5. Maestro

Champions: Maestro is a collection of 5 short stories written by Ryan Kaufman, VP of Narrative, Jam City.

A Keymaster in all her glory.

Prologue - The History Lesson

Jun trudged along the edge of the dirt road, skirting the waist-high wall of weeds that demarcated the wild part of the world. He was too young to be traveling alone, but home was not a place he could stay anymore.

Jun had set his will toward one goal. And that goal could only be achieved in Massina City. He was already weary and hungry, and when he saw that the dirt road rose up ahead into the foothills, and then over a high pass, his heart sank. The City was on the other side; there would be a lot more walking in the meantime.

As he walked, and scanned the dry fields and withered orchards for something to eat, he heard the iron creak and wood wheels of a wagon coming up behind him. As the wagon drew near, he saw the driver was an old crone, hunched under a mousy-brown hood and ratty wool cloak.

“You’re a little young to be out here on your own,” said the crone. The old black sumpter-horse snorted, as its face tentacles groomed its leathery muzzle serenely.

He shrugged. “I’m headed to Massina. No other way to get there.”

“Tell you what,” she said, with a voice that was measured and firm. “I’m traveling to Massina as well. But I could use some assistance. In exchange for doing a small errand when we reach the city, I will give you a ride.”

She turned to look at him, and Jun could now see into the folds of her hood. Her face was not wrinkled and tired, but gracefully worn and sad, like the statue of an ancient goddess. He wondered if she were actually human. The suspicion in him commanded that he refuse her offer, but his hungry, tired body took over, and he found himself clambering up into the seat next to her. The woman k’tched at the horse, and they began moving again.

Between them, on the wide seat, was a crude box, made of cheap wood. Someone had wrapped a black chain and lock around it, and the box rattled as the wheels went over the uneven road. Something inside rolled or moved.

“What’s that?” Jun asked.

“A trifle. I’ll tell you when we get there,” she said. “What’s your business in Massina, anyway?”

“I’m going there to prove myself,” Jun replied, puffing up a little. “I’m going to become a Maestro, and train a Champion. Together, we’ll conquer the Colosseum Eternal, and then the Emperor himself will shower us with gold and fame.”

The old woman smiled. “So, you have this all worked out, then? Which House will you fight for?”

Jun’s forehead wrinkled in concern. She’d hit on a blind spot in his plan. “Does it matter?”

“You don’t know much about the Eternal Houses, if that’s your attitude, son.” The old woman laughed to herself. “Didn’t they teach you about them in school?”

“There was no school where I grew up.” Jun flashed back to empty, windswept fields and abandoned farmhouses.

“Pfft,” the woman raised her eyes to the sky in frustration. “The people of this country are left to wallow in ignorance like pigs before slaughter. The Emperor still doesn’t value a good education!”

Jun shrank back. “I’d like to learn. I just don’t have anyone to teach me.”

The House of Life

They rode along in silence for a while. Then the old woman cleared her throat. “Alright, then. Let’s begin at the beginning.”

***

“In the beginning,” she said, “there were four Great Houses. Not three, but four.”

“I thought there were seven.”

“You will need to keep your interruptions to a minimum, boy. There is much to cover.”

“Yes, mistress. Sorry.”

“The Houses derived their power from the diverse Essences of the Titans. The so-called Ancient Ones.”

Jun snapped his fingers. “I know about them! The Ancient Ones fought and broke Massina into the ten continents. Then they were locked away in Hell!”

“What did I just say?” Her grey eyes found him, and Jun felt the power behind them. “At any rate, the imprisoned Titans release Essences that still permeate our world. The Great Houses became receptors for that energy, each specializing in a different vibration or strain.”

She continued. “The first House is the House of Life. It channels the Essence that gives all living things their power, their spark. From tiny seeds grow great trees, they say. They worship a Goddess they call the Mother of Life. She is more than a Titan; more than even a god really, something much more. The Champions of the House of Life often call on her power, to give them strength, or even resurrection after defeat.”

“Its adherents are, as one might imagine, friendly. Even upbeat. They value honor above all else. They strive to bring glory to their House and to the Mother goddess. And she in turn smiles on them. The Temple itself is a true work of art. One cannot help feel the swell of life itself when one enters, like waking up on a beautiful summer morning.”

The boy considered this notion. “Well, that’s where I want my Champion to be from!”

“Oh, is it just that easy? You just walk up to the House of Life and say ‘give me a Champion please, thank you’?”

“No…” he admitted. Jun was young, but he knew well enough– nothing good was ever easy.

“No, it is not,” she said. “The House of Life can be controlling. They do not easily let go of that which they possess– much like Life itself. And their enemies are hateful and dangerous. The House of Death undermine and oppose them at every turn. And the Librarians of the Arcane find them simplistic and contemptible. The three now exist in perpetual opposition.”

The House of Death

“The second house, the House of Death, worship the dark power of the great unknown. Inscribed above the door are the House words; The Only Inevitability in Life is Death. Their Essence boils with green smoke. The House itself is a cavern, which looms over the streets of Massina, and rots the nearby houses and docks. But those who have braved the House of Death and emerged with their lives speak not of horrible ghouls or dark magic — they speak of the silence, a sound so empty and lonely, that it forever sears itself into their memory. A feeling of hopeless loss. The music of Death.

“But, the House of Death also has an incredible power– both repellent and irresistible. Its members are blessed with a lack of fear. For they embrace the end of Life.”

“No fear?” Jun contemplated possessing a Champion with such a strength.

“Only one,” she corrected herself. “They fear the Essence of Life, which can make them suddenly feel the enormity of their loss.”

“What about the other two Houses?”

“Patience, boy. The third House is the House of the Arcane, known as the Library. The founding of this house begins with a legend. Long ago, a medicine man and his son were exploring a dark cave. The boy slipped and fell down a deep shaft, into the bowels of the Earth. The man rushed down to rescue him, but when he found the spot, his son had vanished. On the walls of the shaft were written words which he tried to decipher. As he struggled to translate the strange script, an energy emerged, which he called the Arcane. And when he began to master and channel it, he taught his methods to others.

“But his clan feared this new power. They had questions. Where was his son? Who had written the words? He said their concerns were petty. So they exiled him and burned his scrolls. Thereafter, he hid his learnings in that dark cave, away from those who did not understand.

“Over the thousands of years, a great colony of knowledge has grown in their towers and labyrinthian libraries. The Arcane are masters of magic, summoning, and other mystical arts. They derive their skill from an incredible underground archive of books, scrolls, and other materials known only to them. Hence, rivals refer to them as “The Librarians” — a supposed insult that the House takes pride in. No one, not even the Emperor, has amassed as much scholarship about the secret workings of the universe. Knowledge can undo an Empire, they are fond of saying.

“But their lust for the Arcane has led them into corruption and paranoia. The Librarians do not trust outsiders. They do not regard non-mages as being worthy of their time. And perhaps their isolation is not just bad manners– for rumors tell us the Librarians often seek knowledge where it should not be sought. Their methods can often be … disturbing.”

Jun shivered. “And what about the House of the World? What happened to them?”

She sighed. “The House of the World were a congregation of beautiful children. Possessed of every characteristic of our world. The lightness of air, the cool quenching life-giving water, the warmth of fire, the familiar and solid foundations of dirt and earth and stone. They were diverse and yet singular in vision and purpose. The House of the World somehow managed to create alliances with Life, Death and the Arcane.”

“However, this made them overly powerful, in the eyes of the Emperor. And soon, they began to regard themselves as the true, natural leaders of Massina. A young charismatic priestess rose to power. I remember her well.”

“You remember her?” Jun instantly realized his mistake, and put his hand over his mouth. But how could this old crone know a priestess from thousands of years ago?

“Her name was Gaia, and she gathered the Houses together in a coalition never before seen in the history of Massina. She questioned the Emperor’s stranglehold over the people. His insistence on gladiatorial combat. And his right to rule, based on domination and power.

“The Emperor, a man who called himself Tributus, sanctioned the House, and ordered her arrest. But the House resisted. A terrible civil war broke out, and many in Massina were swept up in the conflict. In the end, the Emperor drew upon the ranks of the Colosseum gladiators in order to prevail.

“Mercenary Champions from the House of Death stormed the House of the World and killed everyone inside. Beautiful Gaia was grabbed by a Whisperer, flown up to the highest tower of the Palace, and dropped onto the cobblestone streets.”

She seemed lost in a soft moment, then her face turned hard with scorn. “Emperor Tributus always enjoyed a poetic flourish.” After that, the old woman stopped talking for a long while. Jun turned and looked out at the passing fields and scrub.

“The Emperor disbanded the House of the World. He cast any remaining rebels into the arena, where the Champions finished them off, to the jeers of the Emperor’s loyal hand-picked crowd. The House of the World was no more. His revenge became a legacy and a lesson. Since then, no House dares tempt the wrath of an Emperor.”

She gazed up into the approaching mountains. The blue turquoise stone of the Villebrew ridge glowed a soft pink at its edges, in the fading light. “Slowly, over time, like weeds from the cracks of a great temple, four new sibling Houses rose up: Air, Water, Fire and the Mountain.”

“Although the Titans are gone, their Essences battle on. The energy of Life triumphs over Death, and Death dominates the Arcane, while Arcane defies the rules of Life.”

“Seven Eternal Houses,” Jun said, nodding. “Now I understand.”

The sumpter-horse lurched to a stop. A low gargle rumbled from its throat.

The old woman, alarmed, whipped her head to the right, peering off into the dusk. “Shh, quiet.”

Jun sat up, and he, too, strained to see. He wanted to ask what she was looking for, but he held his tongue. The road was surrounded by a low matted chaparral, a thicket impenetrable to his eye.

“I thought these roads had been cleared,” she growled.

Jun heard only a cracking of branches a few feet away, before his world turned upside down.

***

First he heard the horse scream in terror, and then a large humanoid form leapt overhead. The sumpter-horse tried to bolt in its bridle, causing the wagon to lurch sickeningly sideways, and Jun felt himself, the old woman, and the box sliding out and into the air.

He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him. But for Jun, such a blunt shock was all too familiar. He’d gotten enough of them at home. He was able to stand, and there he saw a vaguely man-like creature, standing in the chapparal. The old woman was injured; she pulled herself along, her legs dragging behind her, into the shelter of the wagon. “Boy!” she cried. “Take this!”

She produced a thin, silver sword, and Jun took it without question. He waved it at the creature, who took a step back. Its dark thorny arms and legs looked powerful and agile, while its tail whipped around, bristling with spines. What Jun took for a head looked almost like a ruby-red flower bud, surrounded by a dark green mane.

“It’s an audraticus,” she grunted. “A thorn-sprite! Very territorial. Very aggressive.”

“What should I do?” Jun cried. The creature’s bud opened up in segmented petals, revealing sharp pin-like teeth inside. But its advance was checked by the sword, much to Jun’s relief.

“Just keep waving the sword,” she yelled. “And don’t let it–”

Suddenly the audraticus flared into flame, emanating from its head. But the creature seemed unhurt. In fact, it dipped its head into the chapparal, which began to smoke.

“Uh, I think it’s setting a fire,” Jun stuttered.

“We need to go. Now!” The old woman closed her eyes, and to Jun’s wonder, she shoved the entire bulk of the heavy wagon upright– with one arm. The horse, confined by its reins, started again in panic. “Help me up,” she called to Jun.

Dumbstruck, he helped her crawl back into the seat. The chaparral sparked and small fires spread toward the road. Jun pulled the horse’s reins back into order, and with a snap, he was able to drive it forward.

“Wait! Damn it!” The old woman grabbed his arm with a punishing strength. “The box! The box!”

Jun saw the box, lying in the ditch by the flaming brush. The audraticus hissed and paced, with an impatient intimidation, trying to scare them off. The boy hopped down, cinders in his eyes, and scuttled over to the box. The flames were hot, searing his face, and he reached quickly into the brush to grab the box. He dodged backwards just before the teeth of the creature snapped onto his wrist.

He leapt into the wagon, and they sped off, as fast as the rickety wheels would allow.

***

As night fell, they finally summited the high pass, and the lights of Massina City lay in the valley below. The moon reflected off the great bay, and Jun thought he could spot the fabled Harbor of the Fallen. All of his questions about the woman, the box, and the sword melted away. He felt a great thrill inside his chest. The old woman, however, cursed and muttered under her breath.

“Prometheus assured me the roads had been cleared.”

“What do you mean?” Jun asked her.

“He hired a squad of Champions to disperse or destroy any aggressive creatures along the road. It’s not uncommon for gladiators to take a contract like that. But usually they do a better job,” she said with a grimace. “I suppose I should be happy we only ran into an audraticus. There are far more dangerous beasts to encounter.”

Jun tried not to stare at her. He knew by now she was no ordinary woman. Her strength, her unusual memory and age. The strange marking on her forehead. But he dared not ask.

“I should thank you,” she said, sensing his curiosity. “For what you did back there. Helping me.”

“You didn’t seem to need my help,” he ventured, carefully.

“Well… I do, and I don’t. The arms are still strong, but the legs don’t work worth a damn.” She scowled, then looked sheepish. “Sorry. I used to have better manners. I was a royal tutor, if you can believe that.”

“A teacher?”

“Yes,” she said. “To the most powerful man in Massina.”

She must mean the Emperor, Jun thought. But for some reason, she won’t say his name. Jun had learned enough about adults and their sore spots, to not ask.

He changed the subject. “What do you do now? Why are you traveling?”

“I work for a man named Doctor Prometheus. And, like the great Houses, you will be hearing a lot more about him if you wish to be a Maestro. A trainer of Champions.”

Jun looked down at the box. “Is that who this is for?”

The old woman nodded.

Before he could stop himself, Jun blurted out: “What’s in it?”

She smiled, with a grim expression that he did not enjoy. “The less you know about that, the better.”

They rode on in silence. Jun was dying to ask more about the Seven Eternal Houses. What of the House of Air? Why were they called the Acolytes? And the House of the Mountain? Was it related to the ancient lands of the Mountain King? But the woman seemed tired, her eyes fixed forward on the road. They entered through a small unnamed gate and made their way into Massina City.

***

By the time they reached the Ministry of Bone, Jun’s eyes were glazed with exhaustion from the lights and creatures and the bizarre parade of Massina City. He felt like he had drunk from a waterfall, and craved just to close his eyes for a moment and enjoy a moment of peace. Was his journey from the quiet countryside a mistake? Had he been a fool to think he could survive in the city?

But the wagon rattled to a stop. Over them loomed a massive building, with great stone spires reaching up into the night sky. The roofline was illuminated by a leering skull, hundreds of feet high, floating impossibly in a swirling sea of pale blue light, which flickered through its empty eye sockets. Jun could see the dour statues of learned men, dark figures in the night, judging his presence from on high.

“This is the Ministry of Bone,” the old woman said. “A place of life and death, violence and creation, blood and magic.” Then she laughed. “And should you succeed in your ambitions, it’ll be a second home to you.”

“Maestros come here?” Jun frowned in spite of himself. It didn’t seem like a nice place. Nor the kind of building that heroes would frequent. It smelled of sewage and… old meat.

“See for yourself,” she said. She handed him the box. “Now, you fulfill your end of the bargain.”

He took the box gingerly. It rattled again. “What do you want me to do?”

“Take it to the good Doctor,” she said. “As you already know, I’m incapable of walking in and doing it myself.”

“And then what?”

She shrugged. “You wanted to get to Massina. You’re here. What comes next… is up to you.”

Jun struggled to push down his unease and fear, as he slipped down off the wagon seat. The woman raised the reins, and then she paused. Jun held the box to his chest. She looked down at him, with a pained annoyance.

“If you ever find yourself in a dire emergency, and I mean a DIRE emergency,” she said, through somewhat clenched teeth. “You may ask in the market bazaar for Zera. That is my name.”

Then she bowed. And with no more than that, she snapped the reins and the wagon creaked off down the streets, and into the night.

Jun swallowed hard, and gathered his courage to venture into the maze of the Ministry of Bone.

***

He was disturbed and shaken by the time he finally found the laboratory of Doctor Prometheus. He entered the dank underground chamber, which was dominated by glowing tubes of all sorts. Hoses ran across the stone floor, and spilled liquids pooled in sickly puddles.

“Doctor? Doctor Prometheus?” Jun’s small voice called out into the empty lab, echoing off the stone walls, in a mocking way.

A man emerged, clad in a dark leather overcoat. He wore a white mask, like a disfigured man. “What,” he said.

“I brought you, er,” Jun started and stuttered. “I mean, Zera and I brought you the box.” Jun held out the object. He was glad to be rid of it. The box had not stopped rattling since he entered the building, no matter how he tried to cushion it in his arms. It was like whatever was inside was unsettled, troubled, not yet at peace.

Prometheus approached the boy, who smelled the tang of chemicals, and spice, and decay. “Good,” he murmured. He began to walk away, and then stopped. He examined the box, and the chains that held it. “You helped her transport this?”

“Yes, Doctor,” said Jun, nervously. “We were attacked by a creature.”

The doctor frowned. Then he worked a small instrument into the lock, which sprung open. The chains fell to the ground with a clatter that made Jun jump. He heard the Doctor laugh softly inside his mask.

“Did you wonder what was inside?”

Jun held his breath. He wasn’t sure how to answer.

“Do you want to know?” Prometheus turned and slowly approached him.

Jun’s heart raced in his chest. His palms were drenched in sweat, clammy and cold. “Yes,” he said, in spite of himself.

Prometheus held the box toward him, and slowly opened it. The interior of the box was bare wood, no cushioning or pillow to contain its cargo. And inside, lay a human skull. A child, maybe. The skull settled slightly, rolling to one side. Jun held his breath, fearing the bones would come to life. Or set its eyes upon him somehow. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

From behind his mask, the Doctor gazed at the skull. “His name was Adrian. A boy, like yourself. He has been dead for thousands of years, but now he’s going to help me with something very important.”

And with that, the Doctor closed the box. He remained motionless, studying Jun. “Do you wish to know more? To understand what it is I intend to do?”

The boy began edging backwards out the door. “I should go,” he whispered.

The Doctor cocked his masked face at Jun. “Or perhaps… you would volunteer to become part of it yourself?”

The boy turned and fled into the Ministry. It was hours before he finally found his way out, and breathed the cool night air of Massina City. He wandered all night before finding a suitable place to hide and bed down, behind a large wooden sign that read The Sleeping Karkadon.

Interior of the Library of the Arcane

Part 1 - The Diamondstar Halo

Jun stood in the shadow of the Colosseum, as the morning sun rose over Massina City. The stone was cold against his back, but he didn’t move. His spot in front of the Porta Magna was crucial. This was the entrance that Champions and their Maestros used. A few of the especially passionate fans stood around, hoping for a glimpse of Golanus or Dhysthine, the so-called “Angel of Blood.”

At his side was a small wooden folding table, normally for cards and other gambling. Rolling around on its surface was a plump furry cramster named Blub. The cramster was stuffing its face with cheese, but Jun paid it no mind. His eyes were on an approaching Champion: a nervous-looking Vitra.

As she approached, he smiled and gestured at Blub. “Care to have a quick gamble this morning? How many blocks of cheese can this boy get in his mouth?”

(Blub the Cramster)

She shook her head, but Jun opened his palm. Her eyes darted down to his real offering: four zarkberries. She looked around anxiously, and drew close. The Vitra towered over Jun, and her armor outweighed him by several stone. “Thossse real sssarkberries?” she whispered.

“Yep.” Jun smiled. The Champions loved zarkberries. They improved reaction time, concentration, and energy. And, they were also illegal. At least within city limits.

“How did you procure them?” The Vitra scowled, eyeballing the suspect zarkberries.

“I have a source.” He smiled enigmatically. His contact met him every morning on the docks behind the House of Life. Jun held up the palmful of berries for her closer inspection. “Fresh as the sunrise. Make you really feel that anima.”

The Vitra sniffed them carefully. Then she smiled and slipped a coin into his palm, and her claws collected the zarkberries. “Thank you, human,” she whispered.

“Good hunting today,” he replied, as she began to walk off. “Oh, and watch that left hook with the trident. I notice you drop your shoulder when you attack. It’s an easy tell.”

The Vitra blinked at him in shock. “Yesss,” she agreed. “Yes, I will.” Then, still watching him, she ate the zarkberries and disappeared into the Porta Magna.

The morning picked up, with more Champions streaming in. Some stopped for zarkberries, others carried on. Some knew him, or stopped to feed Blub more cheese. Most of the Maestros complained at Jun. “You’re ripping us off,” they growled. It was true that Jun marked up his product, but smuggling zarkberries was expensive, and he didn’t make much. But it was worth it to be close to The Big Show every day at the Colosseum.

One of his favorite Champions sauntered up, a Seris named Krashkuz. The fighter hadn’t been lucky in years, barely winning often enough to pay his bills. But Jun admired his tenacity.

Blub the Cramster

Krashkuz and his Maestro Dawn stood with Jun and made small talk. “We’re a little short today, Jun,” she said with an apologetic wince. Dawn, a tiny woman, stood under the Seris’ massive stony elbow.

“You’re a little short every day, Dawn,” Jun joked. But they barely laughed. Usually the three of them had a good rapport. Things must be serious.

“Here,” said Jun. “Take em.”

Dawn thanked him, but Krashkuz stopped her. “Give him something.”

“No,” said Jun, “don’t worry about it. This is a gift.”

“Gift is steal. We make trade.” Krashkuz shook his mighty head. He had scars and scrapes over almost every inch of his frame. He thought for a second, and then announced: “You are Krashkuz guest today. Come inside, watch match for free. Trade.”

Krashkuz downed the berries and headed inside. Dawn motioned Jun along. He grabbed Blub and dropped him into the pouch with the zarkberries. Then, in a panic, he just as quickly yanked the cramster back out before it could eat his profits. Blub rode with him as they found their way through the Porta Magna, and up into the cheap seats.

The sun was still mild, and the stone bleachers were at a comfortable temperature. The early morning crowds were mostly hardcore fans or gamblers. Or wanna-be Maestros like Jun. He went to the Colosseum almost every opportunity, using the money he could have spent on rent or food to watch the greatest show he’d ever known. And today was no different.

The floor of the Colosseum had been completely flooded. The water glittered with blue dye, mimicking the strange azure tones of the Harbor of the Fallen a few miles south. Large boats cruised the surface, some filled with gladiators dressed as pirates, others were Keymasters and Gatekeepers. Jun’s heart leapt — this must be a re-enactment of the Battle of the Harbor. The Fallen 300!

He heard a woman’s voice nearby, hawking geckoid on a stick. “Get yer meat here!” Jun peered over the heads of the crowd and saw her, a young woman with dark curly hair pulled back into a tight bun. Yujin, a friend from the Market Bazaar. She spotted him too, and playfully started to have fun with her sales rap.

“Get a geckoid down your gullet. Spicy or mild. Original or flaming cheese. Geckoid on a stick. Guaranteed only 50% stick.”

A man hailed her, and she served him a stick, and winked at Jun. “Thank you, sir. Everyone’s a winner when the geckoid race ends in your stomach!”

Jun patted the seat next to him, and Yujin sat. “Quick break,” she smirked. “Although I’m not interested in your ugly ass. Where’s that adorable little cramster of yours?”

Jun fished him out of his jacket pocket. Yujin beamed. “Hello, Blub, you little cheese weasel.” The cramster lolled around as she scratched his furry stomach.

They watched as the games began. The emcee gave a long, baroque speech about the glory of The 300, how Massina was indebted to them eternally, and how the triumphs of the gladiators would reflect on the Emperor. The Imperial box seats shaded the Emperor from the sun and the prying eyes of the crowd, but Jun could see his knee as he sat on his throne.

The boats massed for a mock invasion of the Harbor, just as the pirates had tried so many years ago. Jun saw Krashkuz, dressed in an ill-fitting eye-patch, and the Vitra he’d met earlier that morning. The Keymasters and Gatekeepers, though hopelessly outnumbered, mounted a brave defense against the motley invaders. Jun critiqued the technique of one warrior in particular, until she was cut down by a Karkadon dressed as a pirate. “I’m not sure that’s historically accurate,” he said.

“Who cares,” Yujin shrugged. “This isn’t about them. This is all for his glory.” She tossed her chin toward the Emperor’s box, high above the crowds and the carnage on the water. Spots of red clouds swirled among the blue.

Jun kept his concentration on the battle. The Keymasters, unlike history, were losing the skirmish rather badly. A squadron of Sadaari warriors were unleashed as reinforcements. Jun wondered how old they were. Some Sadaari were ancient — having Ascended and become Eternals thousands of years previous.

The vessel known as the Mainstay capsized, dumping Krashkuz into the water. Jun saw him pop up and look around. Then, perhaps sensing the way the battle was going, he dove back under the ship to hide. Krashkuz was a survivor. He caught the eye of Dawn, who tossed her cheese-poppers into the air in exasperation.

Jun also spotted the Vitra, now fighting off a Keymaster, only to be brutally stabbed in the leg by a Gatekeeper. She limped away, and dove into the water to escape, but the Gatekeeper finished her off with a crossbow. Her body bobbed on the surface among the rest of the jetsam. Jun grimaced. These things happened; he had learned not to form attachments.

A group of young Karkadons leapt from their boat to the Keymasters’ vessel. Jun commentated for Yujin, who didn’t appear to be paying much attention: “That group are all new Challengers. Rushing the boat isn’t the smartest strategy, but they’re young, and they’ve got a lot to prove.”

The Karkadons were quickly dispatched by one deadly Sadaari warrior. Jun didn’t recognize her, but he had to admire her skill, whoever she was. There were so many Champions, and he was still learning all their names.

“It’s not sad that they die,” Yujin sighed, as she munched on one of her geckoid sticks. “It’s just sad that they die for so little.”

A handsome young man in Imperial senate robes sat above them to the left, occasionally glancing their way. “Look at this heart-throb,” drawled Yujin. Jun craned his neck around. “No, don’t look AT him,” Yujin groaned.

“Who is he?”

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “He’s cute. He comes here a lot, but he just like… stares at me.” She smirked. “What a goof, right? Watch this.”

She turned around and waved at him. The man went red in instant embarrassment, spilling his cheese-poppers.

Yujin laughed. But the wrappings on her wrist had come free, and Jun noticed the tattoo that marked her as a rebel. “Yujin,” he warned quietly. She quickly covered it and stood.

“Well. These little bastards won’t sell themselves.” Yujin smiled, and then started climbing the bleachers again, shouting: “Get your geckoid on a stick.”

Now, a resounding roar rose up from the crowd, as Krashkuz emerged from the water, and clambered aboard the Golden Bough. He climbed the rigging and pumped his arms in triumph, egging on the audience. The Maestros clamored, both in support and scorn. Krashkuz paused to soak it up, hanging off the ropes with his hand to his ear.

Then he jumped down, and rallied the remaining pirates to his side, forming a defensive huddle. The 300 charged, and the resulting melee was chaos. The veteran Seris swung a large club, huge horizontal sweeps of power that knocked Gatekeepers away like rag dolls. His body was soon pitted and ribboned with blood and open wounds.

Finally, Krashkuz was surrounded. But there was no grace to his fight anymore — he was simply trying to survive. The Sadaari warrior expertly disarmed him, and he lay panting on the deck of the boat. The crowd cheered for his death. Jun felt dismayed. The old Seris had done well, all things considered. He deserved to be spared, but he was a Champion that the crowd, as a rule, loved to hate.

The Emperor’s thumb emerged from the shadow of his box seat. The crowd quieted to a murmur. The thumb hovered. The Sadaari gazed up, her sword at the ready. Then, with a cruel flick, the thumb jabbed downward. Death.

The Sadaari turned to Krashkuz. He shook his head. She paused for a moment, then sheathed her sword, and flew off on her Eternal wings, disappearing into the Magna Porta to a cascading chorus of boos and cat-calls from the crowd. A Keymaster immediately stepped up to take her place, and finished off the old Seris. The crowd erupted in applause. Dawn slumped over in despair. Jun sought Yujin’s eye, but she was busy staring into the darkness of the hallway where the Sadaari had disappeared.

The match was declared over, and the proceedings took a break. As the crowd stretched and milled around, Jun reluctantly made his way down the stairs. Sitting and watching the rest of the games all day wasn’t likely to make him any money; or further his dreams of being a Maestro. To buy a Champion’s contract, he needed coin– and a lot of it.

As he emerged onto the street, the tall young man dressed in the robes of the Imperial Senate grabbed his wrist. “That girl,” he said. “Do you know her?”

“What girl,” Jun tried to pull away, feigning ignorance. The man’s grip was strong, like an enforcer. Jun’s heart dropped. Had Yujin done something? Was the Palace cracking down on rebels again?

“The girl,” said the man, with more emphasis, as if that explained it all. “The one who sells the geckoids. The one with the dark hair like the heavenly locks of Gaia, and the eyes so black you feel you’re gazing into a moonless night sky.”

“Uh…” Jun looked up into the face of the young Imperial, whose eyes were fixed on the far-off clouds. “The girl who sells geckoid on a stick? That girl?”

“She’s amazing,” the man continued. “I come to the games every day. And I hate the games.”

Jun nodded silently. Better to let this play out.

“But I don’t know what to say to her. No idea at all,” the man sighed heavily. “Plus there’s this–” He plucked at his dark red robes. “I get the feeling she’s not a fan of the establishment.”

The man let go of Jun, and reset himself. He held out his hand and bowed. “Apologies. My name is Roland. I am Senatorial secretary to the Honorable Pmuj Walavita.”

Jun smiled. “I’m Jun. Nice to meet you, Roland. Imperial, eh?”

“Yes, well. I mean, I work there,” Roland stammered. He was trying hard to keep a calm facade. Jun wondered if he might be induced to talk a little more about the Senate. Knowing an insider might be helpful to himself and Yujin.

“Come to the Market Bazaar at noon,” said Jun, with another smile, albeit a crooked one. “Maybe I can introduce you to my friend.”

“Yes,” Roland’s mouth gaped in amazement, as though he’d seen Gaia herself rise from the waters of the River Hushed. “Yes, yes, I will. The Barket Mazaar– Market. I mean.”

Jun gave him a friendly nod. “Her name is Yujin.”

Again, Roland staggered backwards, as if hit by an iron trident. “Yujin,” he whispered. Then he regained his composure. “Of course! Thank you! Thank you.”

Jun chuckled as he and Blub set off for the Market Bazaar to sell the rest of his zarkberries, and imagined the fun when Yujin had to avoid her awkward new suitor.

***

Yujin sold her last geckoid to an off-duty Grondal enforcer and made her way into the bowels of the Colosseum Eternal. The passages were dim, and she skirted past other vendors and busy tradesmen, all making their coin off the gathered crowds above them. Silt and dirt drifted down as thousands of feet pounded the bleachers in anticipation of the next match. Yujin could hear the muffled roar, like the towering waves off the coast of Dredegga. She ducked into an alcove, and pressed a particular brick. A hidden door swung open and she slipped inside.

She felt her way along the cold stone tunnel in utter darkness. There was no light, but she knew where she was going. She emerged in the hallway of the gladiator barracks. Yujin tread lightly, peering into the different cells as she passed. Finally, she saw the Sadaari, who was taking off her armor. She hesitated.

“Speak,” said the Sadaari.

“I saw what you did in the arena. You defied him,” Yujin said, with a tremor in her voice. She tried to calm herself.

“And of what concern is that to you?” The Sadaari turned and looked her over. “You don’t look like an Imperial to me.”

“No,” said Yujin. “My name is Yujin. I represent those who want freedom. Those who reject his oppression. Those who feel as you do.”

The Sadaari smirked, her ghoul-like features betraying what had once been a living face. “You know how I feel?”

“Your actions tell me enough.” Yujin said, summoning her courage. She pulled back her wrappings to show the tattoo. She had received it in prison, as a brand, for the authorities to identify. But like many rebels, she now wore it as a point of pride. “You value respect and honor above blind loyalty.”

The Sadaari shook her head. “I’m not interested in rebellions. Or Emperors. Be on your way.”

Yujin drew a little closer. She could see the Sadaari’s weapons were ancient, perhaps thousands of years old, but razor sharp. “Our leader has a proposal for you. One that might change your mind… Ilona.”

Ilona’s eyes blazed. “Who are you?”

Yujin backed away. “I’m just someone who wants justice and peace.” She backed toward the door. “Come find me in the Marketplace. I’ll take you to him.”

“What proposal,” said Ilona, her eyes narrowing. “Be forthcoming, girl, or I’ll show you the death-blow I spared Krashkuz.”

“I beg your forgiveness. It must come from him. If I tell you, you won’t believe me.” Yujin’s eyes were pleading.

Ilona scoffed, and then waved her off. “Get out.”

***

The Market Bazaar wound around the base of the Colosseum, like a viper coiling around its prey. Most of its business came from the spectators who had to wander past the stalls to reach their destination. More than a few became hopelessly lost and guiding fans out of the Market’s labyrinth was a lucrative opportunity for the urchins and other “entrepreneurs.”

Jun crouched in his shack, hidden behind a bakery stall, and watched as tall Roland walked into the clearing, and turned about in confusion. The boy waited just a moment, to further enjoy the red-robed secretary attempting to dodge the pit-boys and coin-runners on their hurried way. Then Jun stepped out and hailed Roland.

They talked for a bit, and played with Blub, before Yujin showed up. She often looked tired after a morning’s work, but today she looked a little shaken.

“Where you been?” Jun asked.

“Nowhere,” she said. “Who’s this great doofus? Did someone lose a willow tree?” She gestured at Roland.

“I am Roland,” he bowed. “I am honored to meet you.” He stood, and then looked unsure. “M’lady?”

Yujin burst out laughing. “M’lady!” She doubled over, and Roland cringed at himself. “I like that.”

“Roland is a secretarial senator,” Jun said.

“Secretary to a Senator,” Roland corrected. “I came to make your acquaintance.” Roland took Yujin’s hand gently, and touched it to his forehead in a deep bow.

“Oh he lays it on thick, don’t he?” She rolled her eyes– but Jun noted she didn’t pull her hand away. “My man must really love geckoids,”

“Not for geckoids,” Roland said in a panic. “I wanted to meet YOU. I’m… I wanted to say I’ve been very– I admire your–”

“My what,” she crossed her arms.

“Your face. And dark hair. And eyes.” He smacked his forehead in frustration. “Gods, I said this much better in my head on the way here.”

“Yes, you were a proper poet earlier,” Jun laughed.

“I’m sorry.” Roland’s shoulders slumped. “I should probably go. You two have a good day.”

“Hold on, hold on, Senate boy,” Yujin said. “How about we forget the flowery compliments and let’s just talk like normal people? Maybe about current events? Politics?”

“Yes,” said Roland, nodding. “I know a thing or two about that.”

“Great,” she smacked his arm. “Care for some tea?”

They sat on the ramshackle chairs outside Madam Twiddle’s Tea Shack and Roland told them about his job in the Imperial Senate. The Emperor ruled with an iron fist, but he needed the support and cooperation of the Senators to enact his decrees. The current debate was over rising Rebel activities, and the Emperor’s ban on House imbuements.

“He believes the Houses secretly fund the Rebels,” said Roland, sipping his tea. It was an acrid blend. Nobody knew what Madam Twiddle added to it. No one dared ask. Madam Twiddle was a Seris, and a real battle-axe.

“Any house in particular?” asked Yujin innocently. Her eyes met Jun’s quickly.

“The big three, mainly,” said Roland.

“Banning imbuement chokes the lifeblood of the Houses. No new Champions can receive Essence, and it prices everyone else out of the market.” Jun moaned.

“The Maestros complain bitterly,” agreed Roland. “I receive two or three angry scrolls every day.”

“Perhaps you should change your line of work to something less… morally abhorrent,” Yujin said with a sarcastic smile.

Jun downed his tea angrily. “I’ll never become a Maestro at this rate.”

“Ah, but,” Roland beckoned them to lean close. “Since we are now friends, there is something I can tell you.” Roland glanced around. “The Library of the Arcane is preparing to defy this ban.”

“Of course they are,” Jun said. The Library of the Arcane were by far the most arrogant House, believing themselves to be above the mundane concerns of Massina.

“Today,” Roland underscored. “Today. There is to be a draft of Champions imbued before the ban. Or so they claim.”

Yujin looked skeptical, but Roland smiled, pleased with himself and his insider knowledge. Jun darted into his shack. He emerged with his arms full of leather bags of coin. “Yujin, how much do you want for my shack?”

“What? I can’t buy your shack.” Yujin jumped up, spilling her tea all over Roland’s red robes.

“I need coin; lots of coin. Every farthing helps,” Jun panted. “How much?”

“I’ll… I can give you twenty for it, I guess?” She seemed confused and helpless. “I can’t go higher. I’ll have to cover my costs for geckos tonight in order to have fresh-grilled supply for tomorrow. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he held out his hand. She dropped the coins in it.

“I mean it, Jun. I’ll have to sell your shack to someone else like– today. You’ll have nowhere to stay.” Yujin looked sad.

Jun was exploding with excitement. He held Blub tightly, and began to backpedal and race out of the clearing. “Don’t worry! It’ll all work out! I promise!”

He took off running through the maze of the market, and didn’t even notice when he nearly ran into the colossal knee of Golanus the Eternal.

***

Jun ran west toward the Library, bypassing the outskirts of the so-called District of Death, where a growing ring of adjacent buildings was slowly succumbing to the mold and fester from the House of Death. The spires of the Library grew taller and taller, and Jun saw the plaza outside was filled with hopefuls like himself.

They formed a long line, snaking back and forth over the sun-baked tiles. Jun leapt into position, and others soon lined up behind him. He’d sat outside the Library many times before, studying the Champions as they walked out of its tall doors. The Library was an ornate structure, towers upon towers, turrets and garrets intersecting in an impossible architecture, and painted with strange runes and protective alchemical symbols.

Jun scanned the crowd for faces that he knew. A few well-known Maestros with proven track records, like Rogelio Roha, and Myvonigan; up and comers with enthusiasm and lots of coin to spend, like Kaye and Zestiria.

Myvonigan seemed unconcerned with the line. He walked up and down, talking to the Maestros as he went. When he happened on Jun, he stopped and stared in silent critique. Jun became acutely aware of his hard-scrabble appearance. Torn tunic, old sumpter-hair sweater, clutching Blub to his chest. Myvonigan scoffed: “You going to trade them for a cramster?” Jun bit his tongue, and Myvonigan moved on.

A few scurrilous con-men approached the crowd in faux purple robes, claiming to be representatives of the Library of the Arcane. They offered “certificates of ownership” for the Champions inside, as an early offering to select Maestros. They were soon chased off by the fearsome House guard Knitl, who warned the crowd about frauds trying to take advantage.

As the sun set over the Gate of Fools, the tall doors creaked open, and a cadre of priests processed out. They all wore the ornate birreta hats of the Library, and the golden eyeglasses denoting their status as magical scholars. Finally, the High Priest walked out in his glorious violet robes, and unfurled a scroll. He conjured a rune in mid-air, and swallowed it. When he spoke, his voice boomed across the plaza.

“Greetings, mighty Maestros and hopeful heroes. The Library of the Arcane celebrates your solicitude. We are proud to offer a limited draft of Champions tonight. All imbued previous to the Emperor’s unfair ban…”

Here he stopped and looked over his eyeglasses for effect, as he gazed slowly around the crowd, who laughed nervously.

“Previous to the Emperor’s unfair ban– which qualifies them for your consideration. Each Champion has served their time here; studying and growing in power and value. And each has indicated his or her readiness to enter into a fruitful contract with you. May You Find Eternal Glory in the Circle of Death. Congratulations, and may the draft begin.”

The Maestros began to shuffle in excitement and anticipation. Jun knew that, inside the house, the Champions would begin to feel the soul energy of the gathered humans outside: their anima as it was called. Champions needed imbuement of an Essence to gift them with a Titan element. This gave them mystical power. But a Champion who possessed Essence without anima was at risk of being pulled toward the dimension of the netherworld.

A bond of anima, which only a human could provide, gave them strength and hope, kept them tethered to reality, and spiritually fulfilled. They needed anima, and fed off the energies of the crowds in the arena, but true bonds were formed with their Maestro. Jun could not wait to feel the bonding of his own anima with some worthy, brave Champion.

The draft proceeded quickly. Each Maestros called out his pick, as the line moved along toward the High Priest. Each Maestro’s name was read from the list, and assigned to a Champion, who was brought out with great ceremony. The magical Essence of the Arcane hummed in the air all around them; and as each pair met and negotiated their partnership, a cheer went up.

Jun counted his coins and worried. Most drafts were followed by an “open slot”, reserved for someone either devoted or lucky. He knew he must bide his time and wait for an opportunity.

Voices rose in anger near the front of the line. Maestro Myvonigan railed against the priests. “Why won’t you sell to me? I’m a Maestro of long-standing reputation!”

“Indeed,” sneered the High Priest. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Yet you would turn me away? I require an Arcane fighter to round out my stable! My Champions have brought great honor to every House they represent.”

“It is not your Champions, but you who bring dishonor.”

Myvonigan coughed in disbelief. “I am close and personal friends with Emperor Giotto himself!”

“Your close and personal friend shows no friendship to us.” The High Priest scowled. “Begone, Myvonigan. There is no sale to you this day. Not so long as you lick his boots.”

The crowd of Maestros winced. They didn’t much like Myvonigan anyway. He tended to farm out his Maestro duties to other men, and never cared to mingle at the usual watering holes. Humiliated, Myvonigan turned away and stalked off to watch the rest of the draft from afar.

The sunset turned into evening, and the lights in the towers and turrets of the Library began to glow, as scholars and magicians toiled away in deep thought over dense tomes. The last of the list was read, and another wave of anticipation washed over the hopefuls. Kaye gave Jun a thumbs-up, and Zestitira looked confident and unworried. The High Priest stepped forward again.

“Scholars and Maestros, gathered hopefuls, now we offer our last champion. In the spirit of charity and benevolence, and to honor the god of Luck and Chance, we will once again cast The Diamondstar Halo to choose a worthy soul from among this esteemed group. Whoever the Halo chooses will be afforded the chance at our last available Champion. We hope that afterwards the rest of you will join us inside for a reception and enjoy the Library’s finest hospitality. Another day will come and more Champions will be readied.” He smiled lightly. “As it has been and always will be.”

Then the High Priest bowed deeply to the crowd, who bowed in return. “And now!” he shouted. “The Diamondstar Halo!”

He waved his hand in a large arc, and summoned a ring of bright blue, illuminated words of arcana spinning in a circle and topped with sparkling white diamonds. “Go forth,” he commanded it. “And find the most worthy!” He clapped his aged hands, and the Halo winked out.

All the hopefuls glanced around, wondering where it would next appear. Jun glanced over at Kaye, and Zestiria, Capo and the notorious Dewlithius. He looked back at Myvonigan, hoping the embittered old Maestro wouldn’t somehow get the Halo. But it did not appear. Where was it?

One by one, the faces in the crowd turned to gaze at him. Jun turned– was it someone behind him? Who? But the faces there also stared in amazement. Finally, he turned his chin upwards, and above him, he saw it. The glowing halo, circling his head slowly.

The air crackled. Blub chirped in excitement. Jun felt his knees go a little weak, and then he pulled himself together, and raised his hands to catch the Halo. The mystical diamonds twinkled and stuck to his hands, as he pulled it to his chest, and felt it flare and then melt into him.

The High Priest grinned. “We have our worthy winner!”

The next few moments were a blur, as the crowd clapped and pushed him forward toward the priests. The Librarians rolled out the contract scroll along their long desk, and Jun choked as he saw the coin that this last Champion commanded. For an Eternal — the price was cheap enough, but for him, still a fortune. He emptied out his bags, and pockets, as the accounting-priest tallied the sum.

The priest frowned. “Not quite enough here. You’re short.”

“It’s all I’ve got. Please,” begged Jun.

“We’ll be forced to give your slot to someone else,” the priest said apologetically. “Unless you have something else to offer.”

Jun looked down into his satchel. There, gazing up at him, was Blub. A trained cramster could fetch up to a hundred coins in the right circles. Jun imagined walking away, empty-handed, after all these years of trying and failing. Here was the opportunity he had been praying for.

He gently lifted Blub out of the satchel. “He’s high-quality,” he said softly. “A good boy. A winner every time.”

The accounting-priest peered at the cramster. “I had one when I was young. Fancied myself a trainer.” He took hold of Blub and gently examined him. The priest scratched his stomach, and Blub burbled contentedly. “We can offer you a one hundred coin credit.”

Jun nodded, and swallowed hard. “He never let me down.”

The accounting-priest signed the document and signalled the deal had been struck. Then he took Blub with him, into the Library. Jun watched them go, and barely noticed that the final Champion was being led out into the plaza to meet him.

At first Jun heard laughter. He thought Blub might have done something humorous– the cramster was a natural comedian. But then he looked around and realized the laughter was directed at the Champion. Jun’s breath stopped as he took in the sight.

The most raggedy ancient Fenrir he had ever seen stood before him. Patches of gray fur and skin intermingled. The creature’s right eye was missing, and the socket was covered with a simple leather strap. Its arms and legs were skinny and apathetic. The Fenrir looked at Jun, out of its one good eye. It lowered its head in shame. The Fenrir were a proud race, and this one knew he had no claim to their glory. The only sign of life in him was the purple Arcane Essence which swirled violently in his chest.

“I am Fidelis,” he said, to the ground. “I accept your contract.” He did not look at Jun.

Jun found himself at a loss. He had expected a strong young Challenger. This one, though Eternal, was clearly damaged goods. He glanced at the High Priest, who met his gaze, and anticipated his thoughts.

“It is said that the most dangerous spark may spring from cold ashes,” said the Priest.

Jun swallowed his disappointment, and rallied himself. This was his Champion. He had won it, against all odds. The Halo had chosen him. He cleared his throat and said the traditional words of the partnership contract: “I am proud to accept this Champion, and enter freely into our partnership.”

The Fenrir still did not look up. “I am proud to accept this Maestro and enter freely into our partnership,” he murmured.

The other Maestros all burst out laughing. Myvonigan sat leering at them.

The High Priest drew his hand across his chest. “Then May You Find Eternal Glory in the Circle of Death.”

Jun and Fidelis then began the long walk down the stairs to the plaza, and out into the street. Fidelis barely looked around, though his nose was taking in the odors of the crowd. Jun held his head high, despite the snickers of those in the crowd.

As they left the plaza, he turned and gathered his courage. He grabbed Fidelis’ wrist and raised their arms high. “I’ll see you all in the Colosseum,” cried Jun. “For today I am a Maestro, and tomorrow– your Champions may be speared on his sword!”

Part 2 - Faith

It started as a breeze across the waters of the Oceans of Abyssia. The breeze became a gale, which strengthened into a storm as it sailed east toward the capital. By the time it crossed over the coast, and crashed into the mountains of Volcanus, it became a winter downpour, slashing cold rain down on Massina City. In the harbor, the priests of the Bridge of Water gathered to be soaked in their deity’s bracing blessing. But in a filthy alcove near the Colosseum, Jun and Fidelis huddled together, just trying to stay dry.

Fidelis

The rain drove all evening. At around midnight, Fidelis let forth a mournful howl, which echoed down the street and across the tops of the buildings. Jun didn’t know what to say. There was no place for them in the Market Bazaar. Jun had sold everything to pay for the contract, even his shack. What little he had left, he needed for tomorrow. “Something will work out, I promise,” he said.

Above them the houses of wealthy Maestros rose into the darkness. Large enclosed gardens, ornate gates and fences, towers and monuments marked the homes of the most successful. They owned much of the real estate in this quarter, and made use of it in novel ways. Jun thought he could hear the faint clanging of forges late into the night, crafting custom-gear for the Champions who lived in these mansions. Most were very well taken-care of. And all were… dry, at least.

Fidelis still had not spoken, besides the few words he uttered in acceptance of their partnership. His fur ran thick with rivulets of ice-cold water, and his ears drooped. Finally he put his head into the crook of his arm and fell asleep.

Jun wondered what had happened to the Fenrir, before he became imbued. The scars, the missing eye. This wasn’t what he had expected of a powerful Eternal Champion. But tomorrow he intended to fix that.

When daylight broke, Jun took them toward the Training Quarter. Along the route, his light fingers lifted a roll of bread, some fruit and a wheel of cheese from a basket left on the doorstep of one of the mansions. Fidelis seemed to brighten when Jun offered him the meal.

The cheapest fight school Jun knew of was called the House of Massina. Any gladiator wishing to learn the basics could train there for a few coins. The gym was popular, especially with new-comers, but Maestros liked to stop by and scout for new talent. The walls were layered in old motivational posters. The acronym RPWS was stenciled everywhere: Respect: Power, Work, Silence.

Jun stood in the open hallway, dust and talc coating the stone floor, absolutely entranced by the trophy hanging there. Inside a glass case hung a pair of fighting gloves, coated in tiny sparkling jewels. Diamondhand Gloves.

The proprietor of the school was a Karkadon, shorter than most, with an unusual black mohawk. He had the face of a pugilist, but the big grin of someone who loved to teach and talk. He nodded in the direction of Jun’s attention.

“Don’t tell anyone, but see those right there?” He lowered his voice to a whisper and poked his finger at the shiny gloves. “Fakes. I keep the real ones locked up. You never know with this clientele.” He laughed.

Jun gaped in amazement. “How… how did you get them?”

The Karkadon shrugged. “Gotta earn ‘em.” Then he beckoned Jun and Fidelis into the ring.

“The name is Jhani,” he said. “I like a good fight, and a good cigar. Sometimes both at once.” He stuck a cigar in his mouth and clapped his hands with talc. “Let’s see what you got, Fido.” The derogatory term for Fenrir was common, and more diminutive than offensive, but Fidelis didn’t react either way.

He slowly climbed into the ring, and Jhani looked him up and down. The heavy scars seemed to weigh him like chains, and his missing eye looked especially gruesome in the filtered morning sunlight. “Damn,” said the Karkadon. “You seen some shit, warrior.” Then, glancing at the Fenrir’s bandaged eye, he added: “No offense.”

Jhani began to shuffle around, his dancing footwork surprisingly agile for his size. Fidelis stood stock still. The Karkadon threw one punch, then another, to no reaction. Punch after punch– jabs, hooks, uppercuts– and Fidelis took them all. “Defend yourself, at least,” called the teacher.

Fidelis half-heartedly put his hands up, but Jhani jabbed at his ribs. When the Fenrir backed into the corner, Jhani stopped throwing punches. He scowled. “C’mon, Fido, I know you didn’t make it a thousand years by rolling over like this. You got nothin’ to show me?”

Jhani

Jhani threw a few more punches, which Fidelis ignored, and then shrugged and took the cigar out of his mouth. He cocked his head at the Fenrir, assessing him in confusion. Then he walked over to Jun.

“He won’t, uh, fight me, per se,” he said. “Which may present a problem, you know– him being a gladiator and all.”

“He can’t fight?” Jun felt a cold chill take hold. All that work, all the coin, for nothing.

“Oh no,” the trainer chuckled. “He can fight. He sure as shit can fight. He just won’t.”

What did that mean? What kind of Champion wouldn’t fight? Jun puzzled at his new partner. What kind of game was Fidelis playing? Was he unhappy? Was Jun not good enough?

A shadow fell across the doorway, and the Fenrir turned around to glare at the man walking into the gym. It was Myvonigan, the Maestro, dressed in a luxurious embroidered jacket. He carried something draped over his arm — purple, the color of Fidelis’ Arcane Essence.

“Fidelis, I come to see how you’re faring on your first day,” Myvonigan called out cheerfully.

The Karkadon grimaced, but he let Myvonigan pass. The old trainer leaned in to Jun. “Keep your eye on this prick.”

Myvonigan and Fidelis stared at each other quietly. The rich Maestro spoke first. “You look like you slept in the rain all night, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Fidelis grunted.

“A star of your caliber deserves better accommodation. You know that I have many, many rooms in my barracks. Just a few blocks that way.”

“We’re not interested,” said Jun.

Myvonigan ignored him. He spoke again to Fidelis. “You’re wasting your time in a place like this. The strength inside of you is … why, I can hardly put it into words. Fidelis, you have the potential to rise to the uppermost tiers of the Champions. To live a life of luxury. Your every need taken care of.”

Jun stood by, feeling helpless. His clothes were still damp from the night before, and here Myvonigan stood in his immaculate finery. “He’s fine,” he said. “We’re good.”

Myvonigan held out the purple parcel, a silken bundle, which he let roll open to reveal a training robe. FIDELIS was written in Arcane lettering across the back. The magic-imbued lettering floated just above the surface of the satin cloth, and glittered like tiny diamonds. Fidelis’ good eye drank it in.

“I can make you a star,” said Myvonigan. “You deserve a better life.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Jun blurted out.

“Alright, back to work!” The Karkadon clapped his meaty hands. “Maestro Myvonigan, always a pleasure. But now, with due respect, piss the fuck off. Me and the Fenrir got work to do.”

Myvonigan bowed. He left the robe draped on the ropes, and turned to go. On his way, he locked eyes with Jun. There was no shame there, Jun thought. No guilt, no hesitation. Like a viscari hunting a sheep.

Jhani sighed, and climbed in the ring. He held up a chunk of beef he’d fished out of his stew. “Tell you what, boy: if you hit my hand, I’ll give you this little treat.”

Fidelis snarled a smile, and threw a hard punch, knocking the trainer back a few steps.

“Alright, kid.” He tossed the meat into the air, and Fidelis snapped it up. “Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”

****

After a few days of sleeping here and there, mostly in the charity hall of the House of Light, Jun managed to log Fidelis in a match. There were a number of smaller arenas, on the outskirts of Massina City, for less prominent Champions. They mostly specialized in “exhibition” type matches– fights with strange rules, or obstacles. Even fights against wild beasts, drafted by cruel owners looking for crowd-pleasing blood-spectacles. Though many were unsavory, Jun’s extensive study of the city had taught him which ones could be trusted.

Fidelis entered the Heavenly Arena, a once-glamorous Arena built two hundred years previous to feature Keymaster and Gatekeeper battles. It had fallen into some disrepair, and now looked more hellish than heavenly. The sand was mostly gravel, and the walls were pitted with spear points and blotches of red and black blood. Along the top of the arena was a faded painting of soaring Keymasters on mythic wings, defending Massina. The training rooms had collapsed, and so Jun and Fidelis were forced to prep outside, with crowds walking by. He wrapped the Fenrir’s hands, and then they chose from the array of weapons available to the Challenger tier.

Fidelis took a scimitar, with rusty hilt. The blade was sharp enough, though.

“Be sure you don’t walk off with that,” the battlemaster Ddioria warned. She was a Vitra, with one hand, and few teeth left.

Jun coached him. “Fidelis, this is a maze match. It’s not like regular combat. You ever seen one before?”

The Fenrir shook his head, sniffing the air, distracted.

“Listen to me. You’re gonna enter the labyrinth at one end, and your opponent is gonna come in the other side somewhere. You won’t be able to see each other. But the audience will. You’re gonna hear the crowd trying to mess with you. Don’t listen to them.”

Jun continued wrapping the Fenrir’s arms with thick gauze. Not meant to protect– they didn’t have the money for armor– but to soak up any blood, and keep it from dripping onto his hands. His grip on his sword would be crucial.

“The other thing is,” he continued. “The battlemaster will have dropped stuff all over the maze. You’ll see weapons and bags of coin, that kind of thing. But be careful. It’s not always a good idea to grab it.”

They heard the horns blare to announce the match, and Jun gave Fidelis a grim smile. “You’re gonna do great, I promise.”

The Vitra took Fidelis to the field, and Jun bounded up the stairs into the seats, and joined the crowd, already on their feet as Fidelis entered the arena. But the audience was full of drunks and lowlifes, and they jeered at him. Jun clapped all the harder.

In the center of the arena, the battlemaster had constructed a maze of wood and stone. The walls were ten feet high, so the fighters could not see one another, but the assembled crowd in the stands could. Jun spotted Fidelis’ opponent at the other end of the labyrinth: a fearsome-looking Sadaari warrior. A familiar one, too, he realized. This was the Champion who, a few days back, defeated the mighty Krashkuz at the Colosseum Eternal. Not good, he thought.

The horn blared a signal to start, and the fighters entered the maze. As was usual, the audience began shouting directions. Most were incorrect, meant to taunt the fighters, but some were true. Jun cupped his hands and yelled at Fidelis as loud as he could. “LEFT! LEFT!” But the voices of the other fans drowned him out. Fidelis turned right and headed unaware toward a dead-end, festooned with spikes.

From tunnels in the flanks of the arena emerged four myrmidons: arena workers tasked with making sure the games ran smoothly. They ran to separate areas of the outside wall of the maze, and took up positions there.

As Fidelis rounded a corner and saw the spiked dead-end, he paused in frustration. “NO!” Jun shouted again. “Get out of there! RUN!”

One of the myrmidons triggered a massive iron spring, which launched the wall at Fidelis, sending the Fenrir backpedaling for his life. He rolled out of the way just as the spikes slammed into the far wall, sealing off that route. Fidelis panted heavily. The crowd roared in approval. Fidelis rose to his feet.

Across the maze, Jun saw the Sadaari clock the noise of the spike wall, and she turned and made her way toward it. As she entered a long corridor, one of the myrmidons triggered a tumbling ball of flaming pitch to roll toward her. The Sadaari stopped, gauging the distance, and as the fireball raged toward her, she leapt over it, and landed safely on the other side. The crowd, for the first time, applauded.

Fidelis was having less luck. He was clearly hopelessly lost, retracing his steps over and over, and becoming visibly angry. The crowd picked up on this. Jun heard, to his chagrin, a chant rising up. “Fi-do, Fi-do,” they sang. “Fi-do, Fi-do.”

The Sadaari unknowingly closed in on Fidelis, every turn bringing them closer together, despite Jun yelling himself hoarse. The Fenrir had at least avoided the booby-trapped coin bags and weapons caches, but his scimitar would be no match for her spear.

They both turned two more corners, and suddenly were face to face in a large clearing in the middle of the labyrinth. Jun’s fingernails were dug into his knees. The chanting subsided, and the arena became quiet, waiting on the fighters’ next move.

Fidelis began again to sniff the air and pant, almost manically. The Sadaari, too, was still, not moving. She seemed perplexed– not by the encounter, but by something else entirely. They stared at each other, the moment hanging in the air, like a hovering hawk before the fatal dive. But the attack never came.

The Fenrir began to move backwards, but she did not pursue him. The Sadaari shifted her spear, away from a fighting stance, and stood it upright in the sand. And then, Fidelis dropped his scimitar, and ran.

The crowd erupted again. “Fi-do! Fi-do!” they called, in hysterical ridicule. Fidelis launched himself up the walls of the labyrinth, and his powerful claws and arms caught hold. He pulled himself over the wall, and hit the open sand, and began to run toward the fighter’s portal. Jun saw the old Vitra move to intercept him, but she merely gestured toward the maze and then threw her hands up in disgust, as he passed her by. He disappeared into the depths of the stadium.

Jun scrambled down from the bleachers to find Fidelis. When he skidded into the tunnel, the old Vitra cursed him out. “Get control of your Champion, you amateur.”

“Like you’ve never seen a fighter run before,” Jun said, defending his partner. “Give him a break.”

“Bah.” Ddioria hobbled toward the arena again. She called out over her shoulder. “Just get him, and get the hell out of my arena.”

“Wait,” Jun demanded. “Who was that? Who was that other fighter?”

“Sadaari.” The Vitra spit in the ground. “Its name is Ilona.”

Jun headed off into the darker ruined tunnels to find Fidelis. The old barracks offered little in the way of comfort now. Mostly stone, furred with moss and slick floors of algae, where water dripped constantly. The Heavenly Arena stunk of decay. Jun heard a rustle, and followed a small stairway down.

There, in an old chapel, huddled Fidelis. He looked like a child. A bit of sunlight streamed in through a crack in the ceiling, and Jun could make out the altar, and the idols and statues left behind.

Jun’s brain was exploding with questions and condemnations. He felt a rage, and then shame as he looked at the frightened Champion. Imagine being so powerful, and yet so afraid.

“What happened?” Jun asked, as gently as he could.

“Alone,” said the Fenrir. “Alone, alone.”

“You’re not alone,” said Jun. “I’m here.” His voice sounded small in the echoey chamber.

Fidelis didn’t reply.

“You got spooked,” explained Jun. “I’ve seen it before. Happens to lots of fighters.” Then he waited a breath. “Was there something about that Sadaari? Ilona?”

Fidelis stood, suddenly, clattering the old tiles, and sending Jun sprawling back. “I don’t want to talk.”

He brushed past Jun, and headed up the stairs. Jun watched him go, and turned to follow him. As he left the chapel, he glanced at the peeling fresco. A landscape of Massina, with heroic events depicted here and there. The fabled City of the Moon, with a long line of sorrowful Fenrir, painted in miniature, on their exodus to Massina City.

Jun looked up: filling the entire dome of the ceiling was a painting of the Moon.

***

Ilona stalked back to her quarters, the humiliation of an arena forfeit blunted by the confusion of her opponent. She had known him. But who was he?

Her memories were locked in amber, piled underground by a thousand years of sediment that she had placed there. A burial of the dead. And now the dead were rising again. She touched her corpse-like skin. It seemed fitting, somehow.

The wolf was there, at the City of the Moon, she was more sure of it with every step. The grinning Whisperer. The knife. The howls and bellows of the Fenrir as she broke their city echoed in her mind.

If this warrior had found his way through the maze of time, only to encounter her here and now, it must mean something. It was not a coincidence.

The last time she had ignored a warning, the consequences had been devastating. She would not ignore the small voice now. She turned and headed toward the Market Bazaar, to find the girl, the young rebel who had brought promises and a strange proposal. Ilona would find her, and discover what awaited.

***

That night, Jun and Fidelis bedded down in a temporary shack behind Yujin’s store. While Fidelis went to the House of the Arcane for daily worship, Jun wondered seriously about breaking his contract. Was the Champion a dud? Could that be possible? The Karkadon trainer had been impressed with him, but why?

Myvonigan had sent another message– to Jun this time. He offered a substantial amount for Jun to cancel the Fenrir’s contract. He is damaged goods, said the note. You know this now. Start again, fresh. You deserve better. Jun crumpled the note and threw it into their small clay oven. He thought he saw Myvonigan’s face leering out of the flames.

There was a soft knock at the door, which was really just a piece of rotting wood. Jun slid it aside, and leaned it against an old wine barrel. Outside stood a priestess of the Arcane, her gown a resplendent aubergine.

Jun thought immediately of Fidelis. “Is everything alright? Did something happen at the Library?”

“Everything is fine,” the priestess said. She was calm and pleasant. “Care to take a walk along the river?”

They walked in silence, to the promenade at the edge of the Hushed River. The water glinted beautifully with the setting sun, but Jun was all too aware that the river was also a dumping ground for criminals and discarded bodies. The River was “Hushed” because it kept its silence, the saying went.

“As a Diamondstar, it can be difficult to maintain the standard of care required for a Champion,” began the priestess. “And as a Diamondstar, it is with no shame that one may offer a Champion back to the Temple, in return for payment.”

“Is that what he wants?”

“I am here to find out your wishes,” she said enigmatically.

Jun considered this as they walked. “Priestess, what troubles him so much? What’s wrong?”

“Would you believe me if I told you he was the strongest warrior of his generation a long time ago?” The priestess gazed into the river.

“And what about now?” Jun asked.

The priestess shrugged. “I come to you to offer coin, if you wish to negate the contract, and back out of your agreement. You need no longer support Fidelis as your Champion, if you wish.” She held out a shimmering purse of gold ingots.

Jun couldn’t erase the image of Fidelis fleeing the Sadaari, and the crowd jeering at him. Jeering at them. But neither could he erase the image of his new friend, huddled in the chapel. Something was deeply wrong.

Jun lowered his head in resignation. “No,” he said. “No, we’re sticking together. No matter what.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Very well,” said the priestess. Then she tossed the purse into the River.

“Wait! What?!” Jun gasped. The bag quickly sunk into the wine-dark depths.

The priestess smiled. “Go get it if you want, but something far more valuable than coin awaits you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you know what Fidelis means?” she asked. Jun shook his head. “It means faith. We gave him that name when he first came to us. We had a feeling that faith would play a very important role in his resuscitation.”

“Where did he come from? What’s his real name?” Jun pleaded with her. So much depended on this.

“That story has no value unless it comes from him.” She bowed. “Now, for the real reason of my visit. Because you have opted to remain with Fidelis, the Library of the Arcane now wishes to reward your faithfulness. The Librarians are aware that your commitment has not been easy. But as they say: Those who hold on tight will find in their hands a great reward.”

Jun’s head was spinning. He’d just watched a fortune in Emperor’s ingot go spilling into the mud of the river. “What are you talking about?”

The priestess smiled at his confusion. “Go to the Ministry of Bone. Seek out the Bonesmith, and ask her for your gift. May it help you on your journey.”

Jun stammered a thank you, The priestess bowed, and began to leave. “Wait,” he called out. “What will happen to him? Will he… heal? Someday? Ever? Can you at least tell me that?”

“That,” she said. “is for you to tell.”

****

Fidelis munched on a geckoid on a stick as they walked the Hero’s Mile toward the Ministry of Bone. “Why must we visit this place of death?”

The grinning green skull floating over the Ministry seemed to smile just at them, as they passed underneath and into its gothic stone hallways.

“We’ve been given a gift of some sort,” said Jun.

“Why,” grunted Fidelis. “By whom?”

“The Arcane,” muttered Jun. He didn’t like the Ministry, not since his very first night in Massina. “I told you. C’mon, we need to find the Bonesmith.”

Fidelis dropped his geckoid.

Jun was perplexed. “Not hungry?”

Fidelis sneered, showing his teeth. “Something is not right in this place. Something foul is here.”

Jun looked around. The stone floors were affixed with large drains to accommodate the constant run-off of blood and Essence. No windows allowed light inside, and the illumination therein was a ghastly green, supplied by the conjuring of the Osteomancer. Somewhere below them dwelled the Beast of the Necromancer, who -it was rumored- ingested dead bodies and shat out live ones.

Jun shivered. “Yeah, Fidelis. Everything is foul here.”

They followed the ringing clang of a hammer upon iron, and Jun knew they were getting close as the heat of the forge overwhelmed the clammy air of the Ministry. Drops of sweat sprung out of his forehead.

The Bonesmith worked in her shop, surrounded by towering brutes who moved the heavy bars of steel, iron and stone. She was much smaller than Jun had imagined, but her naked forearms were powerful and sinewy. She wore a bandage across her eyes– a result of a terrible forge accident when she was a child. Her fingers felt their way across the blade of a scimitar, much like the one Fidelis had chosen, but infinitely more elegant. She waved a vial of Essence across its length, and as the Essence drifted down like snow, she lifted her hammer and beat the fragile energy into the very soul of the sword.

Then, she paused, to wipe sweat from her hands. “What are you here for?” she said. Her voice was husky, like one who had breathed in the fire of the forge, dust of bone, and smoke of Essence all her life.

“This is the Champion of the House of the Arcane,” Jun said, awkwardly presenting Fidelis to the blind woman. “I am the Diamondstar. I was told by a priestess that there is a gift for us.”

Under her sweaty, greasy face, she smiled. “Indeed.” She clapped her hands twice. “The gauntlets.” One of the lumbering brutes ran off into the back to fetch the prize. When he returned, he laid a large leather package in the arms of the smith.

The Bonesmith unwrapped the leather skin, revealing two golden wrist gauntlets, wrought with runes. “These carry Arcane Essence. I spent many hours improving them. They should serve you well.”

Then she held out her hands and beckoned Fidelis forward. Jun and the Fenrir stood gobsmacked. Then Fidelis caught himself and moved toward her.

The Bonesmith fitted the gauntlets onto his wrists, adjusting them slightly for a perfect fit. “Good,” she said.

The Fenrir could not believe his eye. He stammered to say thanks, but no words came to his lips.

The Bonesmith spoke again. “You are an Eternal, aren’t’ you?”

“Yes,” gulped Fidelis. He licked his nose anxiously.

She held her hands up to his face. “Do you mind if I …?”

Awkwardly, he grunted yes again. The Bonesmith touched his face and his wounded eye, her thick fingers surprisingly gentle. She left dots of ash and iron on his shoulders as she felt his scars. Then she took his hands and held them, weighed them, felt his claws. She smiled and stepped back.

At her anvil, she took up her hammer again, and felt along the edge of the scimitar. Jun saw a burr in the blade, and she went to work polishing it out.

“A weapon is only as good as the one who takes care of it,” she said. “And ancient weapons often carry ancient wounds.”

“Thank you,” said Jun. “I don’t know how to thank you, but thank you.”

Fidelis sniffed the air, then scowled again, cutting him short. “Jun. We should leave this place. Now.”

****

Ilona followed the young rebel girl, Yujin, into the depths of the Ministry. She did not enjoy visiting the place, the site of so much alchemy and memory, combined in sometimes disturbing ways. They descended down several staircases, until they were well-below ground level.

Ilona felt the heat of a nearby forge on her desiccated skin, and heard the rhythmic beating of metal being transformed into death.

The girl stopped at the entrance of a laboratory. Inside was dark, lit only by the dim substances in huge vats and tanks. A man worked in the back. “Doctor, I have brought the Sadaari.”

The man turned around. His face was hidden behind a ceramic mask. He bowed and approached them. “Come inside. I am Doctor Prometheus. We have much to discuss.”

Prometheus! Ilona knew him by reputation. The Maestros all spoke of him in hushed reverent tones. For eons, the Houses and their Alchemists had held tight the reins of imbuement and controlled the creation of Champions. But Prometheus had stolen their secrets. He had perfected a new technique, an unholy mix of alchemy and science. They called it by many names: bioengineering, breeding, soulforging. But no matter the name, it was a silent revolution. Alchemists had competition. Maestros could now create their own Champions.

Ilona passed several glass tanks where Champions hung suspended in green amber. Whether dead or alive — or some cursed state in between, she could not tell. The doctor led them past several tables with knives, copper wires, and alchemical tomes lying next to one another. At last they stopped, deep in the lab, next to a table where a massive Grondal lay quiet. Ilona could sense its heart had stopped beating. It drew no breath.

“This one was brought to me after an altercation between two gamblers,” he said. “He perished last week.”

Ilona felt a strange kinship with the dead creature. Her own body was less than alive, but refused to die. Her skin was like his — mottled with death and decay. But her spirit remained strong. “I know what a dead Grondal looks like. I have seen many.”

“Good,” said Prometheus. “Then this will be all the more impressive.”

He shoved a cloudy tube into the Grondal’s nose, and attached several wires into its torso. Then he poured a vaporous concoction into the tubes. The Grondal snorted. Its eye opened, and its chest heaved with new ragged gasps. The Grondal’s arms and legs were restrained, but it was alive. Ilona stepped back in concern and confusion.

“I can bring them back now, Ilona,” said the Doctor.

“How do you know me?” She began to feel cornered. Yujin, the rebel girl, stood nearby, unsure and unsteady.

“I can bring them back, and I will bring them back,” he said. His voice deepened. “I know you have lost one.”

“What do you know?”

“His name was Adrian. He was young. Too young.” The Doctor’s mask was impassive. No expression.

Ilona’s dead heart raced. “What do you know about Adrian?”

“You’ve seen what I can do here. I can do this for you, too. For him. And bring you back together. As it should have been.”

“Why,” Ilona’s hopes fell. Suspicion clouded over the love in her heart, hearing his name again. “Why? What do you want from me?”

The Grondal struggled again, grunting and moaning. His arms clattered on the table under the restraints.

“I require your strength,” said Prometheus. “And the strength of your sisters. You must reunite the Sadaari warriors, and lead them into battle.”

“Lead the Sadaari? Against who?”

“The Emperor.” Prometheus let the name hang in the air. “The Emperor and the Imperial Palace. Rise against the Palace, and I shall bring Adrian back to you.”

“Why? What interest do you have in rebellion and revolution? You’re a scientist.”

Prometheus tugged at one of his gloves. “Their interests align with mine. On a very personal level.”

Ilona felt the pieces falling into place. Prometheus was allied with the rebels somehow. The rebels needed an army. And the Sadaari would be that army. But an attack on the Imperial Palace would kill much more than the Emperor. The city would be dragged into a civil war. Thousands would die, at the hands of her sisters, and each other. And after betraying the peace, the Sadaari would never be welcome again.

“I cannot do what you ask. The cost would be too high,” she told the Doctor. “Thousands of innocent people would die.”

He shrugged. “But then you’d have your boy again.”

Ilona stared into the white depths of his mask. “I…”

The Grondal moaned again, trying to sit up. Prometheus pulled the tube out of its nose, and removed the wires. The creature fell quiet again, its heart ceasing to beat.

In the silence, they heard voices. Shouting. Accusations. Now screaming, and a physical altercation. Prometheus for the first time seemed uneasy. He barked at Yujin. “Go find out what’s happening.”

Ilona, sensing the spell around her was breaking, backed away from the Doctor, and hurried after the girl. Out of this dungeon, back to life, and the city. Away from the past…

****

Jun thought he saw something resembling happiness on Fidelis’ face as they left the Bonesmith. The gauntlets glinted in the green glow, and the Fenrir’s fur was fluffed in pride.

“See? I told you something good will happen, and something good did happen, Fido” Jun smiled, playfully. Then he looked serious. “Can I call you Fido?”

An avalanche of flesh in the form of two Il’gra fell in their way, the four heads grinning malevolently. Jun and Fidelis stopped short.

Behind them, came a familiar voice. “That’s them.” Jun spun around to see Myvonigan, approaching with a Whisperer bodyguard.

“Leave us alone, already,” Jun snapped. “The answer is no.”

“Take him,” Myvonigan snapped his fingers. The Il’gra stepped toward the Fenrir, but hesitated. An angry Fenrir was still enough threat to make even a two-headed ogre pause.

“He’s weak,” Myvonigan said in annoyance. “I told you he won’t fight back.”

“I said –Fuck off!” Jun hurled himself at the Maestro, but the Whisperer, seeing a moment into the future, was there first. He deftly threw Jun to the stone floor.

“Jun!”

For a moment, white light was all Jun could see. As his head cleared, he heard someone call his name. Not Fidelis. A woman. He looked up.

“Yujin?”

Fidelis erupted in a guttural roar as the Sadaari known as Ilona emerged alongside Yujin. The Il’gra made a grab for him, but the Fenrir swiped a ferocious claw across its face.

The Sadaari took off for the exit, as Yujin ran toward Jun. “Jun!”

The Whisperer leapt onto the Fenrir’s back, and as the Il’gra made another attempt to grab him, the wolf stumbled to the ground.

Myvonigan reached out and yanked Jun to his feet. “I gave you so many chances. I tried to play fair. I offered good money,” he growled. Then, in frustration, he shook Jun. “You didn’t fucking listen.”

Yujin grabbed the Maestro by his jacket collar, spinning him around. He swung at her, but she was savvy enough to back out of his range. He turned back in fury on Jun. “We’re going to harvest him RIGHT HERE.”

Myvonigan drew a long knife from his belt, and tossed it to the Whisperer, who plunged it into Fidelis’ chest. The Fenrir howled in pain, gripping the knife to stop it from carving out his Essence. And then a strange light filled his eyes. Fidelis let loose a bellowing roar that knocked the Il’gra over. The gauntlets vibrated and glowed intensely.

As the Il’gra tumbled onto the street, Fidelis’ jaws locked around the Whisperer’s throat. The two warriors rolled over the stones, blood flowing in rivers. Fidelis pinned the Whisperer against the gutter, and with a mighty twist of his shoulders, his massive jaws cleaved through the hellspawn’s neck and he flung the Whisperer’s head high into the air. It spun end over end, showering the passageway with spatters of red.

Myvonigan recoiled in terror, and threw Jun into Yujin. He began to run, and Fidelis, like a predatory beast, gave chase.

“Wait, no!” Jun called out.

Fidelis tackled Myvonigan, and bit at his face, latching onto his ear, which tore free like a zarkberry bush ripped from wet mud.

“Fidelis, no!” Jun screamed. “Stop!”

The Fenrir sat up suddenly. He shoved Myvonigan into the ground, and wiped the blood from his muzzle. “Shit,” he said.

He and Jun looked at the headless Whisperer, still pumping red liquid from his neck, into the gutter, like a spilled bottle of wine. The Il’gra were gone, moving surprisingly fast for their size. Myvonigan lay groaning.

“We need to get out of here, now,” said Yujin. “Before someone sees us.”

***

Jun, Fidelis and Yujin crept back through the Market Bazaar, darting among the busy bearers of fruits and vegetables, cured meats and vial-sized hits of Essence.

When they reached Yujin’s shed, Roland was already standing there, looking pleased with himself. “I brought dinner!” He held aloft a small bag.

“Technically” he began to prattle. “These are leftovers from the Senate, where every month, they treat us to a Feast of the Harbor. Today it was cooked harkkor; roasted right in their shells, the little bastards.”

Roland’s beaming smile faded when he saw the serious expression on Yujin’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Yujin beckoned them all into her shack. They told Roland about the attack in the Ministry, and what Fidelis had done.

“Myvonigan provoked us,” said Jun.

Roland frowned with worry. “Yes, but Fidelis is a Champion. He is not allowed to shed blood outside of the arena.”

“It was self-defense,” cried Jun.

“Yes, extenuating circumstances,” agreed Roland. “Nonetheless, the Inquisitors will be summoned. Historically, they take a dim view of ‘self-defense.’ Bloodshed is bloodshed– and the Inquisitors are not known for forgiveness or compassion.”

“What do we do?” Jun looked at Fidelis. Just an hour earlier, the wolf had been smiling. And now, he faced imprisonment in the Imperial dungeons… or worse.

“You need to run,” said Yujin. “Get out of the city. They won’t chase you beyond their jurisdiction…” Then she added, less certain. “I don’t think.”

Roland took a worried peek outside the shed. “The gates will be guarded by now.”

“So… what, then?” Jun considered the river. Could they float out to the Harbor? Catch a ship? Would they survive? There were things in the river much worse than a snapping harkkor.

Roland put his knuckle to his teeth. This was how he liked to fret. “There is a way,” he said.

Jun and Yujin sat forward. She smacked Roland’s knee. “Yeah? Out with it, bean pole.”

“Alright,” he said, with warning in his voice. “But if this gets out, I’m a dead man. There is a secret passage, used only by Senator Walavita. The Senator uses it to… um… visit their mistress on weekdays when Senate should be in session. The passageway runs all the way from the Senate, under the river, and out to the ruins of Dol. Once you get there, you’ll be outside the city limits. ”

“Thank you!” Jun jumped up and hugged Roland, who stumbled backwards and smiled sheepishly.

Roland continued. “If you can get somewhere and lie low, I’ll see if I can sort it out.”

Jun and Fidelis grabbed a few supplies from Yujin’s cache of food, and scouted ahead through the market. Roland handed her the remains of the harkkor dinner. “Some other time maybe,” he said, with a despairing sort of hopefulness in his voice.

“Roland,” she said. “Can you actually help them? You said it yourself: The Inquisitors aren’t going to care about the ‘extenuating circumstances.’ How are you planning to ‘sort it out’ exactly?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Something will work out, I promise.” He gave a faint smile.

Yujin made no comment, but merely rolled her eyes. “Okay, show me this secret passageway.”

“You mean, show us, right?” Roland laughed, puzzled.

“Whatever. Let’s get moving.”

Part 3 - The Waxing Moon

Jun and Fidelis descended into the long river valley, the Villebrew Mountains behind them, and the dry wind brought the tang of fertilizer and dust to Jun’s nose. It smelled like failure.

The plan had been to conquer Massina City, be the best Maestro, battle to the top of the bracket and see Fidelis installed as the newest statue atop the Colosseum Eternal pantheon. How was it, then, that he was slinking home, a criminal, exiled from his own city? Fidelis felt it too, though his face betrayed nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, and his furry muzzle shut tight.

At last, in the lowlands, they saw Jun’s childhood home: a desolate farm, consisting mostly of dried dirt. His family had long since lost the means to make much of the land. But it was remote, and Jun felt certain it was far out of reach or interest to the authorities who might be looking for them.

He sighed. “We’re here, such as it is.”

Fidelis sniffed the air. “Smells like the back end of a work-horse.”

“You got that right,” Jun gestured at the fields. “Sumpter dung. Acres of it.”

The windows were dark, and Jun wondered if his father was out somewhere getting drunk, or worse. It had been just him and the old man since he was a kid, and booze dominated his father’s life. There were many nights the old man wouldn’t come home, and days when he didn’t get up. Jun had set his sights firmly on a better life for himself; an attitude which didn’t exactly please his father.

They approached the dark, quiet front door. Jun told Fidelis: “You’d better wait outside, until I know what kind of mood he’s in.”

He made his way inside. It looked exactly the same as when he’d left. A small fireplace. Kitchen consisting of a clay oven. A table with two hand-made chairs, one of which -Jun’s- lay on its side, smashed. “Dad?” he called out. There were empty bottles of mash laying around. He stepped over them and made his way into the bedroom.

His father lay on the bed, surrounded by more bottles and trash. The old man obviously hadn’t been getting out much. There was also a cane nearby, leaning against the wall. That was new. And little vials of harkkor extract, lined up next to the mattress.

The old man stirred when Jun walked in. “Well, damn, if it ain’t Jun,” he said. “Come crawling back, little man?”

Jun flushed with anger. How is it his father could push his buttons so easily? Even after ten years. “No, I’m not crawling back.”

“Uh huh. You in trouble again?”

“No,” snapped Jun, then summoned his confidence. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Uh huh.” His father had a way of disapproving without even uttering a word.

Jun ignored that. “We just need a place to stay for a while.”

“Well…” His father looked around the empty room and derelict house. “It’s gonna be tough to squeeze you in, but I’ll check with the concierge to see if we have any vacancies.” He laughed, but he didn’t get up. “So. Who’s we?”

“Dad, I got someone with me. A Fenrir,” Jun said. Then he beckoned Fidelis inside. The Fenrir seemed giant inside the small house, ducking his head. His nose was twitching constantly, taking in all the new smells.

“A damn Fido, eh?” Jun’s father smiled.

“He’s a Champion,” Jun insisted. “A real fighter.”

“Is he now?”

Fidelis moved forward to bow his head. “I am Fidelis. Of clan Fenrir.”

“I’m Cort. Pleased to meet you, Fido.”

Jun rolled his eyes. “Don’t call him that.”

“Sure,” the old man said. Then he took in a long, ragged breath.

“What’s wrong?” Jun frowned. “You sick or something?” Besides the normal bitter sarcasm, something struck Jun as unusual about his father. The old man wasn’t even drunk– amazingly. And the room suggested something more serious than a hangover was happening.

“My heart gave out two years ago, Jun,” Cort grimaced. He pointed at the harkkor extract. “They got me on that stuff. But it makes me weak. I can’t do shit.”

“Your heart?” Jun sighed in frustration. “You didn’t say anything! Why didn’t you send for me?”

“Send for you?” His father laughed in a dry wheeze. “Boy, you lit out of here without so much as a goodbye. I didn’t know if you were alive, much less where the hell you ended up. And if I did– were you gonna come back? You and your new Champion buddy?”

“Well, I’m here now,” Jun countered.

“And I’m glad about that. Truth is, I’m too weak to run this farm. I need you, Jun.”

Jun laughed. Then he shook his head and started to leave the room. Then he laughed again. “You’re a real bastard, you know that.”

Cort frowned. “I’m not the one running away from something.”

“You know what? Go to hell, Dad. Yeah, I may be a screw-up but at least I’m not gonna end up like… like this.” Jun pointed at the bed and bottles in disgust.

“C’mon,” Jun grabbed Fidelis and escorted him back outside.

“You spoke to your father like you hated him,” said Fidelis, as he was being hustled through the house.

“Because I do,” growled Jun.

“Then why are we here?”

“I don’t know.”

***

The cold skies above Massina City grew dark, as the sun set behind the Volcanus ridge, and its shadow plunged the city into a chill. Yujin wrapped a scarf around her neck. It had belonged to Jun. She hoped he didn’t need it now, wherever he was. She hoped to give it back to him someday, either upon his return or when she found him.

She climbed the stairs toward the derelict ruins of the ancient House of the World. The columns and walls still suggested the porticos and grand halls; once busy, now silent. As she crept into the skeletal remains, she shivered a little. Probably just the night air– but some part of her could feel Gaia’s unsettled ghost.

“You feel it too, eh?” The man leaning against a column said.

Yujin felt her entire soul leave her body in fear and alarm, then return. And with it, an annoyed fury. “You scared the crap out of me!”

He smiled. The man wore a long black coat with a high collar, topped off by a smart mustache. But the coat was dusted with white flour, and underneath, Yujin could see a simple off-white uniform. Hyroe Godson was a baker, with a wife and small children.

He was also the leader of the small but potent rebellion. “I’m glad to see you alive, Yujin,” he said. “The last few days haven’t been pleasant.”

A Whisperer slipped into the ruins, and they both whirled around. “It’s just me,” he said.

“Root,” said Yujin, exhaling in relief. “They’re closing in on us. I can feel it. Like I’m only a few feet ahead of them. I can almost hear the Emperor’s boots right behind me.”

“That’s how he wants you to feel,” Hyroe laughed. “But turn it around. Perhaps every one of his steps brings him closer to your blade.”

He held out his hand. A rough piece of black cloth covered something; heavy and metallic as he put it into Yujin’s hand.

“Either way,” he continued. “We don’t have much time. We need to deliver our message. Tonight.”

She unwrapped the cloth. A knife lay in her palm. A simple knife, but etched in the blade were the words: The Resistance Is Here. “Where did you get this,” she marveled.

“I baked it,” he smiled.

“I’ve told you, there’s no way we can get close enough,” grimaced Root. “I’ve scouted all the potential routes. Gathered intel. And I’ve looked as far into the future as I dare. There’s just no way to get close to him.”

Yujin swallowed hard. “I know a way.”

Hyroe and Root looked at her in surprise. “You do? What way?”

“I know a passageway that leads through the Senate,” she said, remembering the route that Roland had shown them to help Jun and Fidelis escape. The route he had sworn them to secrecy about. If this gets out, I’ll lose my job, and maybe more, he had pleaded.

“And from the Senate, you can access the Imperial Palace, through the tunnel that Anishkira gave us.” The Whisperer bowed his head in respect.

“If I use it, I may end up betraying someone,” said Yujin. She knew the answer she would arrive at, but she wanted to hear herself say it out loud. “He might be punished for what I do.”

Hyroe frowned. “There’s no freedom without sacrifice if we want a better city, a better world. Anishkira gave his life for that idea.”

“I know.”

“It’s decided, then.” Hyroe gave her hand a firm squeeze. “Good luck, Yujin. The soul of Massina is in your hands. Handle it with great care and righteousness.”

***

As the days passed, Jun and Fidelis trained every day, in the dust and heat of the rundown farm. Jun did his best to convey the strategies and techniques he’d seen while studying the fights in the Colosseum. Fidelis began to improve, but his attacks were still lackluster. And he had the aspect of someone truly haunted.

“What is the point of this?” said Fidelis.

“I have to believe we will return someday,” replied Jun, though he knew the situation was likely hopeless.

Fidelis grunted, and returned to half-heartedly fending off Jun’s practice swings.

Jun also took care of his father, as best he could. The old man was still a bitter grump, with no version of “thanks” ever leaving his dry cracked lips. Fidelis saw Jun’s service, even in the face of total indifference.

One evening, after a long day of training, Jun set about to fix the sumpter wagon, so that it could be pulled for plowing. The components were old and rusty, and Jun’s hands were stung by the fuel spilled as he attempted his repairs. Finally, the converter case shattered into tiny pieces, and Jun could no longer contain himself. “I hate this place! I hate farmers! And I hate all of this stupid pathetic worthless countryside!”

His words echoed across the field. The moon was rising above the Villebrew mountains, fifty leagues distant. Jun collapsed on the ground next to the wagon, out of energy.

Fidelis came and sat next to him quietly.

“I’m sorry, Fidelis, I don’t know what I’m doing here,” said Jun. “I can’t help you. I can’t help my father. I can’t even fix a bloody wagon.”

They sat for a while in silence. Then Fidelis shrugged. “You’re a lot stronger than you think. Persistent.”

Jun cocked an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t abandon me, when you could have.”

“No,” laughed Jun. “You’re stuck with me, I guess.”

Fidelis stared up into the bright light of the Moon. “A very long time ago, before this farm, before Massina even really existed, there was a place called the City of the Moon. That was my home,” he said.

Jun tried to hide his surprise. This was more words than Fidelis had ever strung together.

“What happened there was…” Fidelis trailed off. “The history is well-known.”

Jun nodded. The Darulk army, augmented by Sadaari warriors, conquered and brutally subjugated the Fenrir, and the City of the Moon was razed to the ground. There were few survivors, and these mostly fled to Massina City, where they now lived in permanent exile. A people without a home.

“I was a soldier,” Fidelis continued. “And when I was captured, they interrogated me. They wanted to know…” He stopped again. “They wouldn’t stop until they knew. Where is the Alpha, they said. I tried to resist. I tried with all my willpower.”

Jun felt his heart beating like a tiny birdant. So this was what Fidelis had kept inside for so long.

“I was trained as a warrior, never to give in. I would have rather died. I begged for death. But they would not kill me. They did far worse,” said the Fenrir. “They broke me.”

“Is that what happened to your eye?” Jun said, his voice filled with emotion.

Fidelis nodded. “And this.” He pointed to the scars on his chest, his arms, his fingers. “But the wounds don’t really bother me. They’re just reminders.”

“I’ll never forget her face. The way she shattered me. When the Sadaari forced the secret out of me, she carved me away from the rest of my pack. I was alone.”

The Moon reflected brightly in Fidelis’ eyes. “No one heard my cries. No one came. No one answered.”

Jun put his hand on the Fenrir’s furred arm. “I’m not gonna let that happen again.”

“You don’t understand.” Fidelis turned to Jun. “I don’t know if I’m a fighter anymore.”

“No matter what you are, we’re in this together,” vowed Jun. “You and me. I promise that no matter what happens, you’ll never feel alone again.”

Fidelis nodded. And then the sound of wood-crickets creaked up through the brush, and they sat in silence, watching the Moon continue its climb into the sky.

***

“Get up, Jun,” Fidelis danced around at the edge of Jun’s mattress. “C’mon, get up! Let’s train!”

Jun groaned. “What time is it?”

“Time to train,” yipped Fidelis.

“Keep it down, Fido,” yelled the old man from his room. “It’s too damn early for your foolishness.”

Jun shook his head, and got up. Then they headed out into the early morning sun. The Fenrir had found a long pole, and was whipping it around like a spear. Jun practiced with an old fruit bag, and a pitchfork, approximating the trident and net.

Around mid-morning, they had worked up quite a sweat, and when they took a break, Jun noticed his father was out of bed, watching them. “Not much of a spear there, Fido” he said, jabbing his bony finger at Fidelis.

“Yeah, well. We forgot to bring our armory,” replied Jun, with a sarcasm drier than the fields of his farm.

“Gimme that stupid thing,” his father hobbled over to Fidelis and snatched the pole out of his hands. Then he trudged back behind the house, with no explanation. Jun rolled his eyes, and protested, but his father disappeared.

They rested for a while, eating the small acorns that fell from the tree, and dreaming of something better. Maybe even fresh zarkberries. Finally, Jun signaled a return to practice. He stood and motioned to Fidelis.

“Let’s practice feint-and-dodge,” said Jun, gesturing to a dry oak limb. “Use that branch or something.”

When Jun swung and hit Fidelis’ branch with his soft rope net, they heard a distinct clang.

Jun looked at the net in confusion. “Clang?”

Then they heard another clang. And another. Jun smelled a fire, and the acrid tang of metal in the air. Together, he and Fidelis ran to the back of the house, where his father had disappeared.

There, underneath a small shelter, his father was firing up an ancient forge. “Gimme that branch,” he ordered Fidelis, who obeyed. He chucked it into the oven, and worked the old bellows. An old spear-point, meant for hunting viscari, lay searing in the coals, and his father prodded it with a pair of rusty tongs.

“I learned how forge a long time ago,” he said. “In Massina City.”

Jun’s jaw dropped. His father stooped over the forge, arms thin, and skin sallow. But even still, he stood steady and sober. “I apprenticed for a bit,” said the old man. “Made a little money. Decided I was gonna be a Maestro. Yeah, I got my coin together, and bought the contract of a real Champion. An Aos. She and me — we were a good team. Had a few good fights. And then– we had a bad one.”

Then he transferred the spear point to a large flat stone. He eyeballed it, and then hit it with a hammer. Clang! “It was a mess. And somehow, my fault, or so I felt.”

“I got chicken,” the old man shrugged. “I guess I can admit that now. I didn’t have the stomach for it. It scared me… what happened. And so I left Massina, and never went back.”

He looked at Jun. “Sometimes I wish I had.”

Jun watched, speechless, as his father affixed the spear point to the end of the old pole. He gave it a spin, and eyeballed the fit. Then he handed it to Fidelis. “Try this.”

Fidelis bowed in deep gratitude. Then he rushed off, testing the spear with spins and kicks. Father and son were left alone. Jun simply stared at his Dad.

The old man smiled, ruefully. “I may have been a shitty Maestro, Jun, but I can still see the spirit of a fighter, even if he can’t.”

Jun shook his head. “I think it might be too late. Somebody broke him, a long time ago.”

“Hell, now that’s something I do know a thing or two about.”

Jun held his tongue. “I don’t know how to put the pieces back together.”

The old man doused the fire with dirt and sand. Then he hobbled over to Jun. “Maybe he needs to do what you did.”

“What’s that?”

“He needs to go home.”

***

In the center of the arena, Ilona stood, pelted by rain, and showered with blood. The Colosseum walls rose high around her. She yanked her curved scimitar backward through the Grondal’s skull, and felt the odd mixture of hot spatters of bone and tissue alongside icy sprinkles of Massina hail. She no longer cared if it rained, or the wind blew. She hadn’t felt such trivial sensations in ages. Not since–

Her thoughts strayed again, back through time again. She pictured herself as she had been before, her little boy before her. Their beautiful home had a walled garden once, a place of greenery and sunlight, where Adrian played. He brought her little insects, and told her the names of each species. He made them up, of course. “Shiny Soldiers” he called one hardy type, and “Fairy Flyers” were another.

Two Challengers heaved a net at her, and she deftly stepped aside, then leapt forward, hacking off the unarmored forearm of an unlucky Whisperer. He collapsed shrieking, as Ilona drifted onwards, barely noticing the storm of swords and spear-points she was parrying.

When she would return from battle or a trip to the city, Adrian was always the first one into her lap. “Mama,” he would say, his little hands tracing her face. “Tell me about your day.”

Adrian’s laugh filled up the house. And when he was gone– she never went back.

She never returned to know what happened to Giorgio, her husband, or Antonia, her daughter. After the curse, she couldn’t risk harming them. And, truth be told, she did not want them to see what she had become. What her lust for vengeance had made her. The house must have been so very quiet.

A chariot churned through the mud toward her, and Ilona squinted to see who had the reins. A fellow Sadaari. She turned her attention to the fleeing squad of Vitra, throwing a dagger from her hip to fell one, mid-stride.

But now, there was hope. Adrian could return. She imagined him, like a miracle, rising up out of some misty chamber in Prometheus’ lab, restored, and whole. Beaming, like he used to. Coming to her with open arms.

“Mama, what’s wrong with your face,” he would say. She could explain, now. The shame had died away. And she could control the bloodlust.

But then he would say: “Mama, tell me about your day.”

What would she say? What would she tell him? What had she done in her long, long cursed existence that would make Adrian proud?

I ripped the spirit out of a Fenrir once; made him beg for death and cry for his mother.

Had Adrian seen her do it? Was the ghost real?

The mud of the Colosseum was now filled with little pools of brown and red, as Ilona stabbed the thick neck of a bellowing Il’gra. One of the heads went limp, and lolled sideways.

She remembered that night so long ago, the feeling of vengeance and rage as she had sliced at the howling Fenrir, the Whisperer goading her on. “Tell me where the Alpha is! Tell me!”

And after that, the curse. The Sadaari succumbing to corruption of their souls, an insatiable bloodlust. The hundreds– no, thousands of lives she’d ended before she even realized that she was undying. She was powerful.

“Mama, did you use your powers to help people,” Adrian would ask helpfully.

No. No, she had hurt them. So many of them. The power made her so much worse. The wars, the raids, and then her unending fights in the Colosseum.

The Il’gra staggered away, pursuing a wounded Sadaari, now crawling from her up-ended chariot. It all looked so ridiculous now. Ilona gazed up into the bleachers. The crowd was no more than a handful, huddled under a thick awning. Gamblers and the most hardcore of fans. Would Adrian have ever sat in those seats and watched her do her bloodthirsty work?

Ilona knelt down in the mud, like she used to when Adrian would show her a bug. Look, Mama.

She would turn her eyes away from him. What could she say? What had she done with her endless existence to honor him?

“Ilona,” the Sadaari called to her. “Sister!”

Ilona watched the raindrops dance in a bloody puddle for a long time before she decided what to do. Then she rose, and left the arena.

***

The Imperial Senate building stood high over the Hushed River, and its white marble reflection in the moonlight warbled on the water’s surface. A past Emperor had constructed the building, down the hill from his own massive sprawling Palace, so as not to risk any confusion about where the true power lay, and to whom the Senators ultimately pledged allegiance.

The two buildings were connected, so that the Emperor could summon Senators at any time, to receive whatever new laws and acts he might mandate.

Now Yujin skirted along one of its smaller passageways, retracing the secret path that Roland had shown them in confidence, when Jun and Fidelis had fled the city. She remembered the halls well enough, and she could navigate into the Imperial Palace itself, with a little luck and skill.

She crept past sleepy guards and harried Imperial pages, through the tunnel Anishkira had drawn for them, slipping deeper into the Palace itself. She knew the Emperor kept a bedchamber overlooking the river, and she oriented herself window-by-window, following the moon.

An unexpected shock froze her in place, as a handmaiden rounded the corner, arms piled high with sumptuous bedding. Yujin flung herself down behind a column, bruising her knees badly. The girl passed by, unaware.

Yujin’s mission was too important to fail. They had a chance now, a real chance to make a difference. For too long, the rebels had been struggling to change things. The Emperor had a chokehold on the city. The people were at the mercy of his policies, his restriction of coin, his persecution of the working classes. And now, she was within mere moments of changing all that.

Her ideals gave her courage, and she rose to her feet again, and walked silently into the long hallway before her. A deep lush carpet lay before her, leading to a tall door. Surely this was his bedchamber. She thought she could hear the river rushing somewhere nearby.

She thought of all the bodies dumped in that water. Bodies of political opponents. Or inconvenient loudmouths. Innocent people of the city. The Emperor had blood on his hands. That’s why he needed to be removed.

But, he was still just a man, wasn’t he? Not a monster, or even a god, as he would have the citizens perceive him. Wasn’t a man capable of redemption?

Yujin looked at the dagger sheathed in her shirt. Hyroe was right. A message needed to be delivered.

She made her way through the shadows between lamplights, and finally found herself at the door. She pushed it open, half-expecting a guard to snatch her out of the darkness. But no hand grabbed her, and she slipped inside. Perhaps the Emperor’s security was focused mainly on keeping intruders out. Or perhaps he arrogantly believed himself capable of handling any threat on his own.

The bedchambers were immense, bigger than any room Yujin had ever been in. Maybe even larger than the entirety of the Sleeping Karkadon. The bed stood in the center, ostentatiously on its own. Four columns at each corner supporting the flowing mesh curtains, which caught the breeze effortlessly.

And then she heard him.

The Emperor, his deep breath in and out, through his powerful chest. Yujin dared not touch the knife, as she walked, for her hands were shaking so badly.

The message. Yes, the message needed to be delivered. The message that injustice and tyranny would not be tolerated. That the powerful must be held accountable for their actions. That murder was not a political solution; death only brought more death.

An empty amphorae of wine lay on the floor. Giotto lay on his enormous pillows, asleep. Dead to the world.

Murder was not a political solution.

She drew her blade, and loomed over him. She had not expected the Emperor to look so peaceful. So unguarded.

Death only brought more death.

Yujin held her dagger high, ready to plunge it into his chest. She imagined his lungs gargling with blood, as his father reportedly had, on his death. An assassin had killed Giotto’s father, just as she was about to kill him. And he slept, helpless.

Now she had all the power. The power of life and death.

The powerful must be held accountable for their actions.

Yujin held fast, staring at him, but somehow seeing herself.

Then, slowly, quietly and with great purpose, she slipped the point of the knife into the pillow next to Giotto’s head, and sunk it deep, so that its engraved message was staring him right in his sleeping face.

Wake up, the resistance is here.

Yujin hurried out of the room, her bare feet making no noise as she flew over the tiles. She imagined the fear he would feel when he woke, knowing that an assassin had been standing over him. And she reveled in the confusion he would feel, knowing his life had been spared. Why? He would fume and sputter. Why would someone so close to their enemy choose to spare him? What possible sense could it make?

But Giotto, don’t you see? She smiled to herself. That’s everything. That’s the difference between us.

The rebel baker would understand, when she explained. He had entrusted her with the soul of Massina. Her last minute decision made more sense than another murder, even the assasination of an Emperor. The rebels had struck a far greater blow– without sacrificing their souls. That’s the real message.

Yujin heard a gasp. The handmaid stood frozen, the bedclothes tumbling from her arms.

Yujin and the girl locked eyes. They were both from the streets, she could tell. Something about the way the girl froze — she was used to disappearing in plain sight. A survival skill, when the powerful and unpredictable were near. The girl understood. The girl knew that her Master was an evil man. She served only for the money, like so many who struggled.

What Yujin had just done, she had done in part for this handmaiden. To frighten him, expose his vulnerability, make him keenly aware that those around him held his life in their hands, too. Those like her, and maybe even this girl.

Yujin gave her a small smile, and a nod.

The handmaid drew a deep breath, and then screamed: “GUARDS! ASSASSIN!”

Yujin ran.

***

The journey to the City of the Moon was several days’ travel, but Jun and Fidelis did not mind. They were filled with a sense of new importance. As they passed through the forests of the Vitra matriarchy, they were stopped and questioned by the fierce warrior family. The Vitra were moved by Jun’s explanation: they sought some kind of closure that could only be found in the ruins of Fidelis’ home. A painful memory that might yet help him heal.

But Fidelis grew more silent as they neared the thousand-year old ruins. The emptiness overwhelmed him. In Massina, he had been surrounded by other Fenrir, most of whom were a hundred generations removed from the tragedy. Very few had become Eternals like him. Fewer still wished to talk about that night.

They made their way among the toppled stone columns and crumbling buildings, overgrown with fire ivy. Fidelis glanced around nervously. “That was the home of Arcturus,” he said. “And there was a busy market street, filled with my cousins, my friends. All gone.”

Jun began to wonder if it had been a good idea to bring his friend back to the scene of so much sorrow. Then, Fidelis cocked his ear toward the Temple. He sniffed the air. “Someone is there.”

The Fenrir bounded over jagged stones and chunks of rotting wood, with Jun rushing to keep up. He pulled aside a curtain of dead fire ivy, and entered the Temple. There, on the dias, stood a Fenrir.

“Who are you,” snarled Fidelis.

“A priest of the Temple of the Moon,” he retorted. “And who are you, intruder?”

Jun stepped out, and tried to intercede. “I am Jun, and this is Fidelis. Please forgive our intrusion. We’ve come a long way to seek a little peace.”

The priest sighed. “I am Kyo, and I welcome you. Though I do not have much to offer, not even peace. Perhaps a little prayer.”

“Are there others with you?” Fidelis asked.

Kyo shook his head. “I have been alone here for a hundred years.”

The priest beckoned them forward, and led them through the ruins of the Temple to his tiny cell. Nothing more than a mattress and a few candles. There were many stacked tomes, crumbling with age. They sat on the floor and Kyo made them teathem a tea, unlike anything Jun had tasted.

“What is this?” he said.

“Hiciax leaf,” replied Fidelis. “The world has not tasted this tea since the fall of the City. This herb grows only here.” Then he hung his head in despair. “I can see them all, smell the scents of cooking and flowers and the life that was here. I had forgotten them all.”

“Stand with me,” said Kyo.

Fidelis looked up in confusion. Kyo motioned for him to rise. “Stand, Fenrir.”

Fidelis stood, unsure. He glanced down at Jun.

“Here is something else you may have forgotten,” Kyo said. Then he lifted his chin to the evening sky, and howled. The sound came from deep inside his chest, next to his heart, and Jun could hear his entire body reverberate with the powerfully sad and beautiful song.

Fidelis’ eyes filled with tears. “I have not sung that way since… the night I was captured.”

“Then sing with me now,” said Kyo.

And then Fidelis too, lifted his head, and joined the priest. Now the two voices resonated with one another, twining like two vines, climbing into the heavens. The Temple walls were made to sonically sweeten and capture these peals of prayer. Kyo and Fidelis together howled into the night, until the tension and turmoil left Fidelis’ body, and even Jun felt a new calm settle over him.

The priest nodded. “The Fenrir howl is a cry of the heart. It emanates from pain and joy. And it must come out.”

Then, the most amazing thing happened. From the farthest reaches of the darkness, Jun heard howls in reply. Distant, and drenched in the echoes of time.

“Are there more out there?” Fidelis asked in shock. “Survivors?”

Kyo tilted his head in hesitation, as if unsure how to answer. “Some are living, yes. Some are lost souls. Others are only voices now.”

The priest scratched his grey-furred chin, and thought for a moment. “You see now, Fidelis. You are never truly alone.”

Fidelis put his hands on the hands of the priest, in a solemn gesture. “Can we not summon the pack again?”

“My brother, once upon a time, that song, our howl, drew the Fenrir together, but they are too far flung now,” Kyo explained. “Many of us now sing only in our memories.”

“Must it be that way?”

The priest opened his mouth, and then just shook his head. “I fear it is too late for our people.”

“Let us try again,” Fidelis said. “Even if it is hopeless.”

Then they burst forth with another long howl, this one in perfect harmony, and Jun found himself transported back. When he looked around, he saw the City of the Moon, in all its former glory, filled with Fenrir. As their song faded, so did the vision. But the feeling stayed with Jun for a very long time.

***

After they returned, the days at the farm passed slowly. They still rose at dawn to train, but Jun secretly wondered if they would ever return to Massina City. The memory of Fidelis ripping the head off the Whisperer was still strong in his mind, the spray of blood. A graphic scene the Inquisitors would not soon forget. Jun began to plot a new course, possibly venturing out into the southlands, to the smaller stadiums there. Fidelis might not become as famous, but at least they would have enough coin to live off.

“Jun!” Fidelis’ alarmed voice came from across the field. Jun was wrestling with the sumpter plow, trying to persuade the animal to pull harder. He looked up.

On the road to the farm he could see a figure, mounted on horseback. He squinted, but could tell no more. Was this an official of some kind? An Inquisitor? Could they have found us?

Jun raced toward the house, as did Fidelis. They scrambled inside. “We need to grab our stuff and go!”

“Where?” panted Fidelis. The farmland was surrounded by dry scrub.

“Just head east through the ghilli weeds,” said Jun’s father. “They won’t be able to track you as easily.” Then the old man grabbed the handmade spear from the floor. “I’ll hold off anyone who tries to follow.”

Jun rubbed his chin in frustration. He looked at Fidelis pleadingly. “We can’t leave my father here. They’ll take him to the dungeons, too.”

“Then we make a stand,” growled Fidelis.

“Don’t be stupid,” barked the old man, but then he fell silent when he saw the grim determination of his son and his friend.

The trio emerged from the doorway, as the man arrived at the base of their small hill. He called out to them. “Greetings from Massina! I seek a Maestro called Jun, and a Fenrir named Fidelis.”

Jun glanced at Fidelis. “Who seeks them?”

“A messenger,” the man called out. “Are you Jun?”

“What message?” Jun gripped an old branch in his hands, while Fidelis wielded the spear in readiness. It was fairly obvious who they were. Why was he playing this game?

“I bring good tidings and wishes of health from your friend Roland, secretary to Senator Walavita. He has made arrangements for your return, and amnesty to be granted for your crime.”

He felt Fidelis crack a smile. “He did it.”

“Roland welcomes you, and beseeches you to return to Massina at once–” The messenger beamed. “And this part I confess I don’t understand… and share some barbecue harkkor?”

Then Jun did something he hadn’t done in weeks. He laughed.

***

The young Maestro and his Fenrir walked through the thronging crowds of the Market Bazaar, the smells of spiced geckoid mixing with the distant cheering and roars from the Colosseum nearby. They felt conspicuous, despite the fact that no one gave them a second glance. The Vitra shopkeeper rearranging her bolts of cheap fabric, the busy baker with the mustache who always fed the urchins at the end of the day, the Seris who hawked used swords and shields, signed by famous Champions– all went about their business as Jun and Fidelis slipped silently through their world.

It did feel like coming home, even if they were a little nervous about the reception.

At last they reached the familiar old shack where Yujin lived. Roland stood outside, squinting and smiling in the bright sunlight. He threw his arms open, and the Fenrir grabbed him around the middle and shook him in a friendly hug. “Welcome back!” Roland coughed.

Jun glanced around. “Where’s Yujin?”

Roland shrugged and caught his breath. “Who knows. Haven’t seen her in the past few days.”

Jun nodded. And then he grabbed Roland’s hand. “Thank you, Roland. From the bottom of my heart — our hearts — whatever you did to clear this up. It’s a miracle. Thank you.”

Roland’s smile was uneasy. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Well…. Don’t thank me just yet.” Jun and Fidelis glanced at each other.

Roland continued. “See, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is you are allowed back in the City, per the Emperor himself.”

Jun smiled. “That’s good. That has to be good.”

“Yes, well the bad news is that — he has allowed youre return only on the condition that you settle your dispute with Myvonigan in the main Arena. At the Festival of the Harvest Moon.”

“That’s two days from now!” Jun choked.

Fidelis shook his head. “Myvonigan’s Champions are top tier. Eternals, Divine claws, I can’t hope to match them.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jun reassured him. “Something will work out, I promise.”

Fidelis, despite his worry, gave Jun a crooked smile. “I think the last time you said that, we spent the night in a thunderstorm.”

Jun was about to reply when a glittering bird circled overhead. The soft purr and whip of its metal wings could be heard even in the din of the crowd, a refined music of gears and delicate mechanics.

“A rebirdant!” Jun exclaimed. “An expensive one, too! That’s worth a month’s wages, easy.”

“That’s because it’s Imperial,” Roland smirked. And then his face changed to surprise, as the rebirdant swooped down and hovered in his face. “Oh!”

He held out his arm. The metallic bird settled on his forearm, and gripped it firmly with its talons. “Must be a message for me,” Roland shrugged.

The bird disgorged a small scroll into Roland’s palm, and then lifted off, and flew up and away into the skies.

Jun and Fidelis watched with excitement. “What’s it say?”

Roland’s brow knitted in confusion. “It’s Yujin. She’s in the Imperial dungeons.” And then he gulped in dismay. “They’re going to execute her.”

Part 4 - The Grudge Match

Fidelis on the prowl.

Ilona stood outside, surveying the mansion estate of Myvonigan; its walls of sandstone creeping with ornate ivy and wrought iron. Lanterns lit with hot magma crystals from Mt. Volcanus gave the street a dull red light. Ilona announced herself at the gate. She was expected.

A servant led her inside the compound, and through several gardens to the Champions quarter. There, Myvonigan housed his fighters in splendor. She was led into the atrium of a heavily fortified dormitory, where a group of Sadaari lounged on couches, and reclined in a steaming magma-heated spa.

“Ilona,” called the sister she knew as Livia. “The last of the independents.” She waved Ilona over.

Ilona gazed around the posh accommodations, as she walked slowly over to Livia. Her sister-warrior was seated on the couch, and gave a nonchalant nod. They hadn’t spoken in decades, but they shared a common past– and a common curse. Ilona glanced around and saw that Myvonigan had purchased the contracts of many of her sisters in the intervening years. There were at least ten Sadaari in the atrium, plus evidence of more in the living quarters nearby.

“Have a seat?”

Ilona shook her head. “Not here to socialize. You said you had a business proposition.”

Livia looked a little annoyed. “We’re sisters, Ilona. I thought that meant something.”

Ilona’s face was a mask.

Livia sighed. “Alright.” She sat forward and gestured to a large bag. “You’re looking at 200 solid gold Emperor-head coins. It’s all yours if you join us for an upcoming bout.”

Ilona looked around quickly in confusion. “You need muscle for a fight? There are ten strong sisters here, and more outside. Why do you need me?”

“We want to complete the set, so to speak,” she smiled. A few of the other sisters laughed softly. “You see, the upcoming match is going to be against the uh… last of the City of the Moon warriors.”

Ilona felt her dead heart skip a beat. “The Fenrir?”

“Yes, he’s been allowed back into the capital. And Myvonigan wants to end his career in spectacular fashion.” Livia stood up, her lithe muscled body on full display. “We’re going to recreate the last days of the Fenrir. And end them forever.”

As Ilona struggled to find a response, a wave of hunger flowed inside her. She hadn’t eaten in days. And she smelled something.

“Ah, won’t you stay for dinner,” Livia smiled, her sharpened teeth glittering in the lamp light.

A group of servants entered the atrium, escorting three large men, who were bound by hand and foot. The men were dressed in the rough, ripped tunics of the Imperial dungeon– and over their heads were burlap sacks. The servants shoved the men to the ground, and then quickly backed out.

The Sadaari circled the fallen men, who kicked and struggled. They had each been nicked with a blade, so that blood flowed freely down their chests and forearms– as if the Sadaari needed any further encouragement. Ilona watched as Livia pounced on one of the men, ripping at his throat with her teeth.

But for Ilona, the sight was too familiar. Too many years of feeding the same way. The price the curse demanded from them. Now she felt almost nothing. There was no pity in her heart; no horror in her stomach

In the past, she welcomed that absence of feeling. But now she wanted it back. With Adrian so near, she wanted to feel again.

“Join us,” hissed Livia, her face wet with crimson gore.

But Ilona, battling an almost blinding hunger, launched herself into the sky on her massive wings, and flew off into the night. She left the screaming and blood behind; she knew what she had to do now, who she had to become if she ever wanted to face Adrian again.

Ilona

***

The Imperial dungeons were not as Jun had imagined. He had pictured dark hallways, dripping with water and other subterranean oozes. But the Emperor had not constructed his prison to be a place of decay and neglect. On the contrary, the Imperial dungeons were made of grey granite walls, and tight claustrophobic hallways. The effect was meant to crush the spirit, as you squeezed into tighter and tighter spaces, with glass plates in the ceiling drifting farther and farther away.

When the guards had forbidden Fidelis to enter, Jun had been annoyed. But now he was thankful. This was not a comfortable place to be.

Yujin shared a cell with another inmate. Roland and Jun spoke to her through a hole in the door at eye level, meant only to convey meals and abuse from the guards. Most prisoners did not receive visitors.

“Roland was able to get us back into the city,” Jun told her. “He’s got some pull with Senator Walavita. We’re going to get you out of here, I promise.”

Yujin smiled a tense grimace. “Thank you. But I’ll be fine.”

“Pah! You’re never leaving here, missy,” barked the old bruja at the back of the cell. Jun couldn’t see her face, just a mess of grey matted hair.

“Wrong again, abuela,” Yujin called out bitterly, rolling her eyes. She gestured to the old woman. “Don’t mind my grandma. She likes to listen in on the many social calls I take.” Then she sighed and looked at Roland and Jun. “I’ve been sentenced to die in the gladiator exhibition match three days from now.”

“You’ve done nothing to warrant execution!” exclaimed Roland. “Trespassing, yes. But surely they must consider your actions in context!”

Yujin shrugged. “One way or another, I will be leaving here.”

Jun was speechless. “Three days from now? That’s when Fidelis will be fighting.”

Yujin nodded. “Your bout with Myvonigan’s champions is to be the opener. You’ll get the crowd allll excited. And the execution of prisoners is the grand finale.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Jun assured her.

“Honestly,” she said to Jun and Roland, quietly. “I can take care of myself.”

“See? Not even thankful,” the old woman called out. “She’s not worth your trouble.”

Yujin shook her head again, and then they all touched fingertips through the hole, and said their goodbyes.

As Jun and Roland walked back up the narrow ramp, Roland paused. “I’ve just thought of something else that can help Yujin’s case. I’ll just nip back and tell her. Be out straight away.”

Yujin heard the tapping on her door, and was surprised to see Roland standing there. Even more surprised to see he was not wearing his usual happy or clueless expression. “What are you doing, Roland?”

“You compromised me,” he said, his voice flat and low. “You used the secret passageway to get inside. My secret passageway.”

Yujin furrowed her brow. “I know. And I’m sorry. But– freedom comes first, Roland.”

“What about my freedom?” he said, his lips tight. “What happens when they trace this back to me?”

Yujin was about to answer when Roland spun on his heel and stalked down the hallway. She let out a small moan of frustration, and when she turned around, the old bruja was quietly laughing to herself.

“He gone?” she said. “For good this time?

“Yes,” replied Yujin.

“Good,” said the old woman. “Now let’s get to work.”

***

With only days to spare, Jun and Fidelis turned their entire attention to practice and mock battles at the fight school. The House of Massina saw them day and night; they paused only to eat the meals Jhani brought them — starchy rice balls, packed with geckoid meat.

Fidelis was trading blows with the Karkadon trainer when he stopped, and sniffed the air. Then he growled. Jhani backed away. “Whoa, what’s with Fido?”

Jun turned to see a winged Sadaari enter the school, cautious and watchful. She saw Fidelis and stopped. She held up her hands. “I am Ilona.”

“I know you,” said Jun. “Colosseum Eternal. I watched you in the Harbor battle. Your scimitar technique is flawless.”

Ilona gave a small gesture of thanks to Jun, but Fidelis interrupted with a ragged snarl. “Get this overgrown leech out of my sight.”

“I know there is much bad blood between our families,” she said. “Between us, there is even more. And that is why I am here.”

“To remind me of it?” Fidelis bared his fangs, and gripped the ropes of the ring. Jhani stood by, close behind him in case a fight broke out. The Fenrir growled in warning. “GO!” he shouted.

Jun held out his hands. “Wait, wait.” He approached the Sadaari, as close as he dared. Her face was placid, a pale reflection of what she must have looked like as a woman long ago. “I’ve seen you work. I’ve seen you against Myvonigan’s best Champions. You know how to defeat them.”

“I do,” she said. “It’s one advantage of my age. I know their tactics. I have the expertise. I can help you.”

“Why,” growled Fidelis. “Why would you help me?”

Ilona stood silent for a long while. Then she spoke quietly. “If I have a soul left to save, I would like to try.”

Fidelis turned and fixed Ilona with a frightening grin that made Jun shudder. “And what if I prefer you go to hell?”

“Fidelis,” Jun said softly, “if we don’t accept her help, you might both be going there.”

The Fenrir grit his teeth. “I have waited for Death many years. I would welcome it now.”

“Well, maybe I’m not ready for you to go,” blurted out Jun. Fidelis took a step back in surprise. Jun stood his ground. Then, the Fenrir softened into skepticism.

“Fine,” he said. Then he added, “But only for the sake of the Maestro.”

Ilona nodded, and bowed deeply. “We don’t have much time. Let us begin, then.”

***

The sunlit rooms of Senator Walavita were filled with scrolls and writs of commerce and property maps. Recently, a new group of Maestros had been granted estates by the Emperor, both within and without the city, and Walavita was one of the many Senators tasked with distributing their prizes.

Roland was busy sorting the scrolls, when Walavita returned from lunch. “Still at it, boy?”

“Yes, Senator,” he said, without looking up. “How was your lunch?”

“Interesting,” said Walavita. “Mostly talk of these new land grants. But of course, we couldn’t stop ourselves discussing the latest palace intrusion. The rebel who snuck into the Emperor’s very bedroom! Quite shocking, don’t you think!” Walavita gave Roland an unreadable stare.

Roland tried to remain unperturbed. “Very shocking,” he replied. “But, Senator, I had heard that the young Rebel girl was to be executed. Seems a little harsh, given that she did no harm. She found him asleep, so they say.”

“Curious how she even got that close,” said Walavita. “Popular opinion speculates she had used a secret means of entry. Known only to palace insiders. But she hasn’t told us much either way.”

Roland remained silent, his heart beating.

“Only a matter of time before they torture her for some real answers, of course,” continued Walavita, their voice slow and measured. “Like, who her accomplice was. And how she knew about the secret passageway under the river.”

The secretary froze, then he turned slowly to face the unhappy Walavita. “Well, I don’t know anything about that, Senator.”

“Really,” the Senator crossed their arms. “The dungeon warden said she had visitors recently.”

Roland swallowed hard.

Senator Walavita crushed Roland, in a stern unyielding gaze, like a vise. Roland could scarcely breathe. Then Walavita scoffed and turned away. “You are naive, boy.”

The Senator stared out at the city. “Do you honestly believe she would do the same for you?”

Roland found he did not know how to answer.

“Don’t be a fool,” continued Walavita. “Don’t throw your career away for some Rebel. They can’t change this city; their crusade is hopeless. You have to know that.”

The Senator put a comforting hand on Roland’s shoulder. “You, Roland, on the other hand, have the Emperor’s ear– if you want it.”

Roland frowned. “What I want is freedom and justice. Not more executions.”

Walavita’s face turned unpleasant. Roland felt the Senator’s fingers tighten on his arm, digging in painfully. “You should pray the young rebel’s execution comes swift and soon, before she lets slip too much truth. Otherwise you may find the next execution is yours.”

Roland nodded, and the Senator released him, smoothing out their robes as if to say the subject was closed. Then Walavita wandered out to the veranda and gazed at the city. Roland returned to sorting the scrolls, but found he could barely file even one before the day was over.

***

At the House of Massina, a crowd had gathered to watch the practice sessions. A Sadaari training a Fenrir?! This I gotta see! They pressed in around the outdoor ring, as Fidelis and Ilona sparred with spears, and slashed with swords.

Fidelis was giving it his utmost, but his body was failing him. At times, he relied on his fury to animate him, for short bursts of impressive skill. But mostly, he moved slowly, like invisible shackles bound him to the earth. Ilona danced around him, barely moving to parry his attacks, and riposte. Fidelis collapsed in exhaustion, and Jhani called for a break.

The team huddled together in the shade of the small training arena, as Fidelis lapped water.

“This might take more time than we anticipated,” said Jhani sympathetically. “I usually like to see a fighter’s performance more even-keel at this point.”

Jun shook his head. “I just don’t know what the problem is.”

“You’re too slow,” said Ilona bluntly, to the panting Fidelis.

“Jeez. Don’t sugar coat it,” panted Fidelis sarcastically.

The Sadaari turned to Jun, and continued flatly. “It’s not his fault. The injuries I inflicted a thousand years ago are slowing him down.”

“We’ll keep training, then,” said Jun. “You can help rehabilitate him.”

“There may not be time,” said Ilona. The Match was tomorrow. They could practice all night, but eventually Fidelis would need to rest and recuperate.

The team considered this in silence, when a young Vitra hesitantly approached. She was dressed in the robes of a priestess of Light.

“Are you Jun?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Jun.

“You are needed at the Fool’s Gate,” she bowed.

“The Fool’s Gate?” Jun glanced at Fidelis and Ilona in confusion. “What’s there?”

“Your father,” bowed the Vitra again. Then a look of worry crossed the scales of her face. “You should come quickly.”

***

After Jun rushed off, Fidelis and Ilona practiced for some time at the House of Massina’s humble outdoor arena. Ilona guided Fidelis through a series of balletic exercises designed to increase mobility in his limbs. She had him switch to wielding two small daggers instead of a heavy sword, but nothing appeared to improve his speed. Eventually, as the sun set over the walls of Massina, the Karkadon trainer called a halt. In the glow of the distant Cauldron of Fire, they agreed to meet the next day at the Colosseum Eternal. Then, they silently went their separate ways.

Ilona found herself wandering down through the Market Bazaar. Families were out and about, people gathering food for dinner, or buying remaindered bread. The Sadaari warrior no longer had that kind of hunger, but it fascinated her to watch the warm beings drifting through these familiar rituals.

Then she felt a presence watching her.

The man in the mask stood at a stall of Death Essence. She approached him.

“Why do you waste your time with this Fenrir,” he asked, in his rasped voice. “Is he more important to you than your son?”

Ilona felt that surge of guilt, an upwelling of ancient emotion, an untapped fissure of feeling, attached to Adrian’s memory.

“You could be holding him in your arms right now.” Prometheus examined a crystal of Death essence, assaying its purity. “And all you need to do is cause some chaos.”

She glanced out at the teeming crowds. “You’re asking me to put a lot of people in danger. Innocent people,” she said. “Why?”

“You never cared about the innocent before — why start now?”

When she whirled on him, she saw he was unafraid. He continued: “I am offering you the chance you have wished for, the answer to a thousand years of loneliness and longing. The chance to be with your son again.”

He leaned in, almost spoke almost intimately. “And all you need do is gather your sisters, and attack this city. Such a simple request, really. You’ve marshaled an army hundreds of times before, in hundreds of places. Just do it once more.”

Prometheus handed her a black velvet bag, tied with a drawstring of gold ribbon. “A gift,” he murmured. “Something you will never find at this Market, though you might search every stall.”

And with that, the Doctor drifted back into the crowd, leaving her alone.

With trembling hands, Ilona slowly pulled the ribbon and opened the bag. Inside, her hand touched something cool and hard and smooth, like a polished stone. Her eyes welled with tears, mixed with black blood, and her dead heart thumped in her chest. Adrian.

Her chest heaved with quiet sobs. Her shivering fingers traced the gentle contours of her son’s head, and she imagined his scalp, the way it used to smell as a baby, the softness of his hair in her hands. Adrian.

If Prometheus could do what he promised, Adrian was close by. Closer than he’d been in a thousand years.

She swallowed her emotion again, as she pulled the bag shut carefully, and watched the intertwined lanes of people pass by her, the oblivious parade of Whisperers, Karkadons, Vitra, Aos. The shimmering multicolored array of life in front of her; yet just beyond her reach.

Across the road, a market stall displayed tiny tartlets, decorated in white sugar frosting. A young mother carried her little girl in her arms, selecting vegetables and breads for dinner. Whenever her mother’s attention was elsewhere, the baby took every opportunity to secretly grab a tartlet and deposit it into the shopping basket. The mother saw what was happening and laughed to herself.

That could be me again. It would be so easy.

Ilona envisioned her Sadaari army sweeping over the city, descending on the Market Bazaar, causing the kind of chaos Prometheus so desperately desired.

If we planned well, it could be over quickly, almost painlessly…

Ilona glimpsed the mother and baby slip away into the crowds, joined by another woman, and a young boy.

… almost.

***

The small hut by the Gate of Fools was sponsored by the House of Life, and attended by priests who occasionally had to render assistance to the destitute who stumbled through the portal. Often, these pilgrims were dry and parched from their desert journey. Or, they were injured from attacks by the wild beasts of the countryside. But this man seemed drained of his own spirit. His exhaustion was deeper than physical.

“Father!” Jun rushed to his side. The old man lay still in the humble cot, a blanket pulled up to his chin. He did not move. “Dad, I’m here.”

Jun watched his face, but the old man remained still. “Dad?”

The priest knelt next to him. “Sir, I am so sorry. We felt his passing earlier.”

“What?” Jun asked, incredulous. He had run the entire distance from the training quarter, as fast as he could go.

“You missed him by mere moments,” the priest said, sadly.

“No,” Jun laid his head on the blanket. A million questions ran through his mind. Why? Why had his father come to Massina? Why had he made the trip? Had he come to revisit the places of his youth, or to cheer on Jun and Fidelis? What had possessed the old man to risk his life, walking from the farm?

The boy gazed at his father again. In his mind, the old man was still a miserly drunk, barking orders and complaining. But in their last few days together, Jun had seen a real change, into someone better. And now here his father lay– an empty husk, neither good nor bad. Just a man.

Jun patted his hand and stood. There was no time for mourning. The tournament was tomorrow. They had to succeed.

He approached the priest. “I’m sorry. I know that there will be burial expenses but–”

The priest held out his hands. “He insisted that we give this to you, and only you.”

In his palms lay a sleek but substantial chromium-iron spear. A Champion’s weapon. The spear-head had been reforged, and refashioned again, and mounted onto a tough carbonite shaft. He must have done this after we left. He tried to imagine his father, trudging through the wastelands, using the spear as a walking stick, following his path to Massina City.

The priest bowed and returned to the ceremonial death rites of the House of Life.

The Arena

Jun promised to pay for the burial as soon as he could, and then he wandered out into the streets, in a daze, carrying only the spear head his father had forged, and a thousand questions.

***

The early morning sun warmed the stones of Massina, drawing out the fragrance of the dust and mud and dung of the city dwellers who walked its streets. The smoke of burnt sausages and zarkberry brew filled the air as Jun and Fidelis made their way to the Colosseum, and the Porta Magna– the door through which all gladiators must pass.

The Colosseum was draped with banners and flags advertising the exhibition match, and throngs of people crowded in to get good seats in the bleacher sections. The VIPs would come later, in a leisurely procession of wealth, as their box seats were bought and paid for weeks in advance.

Fidelis looked up at the banner over their heads. “BEHOLD: THE FALL OF THE CITY OF THE MOON.” Below the script were tiny silhouettes of Fenrir being defeated by Sadaari and Darulk. Fidelis growled. “What the fuck is that!”

Jun jumped sideways. He’d never heard the wolf swear before. But the anger was understandable. The banner was in incredibly bad taste. Just like everything Myvonigan did. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you into the pre-fight chutes.”

The Maestros and fighters had gathered in the central staging area, readying themselves for combat. There were to be Champion exhibitions all day. Fidelis was merely the opening act. One of Jun’s friends, a Maestro named Pirre, reached out and offered a handshake. “For luck.” Jun gripped Pirre’s hand in silent thanks.

“Where’s Ilona?” Fidelis looked around nervously. “She said she’d meet us here.”

“Forget about her,” Jun said. “She’s taught you what you need to know.”

As Jun wrapped Fidelis’ hands, he kept up a steady chatter of encouragement. “You’re an Eternal, Fidelis. They can’t hurt you, they can’t stop you. This is your moment to show Massina the Fenrir haven’t forgotten, and they haven’t forgiven.”

Fidelis grunted. “The odds are not in our favor, Jun.”

“Screw the odds, Fidelis. We have a lot more than odds going for us.” Jun affixed the leather straps of Fidelis’ Arcane gauntlets onto his forearms. Then he unwrapped the long stick he’d been carrying, revealing the chromium spear.

“My father made this,” he said.

Fidelis gaped in surprise. “He made this? But… I don’t understand. How did it get here?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jun shook his head. “The important thing is that he wanted you to have it.”

“He made this for me?” Fidelis drew a claw along his chin. “Is he here?”

Jun’s eyes filled with tears, and he fought to keep them from spilling onto his face. “Just take it.” He placed the silver spear firmly into the Fenrir’s hands. “He wanted you to use it.”

But Fidelis leapt backwards at the touch of the spearpoint and dropped the spear with a loud clang. “Jun!” he exclaimed. “There’s something in this weapon.”

“What is it?”

“Energy,” Fidelis said, in awe. “But it’s not Essence …”

He crept forward, and gingerly touched the weapon on the floor. This time he did not recoil, but allowed himself to feel its strange power. He felt the presence of Jun’s father, though he was not sure how. He felt the heart and fight of the man.

“Soul anima,” he said at last, unable to come up with a more accurate description. He picked up the spear and held it firmly.

Jun touched it. “I can’t feel anything.”

Fidelis held the spear point more firmly now, comfortable with its strange resonance. It gave him a slight buzz, like after eating too many zarkberries. “Maybe because you’re human.”

“First bout, ready!” called the booming voice of Primo, as he passed through the pre-fight area. “Myvonigan versus Jun. Champions– time to get in the chutes. Good hunting and may the gods of Death be merciful in whatever form they take.”

“Good hunting,” Jun said, and Fidelis nodded.

Then they embraced, and then parted. Nothing more could be done or said before the battle that would change its outcome. Now it was all down to luck, glory and death.

***

On his way down the stairs to the Maestro boxes, Jun saw the thin cruel silhouette of Myvonigan in the hall.

“It would’ve been so much easier if you’d just sold him to me,” he said.

Jun thumped down the stone steps, and edged past the man.

“All this effort,” Myvonigan continued. “For nothing.”

Jun kept walking, and Myvonigan followed him. The Maestro’s hall had food laid out, but Jun wasn’t hungry.

“I’m sure, in your mind,” Myvonigan said. “You’re the hero here. Refusing me, resisting me, fighting on bravely. But it was me who tried to offer you a way out, time and again.” Myvonigan grabbed a grape and popped it into his mouth.

“Is that what you’re doing now?”

“No,” Myvonigan snorted in laughter. “No no no, that time is past. Today, your Champion will be ripped limb from limb.”

“Yes, your compassion really overwhelms me, Myvonigan,” Jun scoffed. “You only ever wanted him for your own glory,” said Jun.

“And you don’t?” Myvonigan moved closer, seething with indignation. “You’re so desperate to prove yourself, you don’t even see what your quest has done to everyone around you.”

Jun thought of his father. The spear. Yujin. Fidelis, preparing to meet some overpowered squad of Myvonigan’s Champions.

“Fidelis knows what he’s doing,” said Jun, with less confidence than he hoped.

“You’re willing to let him suffer for you.” Myvonigan shook his head. “Perhaps even die.”

“You forced this outcome, you self-righteous viscari,” Jun spat. “You ambushed us in the Ministry.”

“Yes, of course that’s your perspective. Always the hero.” Myvonigan took a handful of grapes and ripped the bunch in half, weighing the remainders in each hand. “Now the gods will decide.”

Jun shoved him out of the way and ran down the hallway, hearing Myvonigan laughing behind him.

***

The Colosseum horns blared, and the crowd jumped to their feet and began stomping in unison. Down below, the side gates opened, and the myrmidons came running out with wagons of stone, pulled by sumpter horses. They began to assemble a city on the sand floor, built of slate grey rock. As the blocks were put into place, Jun realized with horror that they were building the inner sanctuary of the ruined City of the Moon.

Blocks became walls, and small buildings, and soon narrow streets formed, all leading to a central ziggurat, the Temple of the Alpha, that climbed three stories high. Atop the Temple stood a garish brass moon.

The emcee belted out an introduction. Jun recognized him as one of the self-styled “comedy” emcees, who preferred to mock the combatants as much as celebrate them. Jun hated him bitterly; Jun was never one to laugh while a Champion suffered, even though many in the audience delighted in death and dismemberment.

The emcee, in a mocking tone, called out: “Hailing from the celebrated slums of Massina, our defender, our Fido, our very good boy: FIDELIS!”

The myrmidons fled as the main gate opened, and Fidelis strode out on his long muscular hind legs. In his left hand he carried the spear, and in his right, a short gladius: a thick blade for chopping, as was his preferred style. His gauntlets glinted in the sunlight, and their Arcane indigo glow seemed to wind up around his arms like sorcerous snakes. Jun thought he looked magnificent.

The crowd gave him a polite round of applause, with only the occasional call of “Fiiii-do!”

The emcee bellowed out Myvonigan’s name, and announced his Champions. From the other end of the stadium, twenty Sadaari and Darulks flew up and out of the gates. They landed on the sand, in formation, to the thunderous applause of the crowd. Behind them, a large war wagon was wheeled forth, containing a cage for a prisoner. Jun swallowed hard. This was not part of the deal.

Above him, he caught the eye of Myvonigan, seated next to the Emperor. Myvonigan winked.

The emcee horn blared again, and the man continued in a fatuous voice: “Ladies and gentle-worms, today, for your pleasure and edification, you shall witness a historical re-enactment –authentic in every respect — of the fall of the City of the Moon, oh so many moons ago.” Here the crowd laughed cruelly.

“Now, take your places, everyone!” The emcee clapped his hands together.

Myrmidons lead Fidelis into the mock “city” they had constructed, and ushered him to a large ladder at the side of the Temple, which he climbed. When he reached the top, he took an uneasy position overlooking the city, standing next to the Moon with his sword and his spear in hand.

A simple “king-of-the-hill” contest, he mused. Like he played as a child. Only this time, it would be for keeps.

Fidelis glanced up into the stands, searching for Jun. His eyes were a barely-contained mixture of panic and fury.

I’m here, buddy, thought Jun, with deep concentration, willing Fidelis to hear him, feel him. We’re together. You’re not alone. No matter what, we’re together.

But then, Jun felt his foundation crumble.

“You’re willing to let him suffer for you.” Myvonigan’s voice rang in his ears. It was true. Wasn’t that very thing about to happen??

The Sadaari and Darulk arranged themselves like an attacking army, facing the miniature city. Their faces were filled with confidence and contempt. They knew their work would be swift, and the bloodthirsty crowd cheered them.

Atop the Temple, Fidelis fought hard to stay sane and calm. To control his breathing, the way Jhani had taught him. To calmly assess the threat, the way Ilona had taught him.

But he felt an empty place– where Jun’s anima usually was. The confidence. The brotherhood. It was not there. Why not? Had Jun lost faith in him?

He looked up into the stands. Jun’s face was crestfallen and worried. He glanced over at the Emperor’s box, at Myvonigan.

Fidelis felt a shiver of isolation, that old feeling creeping back into him. He was alone. He was alone, like he had been so many times before. When they broke him. The roof of the Temple afforded him no cover, nowhere to run.

The distant line of Sadaari and Darulk seemed like a dream. Was this really happening again? Why had he been so stupid? He had let himself trust again– and now Fate had found him.

But Fidelis determined one thing– this time it would be final. No more suffering. No more fear.

Eternals could not die, but they often regarded being struck down in battle with the same fear as they had when they were mortal. It was a hard instinct to shake.

Fidelis prayed that when he was defeated, Jun would be merciful and not return him to the Ascension Temple for resurrection, but rather, the Rite of Departure. Then, burn his body for Essence and Bone– so that at last his soul could find the finality and peace of the afterworld.

Fidelis gripped the sword, and touched the spearpoint. A small jolt of energy flowed through his arm. “Guess it’s just you and me, Cort.”

From his box, the Emperor held his scepter aloft. The horns blared again, and the emcee roared: “SHOWTIME!”

As the grinning Sadaari and Darulk began to approach the City of the Moon, one of their ranks picked up a short bow and fired an arrow. It shrieked past Fidelis’ ears, as he ducked quickly. Two more arrows swiftly followed.The spot was not defensible, not really. He was glad to see that none of the combatants had wings– at least they couldn’t fly. They would have to come through the city and up the Temple to reach him. But there he would be trapped.

An idea sprung forth in Fidelis’ mind. And with two athletic leaps, he jumped down the steep steps of the ziggurat, and disappeared into the small streets of the city.

The emcee blared his horn. “Ladies and grondalworms, I see our Fenrir has chosen the age-old strategy of running away!”

The crowd jeered. “Fi-do!” But he was nowhere to be seen.

***

High above the ring, where even the dust did not reach, the Emperor sat in his Imperial box seats, flanked by senators and Maestros in opulent and ostentatious robes. They dined on an array of fruits, meats and delicacies laid out on a marble table.

Myvonigan sat nearby, watching the action through a pair of micro-spectacles. “I can’t see the mangy cur; perhaps he’s hiding somewhere, praying for a quick death.”

“I hope not,” said the Emperor. “I’ve got money on him.”

“Your Excellency,” moaned Myvonigan.

“What can I say? That Champion’s got spirit.” The Emperor on his oversized throne winked down at Senator Walavita, who sat below him on a small bench. Roland perched nervously next to Walavita, his face contorted in worry and shiny with perspiration. He could barely contain his nervous heart, beating in fear for Fidelis in the arena– and somewhere down in the bowels of the Colosseum, he knew that Yujin must be waiting to make her own appearance.

The Imperial leader of all Massina looked bored, as he slurped a harkkor out of its shell and watched Myvonigan’s champions filing into the maze of stones. He glanced back at one of his assistants. “What’s next after Myvonigan’s little show?”

“The criminals and political prisoners, your Excellency,” came the reply. “To be torn apart by… snow tigers, I believe, Your Excellency.”

“Ah! Snow tigers!” he beamed. “Better entertainment awaits.”

“Your Excellency, if I may,” said Roland, leaning forward, nervous sweat dripping onto the marble floor. “About the prisoners.”

Senator Walavita blanched in horror. “Hush, Roland!”

The Emperor raised an eyebrow. “Yes?

“Must they face the arena, your Excellency?” said Roland, with as much diplomacy as he could muster. “Would it not be better to let the courts determine their fate?”

Walavita stammered. “Please forgive my idiot secretary, Your Excellency.” But the Emperor waved him away.

“Why would that be better?” he asked Roland. “Those who oppose me oppose my laws– indeed oppose Massina itself. A foolish rejection, to be sure. But, nevertheless– why force upon them a trial using the laws they have rejected? It is not a courtesy they seek.”

“Some may be too idealistic or naive to realize their errors,” said Roland. “While still others may benefit from the extended stay in your glorious prisons where they might ruminate and eventually change their perspective and come to see your truth.”

The Emperor shrugged and ate another harkkor. “I’m not interested in preserving the lives of either the ridiculously naive or the suicidally stubborn. Massina deserves better.”

“Of course, Your Excellency, but–”

The Emperor cleared his throat and cut Roland off, giving him an aquiline stare with his fierce grey eyes, like an eagle noticing a rabbit. “Do you have a personal interest in these rebels?”

Roland was gripped with fear, and he found he could say nothing in response. He felt the hand of Senator Walavita tugging on his tunic, pulling him back onto the little bench, and he sat.

***

Fidelis stalked through the streets of the City of the Moon, as the Sadaari and Darulk fanned out to find him. His nose was filled with their scent. He crept along the walls, and watched a male Darulk pass by, unaware.

The crowd threatened to betray his stealthy approach with their whistles and boos, but the overall cacophony drowned out any specific warning, and the Darulk continued forward. Fidelis took two strides on his powerful hind legs, closing the gap, and hacked the gladius down and diagonally through the Darulk’s neck, staggering the demon. A second hack separated the demon’s head from its body, and Fidelis struggled to untangle the dying tentacles which wrapped around the sword. There was no time, as he scented the approach of a Sadaari, and he was forced to leave the gladius and run.

“The Fenrir strikes first!” The emcee crowed. “First blood in a fierce attack on the Darulk known as Dieto. That’s going to leave a mark. One down, nine to go!”

Fidelis worked his way back toward the entrance, where he felt sure there would be Sadaari left to guard the exit. It was only a matter of time before one of them reached the Temple, and climbed its heights, to call out his position, and then… Fidelis knew the fight would be over at some point, but he vowed to do as much damage as possible.

The sole Sadaari guarding the entrance had a scar across her face, from some long-ago war. He wondered if she was having the same flashbacks he was having, fighting once again in the small streets and stone structures of the ancient city. Her attention was diverted as a cry rose up from her sisters. Someone had found the beheaded Darulk.

Fidelis wasted no time, running at her with the chromium spear. She knocked his jab away with her sword, but his momentum carried him forward and they crashed together in a thud. As they rolled on the ground, the warrior kicked at him, and drew a small dagger. They struggled over it, as he slammed her wrist against the ground. She summoned her vampiric strength, her teeth like daggers, and lunged at his throat. Fidelis blocked her jaws with his gauntlet, which seemed to spark as her Death essence touched it. In a swift moment, Fidelis saw his opening and snatched up the dagger and plunged it into her heart.

He took a deep breath, and reached out for his spear– and in that instant, he felt the sulphuric burning impact of a Darulk arrow. He barely looked at the Darulk who was emerging from behind cover, and moving toward him; as he leapt away into the narrow corridors and streets in search of new cover. He heard the Darulk calling out his position to the other Champions, who started to close in.

As he paused to catch his breath behind a stone, Fidelis cursed himself. Only managed to take out two, eh, Fido? Not exactly what we hoped for, eh. But I guess that’s as good as it gets.

The sulphur continued to hiss and burn on his skin, the scent of burning hair became unbearable. Gathering his strength, Fidelis snapped the arrow tip off, and then pushed the bloody shaft backward through his muscle and tendons, til it dropped off into the sand.

Fidelis dimly heard the emcee jabbering away. “A real teeth-grinder folks. And speaking of– make sure you get some delicious geckoid on a stick. Two-for-one, this bout only. Act now– it may all be over soon.”

He crept along again, leaving a blood trail. He knew his enemies would be closing in. You know, you really should’ve started by targeting the Life Essence warriors first. Your Arcane powers might’ve been helpful there. Take out the weaker Essence. Even the lowliest challenger knows that.

Fidelis growled to himself. “Shut up already.” He missed the warm reassurance of Jun. Why wasn’t he able to feel Jun’s soul anima? The crowd began to chant again. “Fiiii-do, Fiiiii-do.” Then they all suddenly cheered.

Why were they cheering? Who were they cheering for? He stopped moving, and with great trepidation… looked behind him.

There, stood a squad of six heavily-armed Sadaari warriors. And not a Life Essence among them.

They had found him. The Fenrir sighed. This battle seemed one his people were destined to lose. Hopefully, this time, the conquerors would make it quick.

A shadow swept over him, and he looked up. To his surprise and horror, Ilona floated overhead, and landed next to the Sadaari. They moved in around her, in a huddle of excited recognition.

“My sisters…” she said, with tears in her eyes. The Sadaari reached forward to embrace her. “I have come to free you.”

“Free us, sister?” laughed Livia. “No –join us! We are about to dispatch the last of the filthy Fenrir; the dogs responsible for Adrian’s death.”

Fidelis staggered to his feet, taking cover behind a wall.

“We already got our vengeance, a thousand years ago. What did it gain us?” Ilona drew a long war-knife, known as Twist, from her belt.

“What did it gain us?” scoffed Livia. “Power! Glory. Freedom. Eternal life.”

Ilona shook her head. She plucked at her dead skin. “Without a heart or conscience, without love, ours have been borrowed lives. Forever in debt to the God of Death.”

Then she looked Livia direct in her eyes, seeing the emerald Death essence burning there. “And now, at long last, where it all began… we shall give back what we owe.”

And with that, she swept Twist across Livia’s neck, sending her sister’s head free, tumbling onto the ground.

The Sadaari hissed in betrayal as Ilona held her arms wide. “I free you now. I free us all.”

Then Ilona vaulted backwards and joined Fidelis at his side. He whirled in defense. “I don’t need to be freed!” He growled.

Ilona’s face was as hard as a stone. “No, you need to survive.”

“You would turn against your own sisters,” he said. “For a Fenrir?”

“Never too late to change, wolf,” replied Ilona.

The Darulk reinforcements rushed in, and Fidelis and Ilona began to fight as a unit, back to back. Ilona’s dagger flashed, and she leapt up into the air and dove hard to the ground, sending a shockwave through the sprawling Darulk. But the Sadaari struck back fiercely with their scimitars, slicing her skin, and carving into Fidelis wherever he wasn’t fast enough to defend himself.

The battle rolled back into the City, toward the Temple, and Myvonigan’s gladiators divided Fidelis and Ilona and pushed them apart into separate streets.

A flurry of Sadaari teeth and claws sent Ilona sprawling, and Twist spun out of her hand. She rolled away and tried to fly, but the grasping hands of her sisters found her wings and pulled her to the ground, where they rained blows on her head.

Meanwhile the tentacles of Darulk whipped at Fidelis’ fur and flanks, as he backed away and tried to keep the demons at bay. They herded him toward the cage they had brought with them, on the war wagon. Fidelis found himself with no options but to back reluctantly into the prison, while he fended off the demons with their whips and cudgels. The cage door slammed shut.

Trapped, like an animal, Fidelis began to howl.

***

Jun jumped to his feet, standing on the bleachers. “No!” he shouted.

His voice was drowned out among the razzing of the bejeweled and fashionable Imperial crowd nearby, droning their sing-song “Fiiii-do, Fiiii-do.”

He looked across to see Myvonigan, who caught his eye, and smiled a wicked smile of smug satisfaction.

Those in the stands around Jun had turned away from the competition. It was obvious that Myvonigan’s political power had yet again secured an unfair victory. They’d seen it too often.

In the hot sun, Jun pushed his way through the partying fans in his section, jostling their mugs of beer and fried geckoid, and climbed up on the very edge of the wall.

“Are we gonna let this happen?” he cried. “Are we gonna let this privileged fucker cheat and bully his way to a win? Again?!”

A young woman in a rough-spun tunic, her face reddened by sun and ale, called out: “It’s too late, little man. It’s over already. They always win.”

“That’s my friend down there!” Jun shouted.

“So why don’t you go down there and help his ass?” The cheap seats erupted in laughter. They drank to their disappointment, and talked about the next bout, having already given up on the pathetic spectacle below.

Jun stood atop the guard rail, speechless, and then the next moment– he was gone.

The crowd rushed forward to see if he’d fallen, but he was scrambling down the piers and columns of the Colosseum, through the lower balconies, and then he leapt down into the sand. The Colosseum horns blared a warning– and the myrmidons emerged to apprehend him. But the Emperor, consulting with Myvonigan, raised his hand. They backed off, and Jun ran for the walls of the city.

He grabbed the gladius, yanking it free from the Darulk’s corpse and charged the group surrounding Fidelis’ cage. He swiped at the hulking warriors, who stood several heads taller than him, slashing in wide arcs to drive them back. “C’mon, you bastards, c’mon!”

The Darulk began to laugh at him. And in the upper tiers of the Imperial boxes, more laughter. Then the mocking sing-song Fiiii-do, Fiii-do.

As Jun swung the sword around, one of the Darulk tentacles slapped him from behind. Jun saw nothing but light and stars for a moment, and then he felt a powerful shove and went sprawling. Sand filled his mouth, and something heavy crushed him– the sandal of a demon pressed his neck into the ground.

Fidelis, in his cage, threw himself against the door, to no avail. The metal held fast. He howled up into the sky.

Roland stood up. Something inside him was breaking; a dam that had held back the anger and frustration for years was splintering. He looked around at the jeering faces, and watched as the self-satisfied elite stuffed their cheeks like cramsters. He felt Fidelis’ sorrowful howl, deep in his heart.

A cry rose up from somewhere inside him. “FI-DO. FI-DO.”

Not a jeer, but a chant. A call to power. A rhythmic drum, like a heartbeat, or an army on the march.

FI-DO! FI-DO! He slammed his hand on the bench, pounding it in time.

A few of the Imperials around him recoiled in shock. What the devil was he doing?

Then, he heard a man nearby pick up the chant. FI-DO! And a woman’s voice joined. FI-DO! FI-DO!

“Stop that, Roland,” barked Senator Walavita, but Roland would not stop. His hands balled into fists, he chanted, shouting from the belly.

The boots of the crowd began to stomp on the wooden floorboards of the bleachers. Like the quickening pulse of a giant, the feeling began to surge through the entire Colosseum. A swell of courage and power, with the strength and sound of ocean waves pounding rocks.

FI-DO! FI-DO!

The call became a roar, as the cheap seats picked it up, and in unison, the entire stadium began to chant his name. Their Champion. Their underdog. FI-DO! FI-DO!

In his cage, Fidelis heard them call his name. And he felt the anima rising inside the crowd– the power of their spirit flooding into him. The Arcane Essence in his body roiled to life, the anima heating it like a fire brings water to boil. He felt strength in his arms, death in his fangs and rage in his heart.

He wrapped his claws around the bars of his cage, and pulled mightily. The crowd cheered even louder. The metal groaned and bent under his fury. The Darulk tried to pry his fingers loose, but with a roar, Fidelis ripped the bars free. Splinters of iron were thrown in all directions, and the Darulk and Sadaari covered their faces.

Fidelis bashed aside the Darulk standing on Jun’s neck, and knelt next to his Maestro. Jun coughed and spit into the gravel. “I’m sorry,” Jun said, his voice hoarse. “Sorry I let you do this alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Fidelis said to Jun. “Not this time.”

A Darulk whip sang out and snapped across Fidelis’ back, but he spun on his foot, and wrapped the whip around his forearm. With a snarl, he yanked the Darulk toward him, and delivered a savage head-butt, with a crack that echoed across the arena. The demon fell, blood streaming from its skull, tentacles twitching uselessly.

“At long last, you cowards,” roared Fidelis. “At long last, it is time for you to feel the vengeance of the Fenrir!”

***

Myvonigan’s face was the color of Roland’s Senatorial robes– a deep purple hue. He jabbed his finger at the rebellious Roland. “Get him OUT!” The Maestro ordered.

The Emperor rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers in approval.

Senator Walavita scowled, as the hulking Imperial security took Roland by the elbows and heaved him out of the box, into the cheap seats, where he sprawled across a group of dusty stone masons. “Oi!” they shouted, and a chorus of boos rose up. They cursed the security guards. “Don’t you touch him!”

The security team backed away, as the masons helped Roland up. “You arite, mate?”

Roland brushed himself off. He had melted cheese and stone ash on his robes, but he was otherwise alright. He looked down into the arena, where Fidelis was shredding his cage. He thought of Yujin, trapped in her own cell. She wouldn’t be as lucky. “Where do they stage the next bout? I need to stop a terrible tragedy from happening.”

“Oi, we got a real non-stop hero today, gents.” A mason with a hardy red beard motioned toward the Porta Magna. “They all come out of there. For better or worse. Good luck, mate.”

“Thank you!”

The masons shrugged and continued their celebration as Roland dodged through the approving atta-boys and back-slaps toward the stairs.

***

The Sadaari stood, towering over Ilona, as they pinned her to the ground on the prongs of a trident. They took turns spearing her, spitting on her, cursing her. “TRAITOR” they said. “COWARD.”

But Ilona had also heard the growing chant of the crowd, and felt the thump of thousands of feet stomping in time, and then, she too felt the strange warmth of the Life Essence in her, glowing like a sun.

Through her blurred vision, she saw a small figure. A boy.

Tears streamed down her face. “Adrian,” she wept. “I’m sorry, my darling.”

She felt a kick to her chest, from a Sadaari boot. Death would come sooner, if she just let go. Just surrendered to it. “I will be with you soon,” she promised him.

“Get up, Mama,” the little boy said.

“No, my heart, I am done,” she whispered.

The boy raised his hand. “Please, Mama. Get up, just one more time.”

She felt a commotion above her. Fighting. The scent of– blood? There was a howl, and then she felt the strong grasp of a warm furred hand pulling her upwards. Fidelis’ face was next to hers.

“If we’re gonna die,” he said. “Then we die on our feet. Like Champions.”

***

Down in the depths of the Colosseum, in the tunnels of the Porta Magna, Roland recognized the Assistant Warden of the Dungeons, and slowed his gait to one as officious and unconcerned as he dared. He thrust his nose in the air, as he approached.

“Assistant Warden,” he said, with a very slight bow, as to a man of lower rank. The young man returned the nod in kind, and Roland continued. “I bring a message from the Emperor and Senator Walavita: The prisoners are to be remanded to my custody, for a special…” Roland’s mind raced. How could he have been so thoughtless? For a special what? He hadn’t thought that far! He wasn’t used to lying, and now it threatened his gambit. “Event!” he blurted out.

“A special event?” The Assistant Warden said. “I wasn’t notified.”

“Yes, you were,” said Roland, regaining his composure. He added a lilt of contempt, typical of Walavita and his ilk.

“Who are you?” The Assistant Warden asked, narrowing his eyes.

“I am Roland, undersecretary to Senator Walavita,” he sniffed.

“Well, Roland, undersecretary to whoever, you’ve got cheese on your robe.” The Assistant Warden crossed his arms defiantly. The guards nearby took interest, and began to wander over. “If you have such an order, then produce it.” He opened his palm.

“I have just now come from the Imperial box seat–”

“Wonderful. Then go back, and return with an official scroll.” The guards laughed.

Roland paled, and felt his knees go weak, but he countered with more superiority and contempt. “At the very least, release the prisoner named Yujin. She is of special interest to the Emperor. And he will be most displeased if you cannot produce her.”

“Yes,” said the Assistant Warden, looking with strange curiosity at his guards. “I daresay that did make him angry.”

“What do you mean– did?”

“Funny you should mention the rebel,” said the man. “The reason I am here today, and the Warden is not, is to do with her. You see, she escaped last night.”

“What?” Roland tried to quickly mask his surprise. The guards began to circle around him.

“Yes, and when we notified the Emperor, he responded with some disappointment.” The Assistant picked at his teeth. “Including throwing my boss in her old cell until such time as she is found. But you would’ve known all this, if you are who you say you are.”

“I assure you– “ Roland stammered.

“Bind him and toss him in the river,” said the Assistant Warden. “He’s a rebel.”

The guards grabbed Roland’s arms, and for the second time in an hour, he felt himself being hauled off his feet. “You’ll pay for this–”

Then he was dropped. A clatter of metal, and grunts, and when he looked up, Yujin stood over him with a sword. The old woman Roland had seen in her cell stood with a crossbow aimed at the two guards, now disarmed. And by her side was a man in a black coat, holding a rapier at the throat of the new Warden, the tip placed precisely on his artery.

“Not a muscle,” the man in black said to the Assistant Warden, with a sardonic smirk. “The point is sharp, and I get very jumpy these days. It’s nerve-wracking, being a rebel.”

Yujin helped Roland to his feet. “Yujin!” he exclaimed. “How?”

“I tried to tell you– I can take care of myself, Roland,” she smiled. “We broke out last night.”

“I’ve been a damn fool,” he said, ruefully.

“We’ll discuss that later,” she grinned. “We’ve got to get the rest of the prisoners and get the hell out of here.”

***

Ilona, Jun, and Fidelis formed a trio, surrounded by an ever-growing force of Sadaari and Darulk. From the box seats, Myvonigan gestured to send in reinforcements, and soon, all his other Champions were streaming into the arena. A Fire Karkadon, a Mountain Keymaster, a host of Arcane Sadaari beating divine wings of Death, with Whisperers and Gatekeepers floating above, watching and waiting.

They advanced with their spears, whips, morning stars, scimitars, and hammers. Even the chanting crowd was forced back into their seats as the tsunami of Champions began to flood through the streets and creep toward Jun and his friends. He felt very small, and very weak.

The trio tightened defensively, but they knew it was a last stand.

Fidelis looked at Jun for a moment, and started to speak, when a HOWL broke the clamor. But it did not come from him.

Every head in the arena turned to try and find the source of the song. But then another joined. And another– and another. The entire arena seemed to be filled with the baying of Fenrir, a sound like a hurricane bearing down on the Champions below. The howls were not coming from a single voice– but from everywhere at once.

For all around the arena stood Fenrir. The priest of the Temple stood atop the wall where Jun had tried to rally the people. As he drew his arms up in defiance, another Fenrir appeared: a blacksmith, ready with hammer in hand. And a Fenrir stevedore, heavily muscled, and wearing the heavy leather belts of the docks. More and more emerged from the tunnels and archways surrounding the arena, bearing clubs, chains and axes.

Up in the Imperial box, Myvonigan fumed. “Get this rabble out of here, Your Excellency. They’re making a mockery of the games.”

The Emperor raised his eyebrow and shrugged. “You love to run your mouth about how elite your Champions are. Time to see if you’ve been telling me the truth.”

Myvonigan’s mouth gaped, and his face drained of blood. The Emperor signaled to Primo, who told the guards and myrmidons to stand down.

The Fenrir army tensed, and then as a unit, they leapt down into the arena and charged Myvonigan’s Champions.

From the crowd, a clamorous cheer shook the very walls of the Colosseum. The fans roared and splashes of ale and dried geckoid flew into the air in the total chaos of their frenzy.

Down below the Fenrir and Champions clashed with a fury of thuds and clanging swords, the sound of splintering wood shields, and shrieks of death and victory. A charging Karkadon knocked aside a Fenrir, while two others rode atop his back, burying their fangs in his neck and shoulders. A Whisperer with a thorn-whip dragged a Fenrir by the neck through the dust, and was in turn speared by the wolf priest. Two agile Fenrir fighters befuddled an Il’gra, whose heads knocked together and caused it to stumble onto the sand, while the wolves hacked and speared at it. Everywhere in the arena, the fighting was like a storm of swords and heroes rose and fell in an instant.

Ilona jumped in front of Jun, taking the brunt of a Grondal club. Her body sprawled into clouds of dust, and Jun scrambled to stay with her, while Fidelis bit down hard on the Grondal’s metal arm. His yelp of displeasure pierced Jun’s ears, but two Fenrir charged the troll, and its knees buckled.

Jun helped Ilona begin to stand, her body riddled with punctures and gashes– when a familiar chromium spear pierced her heart, and sunk deep into the ground, pinning her like a butterfly. A Sadaari sailed down to finish Ilona off, hatred in her eyes.

“A suitable fate for a traitor. I have pierced your heart with the filthy weapon of the Fenrir, Ilona,” she hissed. “Now will you be purged from our memory, our speech. The traitorous bitch, who in the end did not even love her own sisters,”

“I loved my child more,” Ilona said, black blood leaking from her mouth.

The Sadaari opened her jaws to tear Ilona’s throat out, when suddenly she shrieked in anguish. Behind her stood Jun, slashing at her wings with Twist. “Get off her!” he shouted.

The warrior turned and, with a sweep of her muscular arm, she raked his face with her claws, and sent him flying backwards.

Jun blacked out for a moment and then, through the wobbly bloody vision, he saw the Sadaari. She stomped toward him, bearing down, still groaning at the desecration of her wings, her jaws outstretched, when she halted in mid-stride. The gleaming silver point of Cort’s chromium spear emerged from her chest.

As she fell, Jun saw Ilona, her hand raised from the effort of throwing the spear. Then she lay back down in the sand and did not move.

Fidelis rushed to her side. All around them, the Fenrir were finishing off Myvonigan’s Champions, who either fled into the depths of the Colosseum or twitched in ragged pieces on the floor.

Ilona saw Jun and Fidelis looking down at her in concern. “We’ll take you to the Ascension Temple, Ilona,” said Jun. “Just hang on.”

But Ilona saw another face there next to them. A proud smile. A child’s happy arms reached out toward her.

“No,” she said. “I am going somewhere else now.”

“You saved our lives, Ilona,” said Fidelis. He bowed, and nuzzled her with the crown of his head.

The boy welcomed her forward. Mama…

The other Fenrir began to gather around Ilona: the dread Sadaari commander, who had caused them so much pain and death, the source of their sorrow. Fidelis touched her ancient face gently. This was the warrior who had carved scars into his body, the ghost of his nightmares, and he cradled her head as gently as a baby.

Her Essence began to drift up from her chest, small tendrils of what was left of Ilona. Fidelis felt her energy enter his body, an ancient mystical transfer of life that even the priests of the Ascension Temple did not understand. But in that moment, he knew her heart. Who she had been before. Her strength. Her sorrow. Her spirit.

She looked up into his eyes for a final forgiveness. “Fidelis,” she whispered. “I return the strength I stole from you.”

***

Epilogue

***

Jun made his way through the Imperial palace, with no small amount of trepidation. A few bandages still covered the worst of his injuries, but most of them had healed. His eye remained wounded, shut tight. Which made his attempts to find his way even more difficult.

An Imperial page, dressed much as Roland had been when they first met, guided him up the stairs, to the private sitting rooms of the Imperial elite.

Jun wondered if he would ever leave this place. The victory at the Colosseum had brought him and Fidelis much love and adoration in the streets. But he imagined the Emperor might see things differently. And that difference of perspective might result in Jun spending some time in Yujin’s former cell.

The page indicated where Jun should sit: a long bench, draped in royal purple. He sat there for some time, gazing at the view over all of Massina, as the breeze danced with the gauzy draperies.

He heard footsteps and a tall, imposing figure entered. He stood immediately as the Emperor poured himself a cup of wine. “Care for a drink?”

Jun almost shook his head, then remembered it wasn’t wise to say no to the Emperor. “Thank you, Excellency.”

The Emperor poured them both himself. There were no servants, which struck Jun as odd. The tall man brought him a goblet of fine silver, and a small smile played across his strong profile.

“You’ve made yourself a new fan,” he smirked. “You’ve doubled business for the Necromancer; he’ll be rolling in tokens for some time.”

Jun swallowed hard. “Thank you, Excellency.”

The Emperor paused for a moment. Then shrugged and carried on. “I must compliment you, both for your surprising rise as a trainer, and your unorthodox performance in the Colosseum. It’s not often I see a Maestro jump into the ring with his Champion.”

Jun nodded. “Fidelis isn’t just my Champion. He’s my friend– um, sir. Your Excellency.”

The Emperor laughed. He noted the wound on Jun’s face. “And now you’re a matched set.”

As he walked to the window, he continued, sipping at his wine. “You’ve shown more than excellence as a Maestro; you put your life on the line. Men like Myvonigan will never be capable of that kind of bravery.”

The Emperor turned to face Jun again. “Which is why there is no longer any place for him here. He has… stepped down as the Imperial Maestro. And that means… the position is open.”

Jun considered this. Far from being thrown into the dungeon, he was being offered a place in the Emperor’s retinue. A position of power, influence, wealth. He’d never sleep in the rain, again. He could give Fidelis the kind of rehabilitation and training to make him a legendary Champion.

But Yujin and Roland were still fugitives. They had shared a surreptitious meal or two on the outskirts of Massina. The Emperor was still cracking down hard on opposition. He was still the man who had been prepared to execute Yujin without a second thought, even though she had spared his life.

The Emperor was strong and some might even say honorable, but he was not merciful. So, wrestling with all his instincts, Jun deflected: “I’ll think about it.”

This caught the Emperor by surprise. “I’m not impressed with your cheek, boy. There is a war coming, and I need to know which side you’re on.”

“Me?” said Jun. “Why me?”

“Because people like you understand what it means to give everything. You understand bravery. You act from commitment and loyalty” said the Emperor. “You have revealed those rare qualities to me in the most dangerous of crucibles: the Colosseum.”

His face and his voice became very grave. “This war could devour Massina, unless we all stand united against him.”

“Who?” Jun’s heartbeat quickened.

The Emperor took a deep breath. “Maiax, the Shadowwalker, has returned.”

Post Credits

Somewhere in Massina City, in the small streets behind the Library of the Arcane, in a tiny colosseum, the warrior girds himself for battle.

His helmet, made from an old soy sauce dish. His sword, a toothpick carved from an Aos fingerbone.

The arena, the remains of an old wagon wheel, lying in the gutter.

The orange cramster sneers at his opponent, a hulking Sumonot, and readies himself.

You were my lord, my captain and my king, he ruminates. I do not know why you gave me away. But I shall survive and prove myself worthy.

The gathering crowd of geckoids, cramsters and sumonots begin to chant his name. BLUB! BLUB! BLUB!

I will return to you, and show you I am worthy. The cramster grits his teeth and grips his sword in his tiny fuzzy hand. Whatever it takes. However much cheese. I WILL RETURN TO YOU, MY BRAVE MAESTRO!

Then stuffing a final piece of cheese in his mouth, with a glorious shout, he leaps forward into the jaws of death!

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