Paragon of Destruction

That the man was stronger than him was clear, but even then, he should have been able to at least put up a fight. Yet instead, he had fallen for what appeared to be a simple magical feint.

His opponent had distracted him with a fireball, then used the distraction to hit him with some other kind of magic — Earth, perhaps? — and take him out before he could recover.

It was a simple and seemingly well-practiced tactic that had left him completely flummoxed, and in a real battle, it would have cost him his life before he even knew what had happened.

That he had encountered the tactic now instead of later could almost be considered lucky, but then, knowing about it would only help him if he found some way to counter it.

With a sigh, he stepped past the guards at the exit of the arena, and into the mass of people that waited beyond.

The crowd was loud and rowdy, so thick it was impossible to walk even a step without bumping into someone, and some of the people within it shouted at Arran in anger — gamblers who had bet on him, he guessed.

Yet even if Arran wasn’t strong enough to win the tournament, he wasn’t quite so weak that he couldn’t force his way through a crowd, and he did so without hesitation.

The few people who tried to get in his way were unceremoniously shoved aside, and soon, he was far enough from the arena to see the crowd around him grow thinner, if only slightly.

"There you are!" someone called out over the noise of the crowd.

Arran looked in the direction of the voice and saw Darkfire making his way toward him through the mass of people.

"Took me a while to find you in this mess," Darkfire said when he finally made it to Arran, gesturing in annoyance at the crowd around them.

"Where’s Liane?" Arran asked, seeing that she wasn’t at Darkfire’s side.

"Some servant came for her," Darkfire replied. "She said we should meet her in the hills outside the city, where the final fights will be."

"We might as well go, then," Arran said. "Get there before the rest of the crowd."

"You don’t want to watch the final fights?" Darkfire asked. "I know you had to throw your fight, but there should still be some good battles to watch."

Arran shook his head. "I didn’t throw the fight. I was defeated."

At this, Darkfire’s eyes went wide with surprise. "That was actually real? He beat you that easily?"

"I didn’t stand a chance," Arran said with a sigh. "He was stronger than me, and his tactics were better, too."

"Huh." A thoughtful expression appeared on Darkfire’s face, and Arran knew what he was thinking. If Arran couldn’t win the tournament, then Darkfire would have even less of a chance. And although Darkfire would stay in Hillfort for some more years, eventually, he was planning to cross the border, too.

"I suppose I’ll have to start training harder," Darkfire muttered, an uncomfortable look on his face.

"Let’s go," Arran said. "I’ve had enough of this place."

He knew it would be better for him to stay and watch the remaining fights, to see if he could learn anything more about the other fighters’ skills and tactics. Yet between his fresh loss and the suffocating thickness of the crowd, he couldn’t bring himself to remain at the northern arena any longer.

Darkfire took a look at Arran, then nodded. "Alright," he said, and Arran was thankful that he didn’t ask any questions.

They began to make their way out of the city, but although the fights hadn’t ended yet, the streets were already filled with people. Apparently, Arran wasn’t the only one who had wanted to avoid the crowds.

Outside the city, the roads were filled with masses that flowed steadily toward the hills, and Arran and Darkfire had little choice but to join them in their sluggish pace.

After what seemed like an eternity in the slow-moving crowd, they finally arrived in the hills.

Immediately, Arran could see why this place had been chosen for the final fights. A group of low hills lay in a rough circle, with a shallow depression lying in between them, forming what looked like a giant natural arena.

Within this arena, preparations for the fights ahead were already underway, with guards keeping the area clear of spectators and servants setting up large tents.

The sides of the hills were filled with numerous small groups of people, most of them groups of youths and families with children, eating and drinking as they cast interested looks at the goings-on at the center of the vale.

It took Arran and Darkfire some time to find Liane, and when they did, they found her sitting in a comfortable bamboo chair, surrounded by servants. It seemed that although she had foregone luxury at the northern arena, she had decided to make up for it during the final part of the tournament.

As they approached, Arran could see a girl sitting in the chair next to Liane. She was short and thin, with jet black hair and ivory-pale skin, and she was dressed in a robe as black as her hair. To Arran’s eyes, she looked to be barely sixteen, if that.

When Arran and Darkfire neared, the girl turned her head toward them, her dark eyes looking at Arran with some curiosity.

"Is that him?" she asked in a soft voice.

"That’s Ghostblade," Liane confirmed.

The girl looked at him intently. "Do you know anything about plants?" she finally asked.

"Plants?" Arran gave her a confused stare.

"I will have to teach you, then," the girl said, a thoughtful look in her eyes. After a moment, she nodded and stood up. "Very well. We should get going."

"Going?" Arran asked, dumbfounded. "Going where?"

The girl frowned. "Liane told me that you were looking for a novice to join," she said. "Someone who could protect you. Was she mistaken?"

"She wasn’t mistaken," Arran said. "But..." For a moment, he went silent, at a loss for words after the unexpected turn of events.

"But you changed your mind?" the girl asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn’t change my mind," Arran said, "but who are you?!"

"Can you give me a moment to talk to him?" Liane cut in, with an apologetic look at the girl.

The girl sighed, then nodded. "Just try to be quick," she said. "I want to leave before the others arrive."

Liane motioned for Arran to follow, then walked away from the group. Arran followed behind her, already wondering what was going on.

When they were a few dozen paces away, Liane turned around. To his surprise, there was a slight smile on her lips, and she looked as if she was rather proud of herself.

"That," she said, speaking in a low voice, "is the Patriarch’s granddaughter."