Thirty turns of the glass had passed. My mind lay barren, a wasteland void of thought. Silence reigned. And in that stillness, Fidi watched, mirth curling his lips, his eyes alight with cruel delight. Then, with a laugh that echoed through the halls, he shattered the quietude.

  So his blood courses through my veins? That wretch existing is an affront to the gods themselves. No. No. No. I shall not accept it. I let forth a laugh, yet there was no joy within it—only the hollow ring of utter disbelief. In haste, my hand found the dagger within my tagari, and without hesitation, I drew it against my flesh. My forearm parted, the crimson fluid spilling forth, and Fidi’s laughter swelled until tears marked his unholy face. I could feel the surge of pain, yet, as the blood seeped from me, so too did my stupor, and clarity returned.

  “Why have I come to this place?” I whispered, my voice swallowed by the grand emptiness. I sought belonging, a place where I might root myself. And now, here stands the wretched sire of my being—not a father, but a mere giver of seed. They may take me in. No, they shall take me in. Yet, do I desire such a fate? No. To hell with this yearning for belonging! If it demands that I become a monster to be among them, then let the yearning be cast into the abyss.

  The two men gazed upon me as I gathered myself. My mother deserved not the torment that befell her. Yet I must not falter. I must not surrender my wrath to them as a final jest at my expense.

  His very presence was a blight upon my soul. I turned, feet guiding me away. Fidi still laughed, unburdened, and Barrett... I did not look upon his countenance, nor did I wish to.

  Beyond the castle walls, I wandered into the Agora. Sleep had long abandoned me, yet I pressed forward, for the certainty of purpose had sustained me. But now, stripped of direction, where might I go? Return home? What home? The land of Edel is no home of mine. A sigh escaped my lips. I was weary yet wakeful, lost within the labyrinth of my own making. And the blood I had so thoughtlessly shed had left me weak. The blade had steadied my mind, yet the cost had been paid in my own blood.

  Tearing a strip from the garment beneath my cloak, I bound the wound. My vision blurred. My senses dulled. The stench of dragon’s blood clung to me, a foul odor that marked me as other. What course should I now take?

  As my steps meandered, an inn arose before me. “What is the cost of a night’s rest?” I inquired, my voice fashioned into that of a Boshaft. The mistress of the house, an aged woman with a voice coarse and shrill, eyed me.

  “Two silver coins, child,” she answered.

  She bore the likeness of the man I had left behind, yet I did not recoil. In truth, there was beauty in her visage. But I lingered not, pressing onward into the city’s depths, seeking means to buy me shelter.

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  An hour’s passage brought me before a curious edifice—a grand structure of elliptical form, hewn from marble and concrete, its arches and columns rising in defiance of time. Above the grandest arch, the inscription read Crimson Crucible.

  Curiosity guided my feet within, and I beheld a gathering vast beyond reckoning—fifty thousand souls, if not more, bearing witness to a spectacle of violence. The arena stretched beyond sight, grand enough to hold twice the number currently present. The sun rode high as two warriors clashed at the heart of the ring, their bodies armored in bronze helmet and garments thickly padded. Each bore a sword in their right arm, the only part left unprotected. The blade's form was unfamiliar to me. I had never held such a weapon, yet I read in great detail about it in the Library of Whispers.

  Beside me, a man sighed with longing. “Ah, how I wish it were I upon that field!” The man looked like he was in his early twenties. His companion, a woman, scoffed. “You should have registered when I bid you, fool!”

  How might I glean from them the knowledge I sought without arousing suspicion?

  Feigning kinship, I sighed, mirroring the man’s lament. “You as well? I, too, did not register when the time was ripe.”

  “Tch! We could have faced one another in battle and earned a fortune!” the man cried.

  “I know! But tell me, how great a fortune might we have won? My memory fails me.” I asked.

  “It changes each year, so you are forgiven. For a single victory, one earns ten silver coins—one gold in sum.” the woman said.

  Silently, I wished the woman well, for her knowledge.

  “Gold for battle, and not even death as its price—only wounds?” The man groaned in dismay. “Ah! Why did I not register sooner?”

  A worthwhile discovery. The risk was measured; the reward, sufficient. I could bear and participate in this bloodshed, tangles with fary, if it meant securing food and shelter. But registration had long passed. What recourse remained?

  A thought, reckless yet promising, took hold. “What if we were to force our way in?”

  The woman considered. “It is not unthinkable. Those marked as criminals are bound to fight, their names but shadows in the records. But for us? We have our pride. I would rather not pose as a criminal.”

  A plan unfurled before me, dark in its promise. I tried to smirk, laughter curling my lips. “What is pride when one may revel in the ruin of the weak?” I asked. I felt pure disgust.

  They stared, silent. The man then spoke, his voice edged with judgement. “True enough. Yet for us, Boshaft pride of being superior is paramount. I can smell the violence within you from all that blood.”

  No more words passed between us.

  For an hour more, I watched—studying the way of the sword, the art of war. And as the sun reached its zenith, I made my choice.

  Into the madness, I would descend.