat beside him. Still twitching, the white bull was towed around the arena by the baron in his chariot led by four, black horses. A ring of blood was drawn in the sand and the day's matches were set underway.

Overhead Malcolm could hear the roar of the crowd as the first fight began. Stripped down to a loincloth and belt, and chained to the wall, the fighters were prepared, rubbed down with scented oils and given their pick of a poor selection of weapons and armour. The inexperienced fighters were easy to spot, often opting for heavy plate armour and large, intimidating weapons. They rattled their chains and talked too much, shuffling about with excited nerves instead of conserving their energy.
"Leather greaves and sandals? You won't last two bits out there," Thomas smiled.
"I've done this before," Malcolm gestured to the faint scar on his right thigh, one that marked him a fighting slave of old, a mark the young commander didn't recognise.
"Could have warned me they were going to starve us while the rest of the peasants down here ate like kings."
"That's how the bookers make their money," the Mortalborn told the commander. "Stack the odds against their best fighters, because chances are the whole city expects you to win."
"And you?"
"Hmm?" Malcolm hummed.
"Can you fight?"
"Can a fish swim?"
Thomas laughed. "You've done nothing but sit on your backside for the last fourteen trials. Not even a single push-up! I'm surprised you can stand."
"We've shared a loaf of bread, if that, don't you know how to starve? You want to survive today? Plan for tomorrow."
"I don't get to survive today, I won't see another sunrise," Thomas bowed his head and took up a long sword from the weapons he was presented with. "Our royal bastard will see to that."
"Take the short sword," Malcolm encouraged. "That old thing looks ready to snap."
"So do you," Thomas grinned. "All skin and bone."

A crazed roar from the crowd signalled another death, and as they dragged the bodies from the arena, Malcolm felt his stomach tighten, not with hunger, but revenge. He longed to return to the sands and end the lives of as many mortals as he could. They were fickle, sneaky bastards who only ever thought about themselves, their money, power, and fame. After today he would be free. After today he would leave Rynmere forever.
A guard undid Malcolm's chains and walked him to the gates where he could see through the twisted iron bars to gaze upon the grounds of the arena and the packed out crowd. Here he stood watching the next few fights until it was finally his turn.
"You're up next, Curls.
"My cuffs?" Malcolm inquired, looking over his right shoulder at the guard.
"Bookie says you keep 'em on, Captain.
"A weapon than!?"
The guard smirked, "Good luck, Curls."

Malcolm spat at the man's feet and was slammed into the gate as he heard the King's announcer start to talk up the next match. "All the way from the sands of Nashaki, the same pair who won their match last season, I give you the Hotland Brothers, Sharr and Mekko!"

The crowd whistled and yelled, calling out to the brothers as they entered the arena from the east gate. Malcolm closed his eyes at the sight of their weapons, what looked like a throwing axe and round shield, while the other brother held a simple, but deadly spear.
"And entering the arena now from the west gate, a former Baron of Krome, and Knight of The Iron Hand, oh how the mighty have fallen! For your viewing pleasure, I give you, Malcolmmm!"

The gates opened and Malcolm was pushed into the arena. He fell to the sands, a tactical move on his part, though the laughing audience hadn't seen it that way. He rolled onto his back and was kicked by one of the guards to get up before the gates were swiftly closed behind him. The Mortalborn took up two fistfuls of sand and walked towards what was sure to be his death.

[Elyna]

Watching the seasonal fight in the Arena was always a bit strange in Ymiden and Saun. With the morning sun on the back of her neck, it was tempting to consider letting go of the seething mess of despair she always felt on the 13th Trial of any season, and simply embrace the good weather. The cold and desolate dark of Cylus reflected her sombre mood more accurately than sunshine. The stalls were packed as well, heaving with bodies and the smell of unwashed skin and sweat was made worse by the threatened heat of noon, the stench mingled with the tang of blood in the sand.

Elyna couldn’t see the woman she’d met the season before, nor the men that had accosted her. She didn’t even see them fighting for their lives. The Skyrider was also relieved not to see her old training master, or evidence of him in any of the pathetic battles and so as the morning had progressed some of the tension had ebbed from her shoulders. She remained a silent watcher, half lost in her own thoughts, in the braying crowd and with the hairs on the back of her neck risen. It didn’t matter how many times she looked over her shoulder and up the row of seats she couldn’t pin point who kept their gaze so deliberately on her. Even setting out from the barracks she could have sworn that she was being followed, but they hadn’t made themselves known, she hadn’t seen anyone either…instead Elyna shifted in her seat as unease curled around her throat like a noose.

The slave events were over and the expectation in the arena was palpable, lining her tongue along with the bitter stench of blood. Now for the names events, Thomas Endor’s trial by combat and that of a nobleman. Elyna had no love for the Lord Knight Commander, but no dislike for him either. Rumour had it that he’d seduced the Queen, an act of treason. Elyna had no desire to watch his massacre, because they would never let him live.

The Skyrider stood and made her careful way through the crowed to the tunnel and exit; head bowed against the raucous cacophony. They were a swarm a carrion, all of them, screaming for scraps and death and too pathetic to make their own kills. Her stomach flipped with revulsion.

She made it part way through the tunnel towards the bright light that shone on the city, when a metallic glint caught her eye and bid her feet to pause, before her brain could make sense of what she had seen. Echoing down the walls, came the announcement of two brothers and the crowd roared with anticipation. It was a middle-aged guard with more belly than muscle that wore a medallion on a gold chain, proudly on display. As she approached he grinned, giving her a wink, “told you this would give me luck!” he exchanged a look with comrade as she reached out and pressed her fingertips to the cool disc.

It was Malcolm’s. She knew the edges and the look of this particular piece of jewellery better than the lines on her own palms. He’d never once removed it, never. She knew every scratch and scuff on the surface of his prized possession, the one he kept so close to his heart. Hands around the disc she gave a sharp tug and the chain snapped, “this is mine” she met the mans gaze and he stopped his protest, leaning back and away from her, into the wall. There was something awful in her expression that caused him to cower, his mouth falling open.

With unsteady strides she swung back and forced herself back towards the sand, and the blood and the death. She was dreaming, this was a nightmare. Malcolm’s name was announced and it left her cold, as though hit with an icy wind. Any moment now, she would wake. It would be Ashan and she’d be curled up in his arms, her face pressed against the steady, sleepy beat of his heart beating in his chest. It was one of those nightmares where you couldn’t scream, or run and were pinned down, legs sinking inexplicably into the ground with terror. The blood and colour drained from her face and left it tingling.

She wasn’t waking up.

“No…” the single word hissed like a dying breath across her lips and lost in the laughter of the stands as the man she loved was push without ceremony to his knees. Everything in her was screaming that it couldn’t be true. Why was Mal here? How was this happening? Why wasn’t she waking up? Please…please could she wake up from the nightmare now?

He was thinner, hair longer and beard unkempt. But still, it was Malcolm, her Captain. Like she knew the metal in her hand she knew every line of his body and the planes on his face. It was the footsteps of the guards chasing her down from behind that faded into the distance along with the deafening roar that died to a whisper in her ears. There was only Malcolm, alone on the course yellow sand. His hands were bound. He had no weapons, barely anything that would could for armor. All the furious rage that had been building in the woman, finally snapped and gave way. Her fingers tightened on the necklace and the hilt of the sword at her hip. Nightmare or reality, she would be where she belonged, by his side. The Immortal had told her she would need to help Malcolm. Surely, this was what she had meant.

Elyna started to run towards the edge of the seats and the sharp drop to the arena floor. Shouts of more guards followed her heels and she saw one turn away from the wall to try and head her off. Her steps slowed as she prepared to fight, but it was the sudden tackle from the side that sent her tumbling into the dirt beside the stands. Elyna rolled, kicking out at her attacker and caught Benjamin square in the gut. The knight doubled over to catch his breath and she was already scrambling back to her feet. The necklace gripped so hard that the chain scored lines where it looped across the back of her hand.

“Elyna no!” he lunged for her again.

"How?! How are you going to stop me?!"

[Sabine]

The longer Sabine worked at the Rynmere Gazette, the more she realized that her manager liked lessons. Lessons and consequences. That was why, despite all of Sabine’s negotiations and pleas, Abby had sent her back to the Fighting Arena to report on the current season’s results – something about “doing as you’re told” and “getting over your personal biases”.

But that didn’t mean she had to like it.

Sabine had arrived to the Fighting Arena late, after all of the prisoners and slaves had fought and won and died. During any other season, that would have meant a sharp rebuke. Today, however, was different. Today, no one cared for the prisoners and the slaves. Today, the Lord Commander fought for his life.

Today, Rynmere feasted on his blood.

She stood near the stands, too late to find a seat and too restless to care. Her fingers tapped nervously against her side, and her toes wiggled in her sandals. The energy of the crowd was palpable, and it became even more overwhelming as a new fighter’s name was announced. Malcolm. Ex-Baron of Krome.

Sabine murmured the name on loop, intent on remembering it. She had already forgotten the names of his opponents, so she sent a little prayer his way. If he won, their names wouldn’t matter. Her heart twinged at the thought, but she shoved her feelings down. She couldn’t let herself care this time, not the way she had cared in Ashan.

It would make everything too difficult to bear.

Before she could catch a glimpse of the ex-Baron, however, a familiar face caught her eye. It almost looked like… “Elyna?”

No. Not Elyna. Maybe she was misremembering the woman’s face, or perhaps she had a twin. The Elyna that Sabine knew wouldn’t be stupid enough to sprint straight for the arena floor.

Would she?

The guards seemed to feel otherwise.

Damn it. “Elyna!” Sabine’s voice barely carried above the blood-thirsty crowd’s laughter and jeers. The noblewoman ignored her, running past Sabine like she had fire on heels.

Sabine hesitated before following, but memories of Elyna’s past help rose up. She owed her – twice, now – and the slate needed to be wiped clean. Don't let myself care. Right. Maybe next time. With a curse, she clenched her hands in fists and sprinted after the noblewoman, arriving just in time to see her kick a knight in the gut.

“Elyna! Stop!” Sabine skidded to a halt in front of the enraged noblewoman, braids flying behind her. “What the hell are you doing? Trying to get yourself killed?”

Elyna’s eyes were wild and her stance was feral, ready to pounce on the knight. Despite their prior emotionally-charged encounters, Sabine couldn’t ever remember seeing the noblewoman lose her composure and fall apart so terribly.

It was terrifying.

Sabine grabbed for Elyna’s upper arm, the one that gripped a necklace with bone-white knuckles, and braced herself in case of retaliation.

“Who is it? Is it him?” Was it her trainer, whatshisname? Had he finally been sent to his death? No, that couldn't be right, unless her trainer was the ex-Baron...? She couldn’t remember the details, and didn’t dare glance at the arena floor in case the noblewoman broke free. Instead, her eyes flickered to the guards that were beginning to close in.

Shit.

Trainer or not, Elyna needed to calm the hell down. Sabine knew she wouldn’t be able to beat the Skyrider in a fight, if that’s what it came to, but she might be able to delay her long enough to give common sense a chance to kick in. She looked steadily at Elyna, set her jaw, and pushed her doubts to the side.

They were no longer noblewoman and journalist. They were just two women – two desperate women, each hoping to save the life of another.

Her words came fast and urgent, and became increasingly demanding as the others neared and the lone knight struggled to contain her. “You need to stop. Think. He wouldn’t want you to do this. You’re going to get yourself arrested, or worse! We’ll find another way, okay?

"Stop, Elyna!”

[Malcolm]

The brothers were young, at a glance Malcolm would guess less than twenty five arcs a piece. Their hair was long, dark, and shaggy, and their face were clean shaven, the skin patchy where stubble might grow only in certain places. Estimating roughly, Malcolm would put the older brother at just over two hundred pounds, standing half a foot shy of the captain's impressive height, while the younger man was a little lighter on his feet, with about forty pounds difference between them.
The Mortalborn had made his assessments, in his mind the big guy had opted for a spear because he was slow and would be sure to tier first, requiring him to put distance between himself and his opponent, while his brother was what Malcolm liked to call 'the runner' with a lot more fitness, but less weight to throw behind the axe he wielded. They stalked towards him slowly, like a pair of lions hoping to find their dinner ready to lie down and die for them. Malcolm faked a limp, which seemed to inspire some form of courage in the older brother, who raced ahead to lay claim to his first solo victory, and as Malcolm looked down at the sands and smirked behind a curtain of black hair as he raised his hands to slip something under his tongue.

Up in the stands, Benjamin held Elyna close as the guards who had been chasing her closed in. He soon had backup in the form of Ronald and Kathryn, who both being Knights, were able to carry weapons on them, unlike the rest of the general populace, and proudly displayed them just in case Elyna's pursuers got any strange ideas.
"Do we have trouble here?" Benjamin asked.
"Not with you," the man Elyna had stolen the chain and gold medallion from sniffed. "Bitch took something that belongs to me."
"I think you'll find she didn't," Benjamin pulled back his cloak to reveal the small gold swords pinned to his armour that marked him a captain, far outranking the lowlife, underpaid arena guards.
"Apologies, captain," the ringleader said before calling his men off to return to their stations.
When they were out of earshot, Benjamin loosened his hold on Elyna's arm and made sure she was all right. "I've been searching for you since his arrest," Benjamin admitted, quickly covering up with his cloak again, realising how it might look. "Heath has gone missing, I think he had something to do with Malcolm's arrest."
"We didn't know if we could trust you," Kathryn admitted.
"I've been following you to make sure we could..."
"To make sure you weren't with Heath," Kathryn interjected again and looked across at Sabine as if she had only just noticed the other woman. "Who--."

The crowd roared and got to their feet as the fighting down in the arena got underway, their excited hoots and whistles silenced as the bigger of the two brothers fell to his knees, dropped face down in the sand, and started shaking violently.

Malcolm let go of the man's arm and took up his spear, backing away from the man as his brother drew near to turn the brute over and find him frothing at the mouth, eyes bulging and face glowing red as if he were being strangled. He looked up at Malcolm, who had shifted to insure that the sun was behind him, causing his remaining opponent to squint.
"You're a che--" The man moved to speak as Malcolm blinded him with a fistful of sand and drove the head of the spear through his neck.
The Mortalborn got down on one knee and whispered. "I'm a survivor, say hello to Vri for me."

When he rose, he did so without a weapon, and turned in the direction of the King's viewing platform, bowed, and headed towards the west gate with hands still bound. The crowd didn't know whether to cheer or shout, sinking into their seats slowly as they tried to make sense of what had just happened. In the blink of an eye, the big guy had gone down, and the man who seemed fated to die, now walked away with his life.

[Elyna]

It was the woman from the worst tavern in the world, at least that’s when she’d last seen Sabine. A soft hand curled around her arm, and caused the Skyrider to still her furious motion. She searched the woman’s gaze, desperate for any kind of answer that she couldn’t provide. What was Sabine talking about? Did she know about Malcolm; how could she? Confusion crossed her features and it gave Benjamin enough time to grab her other arm. Sabine also looked ready to fight, or tackle her if she tried to run and the Guards were closing in; Elyna was trapped. It all happened to quickly and she twisted, trying to watch the action on the sands. With no attention paid to the guards and their interaction with the new Captain she hissed at Kathryn.

“What arrest?!” She demanded, looking between all the faces, Sabine, Ben, Roland. When Kathryn suggested that she had betrayed Malcolm, Elyna wrenched both arms free and made a lunge for the woman, only to be caught by Roland before her punch could land.

“I swear to the seven…” she twisted out of his grip and turned back to the arena. She shrugged them all away, breath coming in uneasy bursts as she tried to take Sabine’s advice and calm down. She wasn’t trying to get herself killed, she was trying to save the man she loved, "if Mal dies, I will kill you,” she glanced at Ben before back to Sabine. Her voice was low and deadly serious, the only control she managed.

“You’ve got to have more faith in the Captain then that?”

Elyna wasn’t sure who’d said it and she didn’t care. The necklace had started drawing blood from the back of her hand and her free fingers tightened in a grip before loosening again. Her mind was a mess and she remained frozen, eyes trained on the tall figure as he finished off the second brother. The relief that swept through her bought a familiar wave of dizziness and her knees buckled, giving way beneath her for the second time in the season.

Mal was alive. Benjamin caught her fall and helped her to sit down. Her gaze still fixed on the bloody arena before she sank her head into her hands pushing her fingers through her hair, “please…please go away.”

The arena guards lurked like vultures in the background.

Nothing made sense. Why had Malcolm been arrested, when? But he was free now…a trial by combat had been won.

[Vincent D'Ordyn]

Gray normally made it a point to stay away from the Arena. He didn't much care for the violence forced upon the slave's and criminals, no matter what the crime it was barbaric in his mind. Though today he couldn't miss the outcome of the fates he had seen on the billet for the day. A ranking member of the Moseke Knights that he knew by name and reputation well, and then the Lord Commander himself. Something about both of the stories Gray had heard about how they had come to be here didn't sit right with him, but he had made it a point not to travel near those circles, so what did he know.

Gray kept himself to the back of the arena leaning against the wall watching as the opening ceremonies passed, and the first few fights came and went, each leaving a sour taste in the back of his throat. Finally, the first of the fights he had come to see came up, Malcolm's. Unfortunately they had stacked the odds heavily against him. Two on one, no weapon, no armor, and hands still bound in irons. Gray's gut twisted in revulsion, and his knuckles popped as his fists went white knuckled.

As Gray's anger flared a commotion to his left drew his attention from the field. A group of people stood around holding someone back from running to the edge of the arena. Then another group approached, and were quickly chase away by the man that held the hysterical woman, and another pair all of whom openly carried weapons. "Vri take me, Iron Hand here..." Gray cursed as he watched the scene play out. He didn't recognize any of the soldiers in the group and thanked his luck for that, but made a mental note to stay clear of them. That was until a familiar face face popped up next to the crazed womans, looking worried, and soothing all at the same time. "Of course she'd be mixed up in that some how." He commented to himself as he watched Sabine for a few before returning his attention back to the pit.

As the bout started Gray said a few silent words for the ex-Knight, and watched on to what was sure to be his death. Though what happened next shocked and confused Gray more than anything ever had. Seconds after the fight began, on of Malcolm's opponents dropped, and in that moment he had a weapon. Then in another instant, the second man dropped with the same spear in his throat. Gray was beyond speechless, his mind could comprehend what it just seen. In the space of a few breaths, Malcolm had dropped two armed men, while still in shackles. What kind of monster are you? Gray thought to himself as he watch Malcolm walk off the field.

[Nivasi Zyq'Dariav]

Nivasi did not like the Arena. In fact she hated it. The only place she hated more was the slightly less legal and 'secret' Fighting Pit. It might even have been tolerable if it was strictly a place for those accused of a crime to use combat as a means to defend themselves. But it wasn't. It could be justified however anyone liked, but at the end of the day, it was where people were forced to fight and die for the amusement of the faceless bloodthirsty crowd.

So why was she there? Well, a certain restaurateur by the name of Gifre has suggested that he might be willing to discuss her becoming the sole provider of seafood to his place of business, if she should speak to him at the match. Distasteful, but one did what one must. She'd found him, an indolent, fat, sweating mess of a man who smelled of wine and unwashed flesh. To her chagrin it had been made clear that his only interest in her was of the flesh, and payment in kind was the only way a deal might be reached. Some prices were too high.

And now here she was pressed in on either side by the excited throngs watching a former Moseke Knight kill two brothers, as a women in the crowds screamed for him in concern, and this was only the appetizer. The crowd was really here to watch one Thomas Endor, once Knight Lord Commander, die. Based on the slurs and vile comments being made by those around her, he'd been found in bed with the Queen.

The Queen who was sitting demurely next to her husband on the royal viewing platform. Nivasi studied them for a few long moments. The boy King. Hardly half her own age. His Queen, older. Was it any wonder she'd fallen into the arms of a man rather than a child? Which didn't make it right of course, but in a land where to be wed was to be wed forever, perhaps more marriages should be based on love and actual compatibility rather than political expediency, but then, what did she know? She was only a fishmonger.

Was the Queen as evil as some of the common folk thought? She set there calmly enough. Did she care about the man she'd condemned to die by opening her legs? If she did, was it the King who was forcing her to watch? Was it the King, or being so young did he have advisers who controlled him? Was he only a puppet?

What sort of a way to run a kingdom was this, when you could not possibly hope to know or understand those who absolutely ruled you and your life?

This was why the sea was better. If she could have grown gills and become a Mer that moment, escaped into the ocean and never come ashore again she would have. Without a second though.

Bigger ship. If I have a bigger ship I can spend longer at sea. Leave here and never come back. I think I could make a ship self sufficient. I think I could. Leave all of this behind. What else can I do? I can change nothing. I cannot bring those brothers back. I cannot give that woman the man she cried out for. I cannot unravel the wrong choices of these damned nobles. I am stuck here, a watcher, but I do not cheer like the others. I do not want anyone's blood.

Business deals or not, Nivasi would not be here again willingly.

[Daliane Andaris]

Side by side, Daliane and his mother entered the Fighting Arena. From the corner of his eye, he could see the people's reaction. They were staggered to see how much the seventeen year-old resembled the woman. He had the same high cheekbones, smooth dark skin and even face expression as his mother. The mixed race boy was the same height as her too and their limbs were just about the same length. The two could have pass as twins if it weren't for the baroness' salt and pepper hair. It is the woman's curly hair that would give it away, the gray throughout it told people that she was not her son's twin but his mother.


"Sev dav takip ara anou irohin ayfo, sosul." He spoke to her in the tongue she was most familiar with; Xanthea. As he spoke, Daliane's face displayed the amount of repugnance he was currently feeling. He loathed the Fighting Arena. He did not understand some people's obsession with death and fighting -- it did not solve anything. Fighting is the cause of death and death only causes despair. "Herwìva jasi ke’u ciuzui eo tọ?" He looked toward his mother for an answer but she did decided not to answer."Eltu did tọ, sosul." He did not want to watch people die or even fight and he may be the only male there who felt this way.


Daliane and his mother took seats in the front, only upon her request. A fight would soon begin, three men stepped into the arena and immediately, there was some sort of commotion. But it did not come from inside the ring, more from the outside. A woman called one of the men's name, she repeatedly screamed it until guards came along and tried to stop her from entering the arena. "Mama..." Daliane was going to tell her something but the woman was very close. He did not want to say anything that would offend her, she could know Xanthea like himself. So instead, he turned his head and ignored the woman, acting as if she did not exist.


The men approached each other and Daliane took his mother's hand and clutched it. He knew it was coming-- the blood and guts, everything. He would be sick to his stomach, Daliane just knew he would. Slowly, he closed one eye and kept the other open. He cringed each time the men took a step toward each other and when they were close enough to attack, Daliane closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and braced himself for what he was about to hear. Metal against metal, the sound of weapons spiraling off each other and in the end, someone would die. It grew quiet. Then, there was an uproar. People began howling and screaming, all were in shock. Daliane's mother even gasped.

He opened his eyes and the fight was over. The one named Malcolm was leaving the arena. "What just happened?" He looked around curiously.

Common- Xanthea

[Malcolm]

"Still alive?" Thomas smirked. "That didn't take long, to be honest, I thought you were a dead man."
The gates closed behind Malcolm loudly and the next two fighters were lined up to take their turns. "I told you," Malcolm said. "I've done this before."
A guard chained him to the wall and he was patted down while Thomas sighed, "they sent you out there in chains without a weapon to face two men alone?"
"It could have been worse," Malcolm tried to make light of the situation.
"How?"
"They could have chained my feet together."
Thomas laughed. "Don't go giving them ideas now, I've still got my fight ahead of me."

A break must have passed between Malcolm's fight and the second to last showing. This kind of match was always a free for all with too many fighters of mixed ability, thrown into the ring to draw as much blood as possible, making sure the crowds got exactly what they had turned up for.
"Hurry up!" The guard at the gate hissed, whipping the old man who refused to go out and face his fate, an interesting character who went by the name Ray. He had worked for a bookstore all his life, selling second hand books, or at least that's what the locals had been led to believe.
"Ray of light, the Pirates call him," Thomas lowered his voice. "Can sail a ship through any waters."
"Well he doesn't have a ray of hope out there," Malcolm gestured to the puddle at the man's feet. "Pissed himself already."
Thomas sniggered, despite himself. "Any tips?"
"Depends," Malcolm shrugged.
"On?"
"How badly you want to live."
"Do you think I will live?"
"No," the captain answered honestly.
"Why?"
"Because you don't believe it. You have to go out there ready to do anything," Malcolm coached. "You're the Knight Lord Commander."
"Was," Thomas corrected him.
"Are. That is your advantage, use it, people fear titles."
"And what do you fear?" The man asked.
Myself, Malcolm thought, he feared the beast, the man he had to be to make sure at the end of every match, he was the last man standing. "Nothing."
"We all fear something," Thomas pressed.
"You fear death," Malcolm told him, "I do not."
"No," the commander shook his head, "I fear that my death won't make up for my Queen's misdeeds, that she will be made to suffer even after I am gone."
"If she loves you, she already suffers," came the Mortalborn's reply.
"I told you. It's cold down here!"
Malcolm laughed. "No you fool, she is out there, forced to watch."
Thomas stared at his feet. "I should have killed him when I had the chance, like she asked..."

Outside the crowed was treated to another dismal display of what the Arena had to offer. Ray was thrown into a big event along with nine other men who had performed equally despicable crimes as his own. The audience ate it up, like wolves, feeding on the misery and suffering of others. The last man standing was always rewarded his freedom after his fines were paid, and branding by fire, the city's gladiator mark burned in to right cheek of any who won the day. It was an effective way of keeping crime down, and the costs of having to house and feed a prisoner.
Johan Clay, a bandit that went by the name 'Victoro the Conqueror' was the last man standing at the end of Ray's match. Victoro was a giant of a man, standing just shy of eight feet tall. He fought with a large battle axe that required the use of two hands, and hadn't lost a single match in the last three seasons. As no one on the outside was willing to pay his fines, Victoro was to fight until his winnings paid of the debt he owed.
"I suppose I am to fight him?" Thomas wondered aloud.
"Trial by combat?"
"That's what I was told," the commander nodded. "Last man standing, walks."
Malcolm smiled. "Well, you better make sure you're the last man standing then."

A guard walked up to the pair and Thomas was given his spear, the same weapon he had used throughout his time with the Moseke Knights. The same guard undid Malcolm's right cuff before locking it to the commander's right hand.
"What are you doing?" Malcolm asked, perplexed. "I've won my round!"
"Your weapon," the guard insisted.

Malcolm's heart sank in his chest to burn in the acid of his belly as his gaze fell upon the longsword. His heart was pounding hard and slow, and the world seemed to spin and stop all of the sudden. Why was this happening? Why was he being tied to the most hated man in the capital? The Mortalborn crouched down and took a few deep breaths, drinking in the smell of blood, urine, and death.
Thomas stood speechless for a spell. "I'm sorry Malcolm..."
"How bad do you want it?" The captain asked, his voice void of emotion.
"Last man standing," Thomas murmured, "will be you or I..."
Malcolm nodded and got to his feet slowly, closing his right hand around his sword tightly.
"For the Kingdom?" Thomas smiled.
"Fuck the Kingdom," Malcolm spat.

"Still the undefeated champion!" The King's announcer boomed as the crowd settled and people raced to their seats to witness the match they had come to see. "I give you, Victoro the Conqueror!"
They chanted his name, stomped their feet, and drummed their drums. There was nothing more loved by the crowds of the arena, than a man who refused to die. "As promised, I present to you, our main event. The King's champion, Victoror, to face off against the Kingdom's disgrace! "From the west gate, I give you, Thomas Endooorrrrr!"

The Queen got to get feet and turned to leave the royal box, stopped by her young husband, King Cassander, as he took hold of her wrist and bid her to sit. Reluctantly, she returned to her seat and one of the servants handed her a glass of wine as if her intention had only ever been to refill the glass. When Thomas walked out through the gates accompanied by the nobleman who had seen and won his battle today, it was the King who got to his feet, looking around his fellow royals and nobles for some kind of explanation. Duke Thomas Andaris and Andre Krome closed in on the king to offer council, and it seemed whatever they had said won him over.
As the fighters moved into the circle of blood to stand and look up at the royal viewing platform, the king stepped forward and spoke, his voice, like his face, youthful, betraying his inexperience and reluctance regarding matters to do with the arena. "Thomas Endor, Malcolm Krome, and Johan Clay," he acknowledged each of them. "You are here today because you have all committed terrible acts. Trial by combat will grant freedom to the winner of this match if his fines are paid and his conquest is just. One of you will be a free man by the end of this match, you have my word. Let the fight begin!"
"Your lead or mine?" Thomas mouthed.
"How good are you with that spear?"
"Is now a bad time to tell you I'm right handed?"
Malcolm glanced down at his left hand, too closely bound to the commander's right to enable the man enough reach to throw his spear. "Mine."

Down each of the aisles, a cloaked figure in a dark, earthy shade of blue moved, closing in on the inner wall of the arena. Some of them were tailed by guards who had noticed the strange, uniform like movements, and others weaved amongst the crowd, carefully losing themselves to the sheer number of spectators in order to make their way forwards and watch the match. For the men in the arena, there would be no recognition, each of them focused solely on the man or men they stood across from.
Victoro swung his axe and the battle was underway.

[Sabine]

The knights jolted Sabine’s focus from Elyna, and she easily dropped her hand as the noblewoman shook her off. She stepped back unsteadily and watched her lunge for the female knight, torn between admiring her persistence and fearing for her safety.

No one could accuse Elyna of not having courage, even if it was courage borne of foolishness.

Sabine shrugged off the passion-fueled threat that was thrown her way and followed the noblewoman's gaze to the arena floor in time to see Malcolm blind the second brother with sand and plunge a spear into his neck.

The trainer would live, then.

As would Elyna.

A wave of apprehension hit as the excitement faded. Sabine fiddled with the hem of her white blouse and looked between Elyna and the knights. There seemed to be far more going on than she had originally thought, and she was becoming painfully aware that this was neither her battle nor her business.

If she and Elyna had actually been friends, Sabine might have demanded answers or dropped to her knees to console the noblewoman. But they weren’t friends – and they certainly weren’t equals, at least not in the eyes of the wealthier Ryns.

So instead, pragmatism won out.

Sabine drifted away from the group without a word and sidestepped an arena guard who gave her a dour look, presumably for supporting Elyna rather than himself. She blew him a kiss in return before rejoining the small crowd of spectators near the stands to watch the remaining few matches.

If Elyna wanted to talk, she was certain the noblewoman would be able to find her.

“Can you believe it?”

Sabine turned to the gray-haired, dark-skinned man standing next to her. His surprise was still evident in his expression. “Believe what?”

“That… that monster. Malcolm.” He gestured emphatically to the stadium floor. “Don’t know how he did it, but he defeated the brothers with no weapon and his hands tied.”

“I thought he had a spear.”

“Nah, the bastards forced him into the arena without a weapon.” He furrowed his brow. “Terrible odds. I can’t figure out how he managed to pull it off.”

Sabine shook her head. How did any of them manage to pull it off? To rally their courage and fight for their lives in front of hundreds of spectators who were rooting for their deaths? She shoved her hands in her pockets and readied herself for the brutality to come.

The ten fighters blurred together during the break that followed. Sabine watched with barely contained horror as criminal after criminal was slain. She grew increasingly grateful for the man standing next to her, whose chatter and running commentary proved to be a welcome distraction.

He introduced himself as Henry Vaughan, a fisherman from Krome who visited Andaris once per season to trade and place bets on the Fighting Arena’s matches. When he bet well, the extra income kept both his family and his business out of debt.

It wasn’t the worst excuse she’d heard for supporting the Arena’s barbaric tradition.

Blows were exchanged, fighters fell, and blood ran through the sand until, finally, the match ended and the bodies were dragged away. Only the victor was left behind. The eager spectators identified him, quite appropriately, as Victoro the Conqueror.

“That one hasn’t lost a match in three seasons,” Henry said.

“I believe it.”

He was a vicious man and a literal giant who had towered above his opponents, wielding a two-handed battle-axe that may well have been the size of Sabine herself.

The king’s announcer recaptured the arena’s attention, first quieting the rowdy crowd and then sending it back into chaos with the announcement of Victoro’s victory and his final opponent.

What...

Sabine paled as Thomas Endor walked through the gates with Malcolm chained to his side. Murmurs rose in the crowd around her, mirroring hers and the King’s surprise. She could only hope that Elyna was now well away from the arena and was not witnessing her trainer’s return.

“He shouldn’t be back…” Henry muttered, eyes glued to the ex-Baron.

"No kidding."

As Sabine and Henry stared down at the arena floor in shared confusion, a cloaked figure joined them in the crowd and stood impassively to Sabine’s left. She spared the newcomer no more than a glance and a moment’s thought.

There was no time for distractions.

The clock had started and the match had begun.