The journey from Southern Fae Town to the outskirts of Dimside ate up the majority of their day because Colhern took Xala on all sorts of detours. He could tell how much Colhern loved his city, and desperately wished to show off his knowledge of it. Xala appreciated every moment because he both enjoyed Colhern’s presence and the satiation he felt from Vulcan’s lively blood.

  A ferry carried them through the canals across the vast subteranne to the darkest area of Fae Town. Dayrifts offered no light to the area, but in turn it was illuminated better than the rest of the city. Instead of faerie-fire and arcane lanterns, old-school flames burned in the braziers and lamps of Dimside. Xala could feel the lack of magical currents here. It was stark compared to the rest of Fae Town, which seemed to brim with unbridled power.

  It was home to the largest majority of nulls in Fae Town. Despite nulls being accepted everywhere in Fae Town, not every part of it was welcoming to them. Infrastructure that required levitation, a lack of stairwells and amenities, places that simply did not serve nulls, the works. Alas, Dimside had an important distinction. It was also the locus point for criminals convicted of murder against mages. In the courts of law on the surface the murder of anyone is a crime. Even mages, who they segregate into the bowels of the city. The murder of mages do not carry as heavy of sentences. A null who kills a mage might only serve anywhere between two to ten years for the murder. Evidence gets obscured, sentiments make themselves known, and juries often remain lenient toward their own.

  Despite this, no one really wants to live next to a murderer. Regardless of the victim. So, mage-killers find themselves in the outcasts of society. When they cannot find suitable work on the surface they must burrow their heads and go below. When they find Fae Town they are immediately shunned and kicked to the darkness. To Dimside.

  Colhern explained all of this, turned to Xala, and said, “But, don’t worry. You’ll be safe with me.”

  As they ferried by the streets, Xala absorbed the sight of warriors training out in the open, weapons being sold and prized in front of children, and thieves scurrying about with pilfered loot. Men and women with muscles bigger than Xala’s head flexed and quarreled, the warrior culture of Dimside its greatest attribute. Valleying the streets were brick buildings with domed roofs, rather than an abundance of pillars like the rest of Fae Town. There were still pillars of stone that supported the ceiling above, but instead of homes being carved into the rock they wrapped around and up them as obscene displays that reminded Xala of a fungal infestation. Bridges criss-crossed every pillar in a maddening maze high above the ground, while bazaars and merchantmen found paradise amidst the open-door domed buildings on the ground whose insides were full of vendors and customers and communities.

  “Oh my gods! That’s Herne!” A Minobos tauran woman alerted the crowds around her, clapped her hands together, and waved excitedly, “Herne! Herne! I love you!”

  Her shouts got more attention. People looked over the side of the banks and their excitement ricocheted down into the watery corridor. They shouted all sorts of words of encouragement, adoration, and taunts. Colhern received it all with a wave and a smile, as if it was completely normal.

  Meanwhile, Xala’s eyes darted in all directions. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. His fingers fidgeted with his robes. His leg bounced up and down. He stared up at the crowds and saw enemies. Enemies upon enemies. He could feel the excitement, the joy at seeing Colhern, sure, but his mind envisioned what they could hide within their clothes. Did they have firearms, darts, or blades ready to chuck at Xala’s escort?

  Immediately, Xala hated the attention. The talisman around his neck settled his nerves, which otherwise would have been on fire, as he watched the crowds above. In their faces, he saw the lines of Drakul in the streets of Crimsire. His throat felt tight as he remembered them. Their sneers, snarls, growls, profanities, hatred all directly toward him. His left hand went to his right wrist and rubbed and tightened around it idly. He felt his heartbeat quicken.

  The necklace was not powerful enough to suppress his emotions. Least of all his memories. Xala’s lips fractured into a broken smile. Of course he dismissed the enchantment that quieted his mind. Of course he had to do it right before he was assaulted with visions of his humiliation. He closed his eyes. The sound of those cheers became the voices of the Red Empire. Love melted into hatred as he trudged through the muddy streets. Brine assaulted his nostrils as he was paraded alongside the rest of the chattel. He stared at the ground, at the ankles of the man in front of him, as they were led to the Palace.

  Every part of him hated this. He hated it. He hated it all so much. He hated them! How dare they look at him like that?! What gave them the right?! Who were they to be the judges of who wore collars?! He should kill them all! Kill them all! Kill them all!

  Then, he felt an arm around his shoulders. It was gentle. It simply rested against him. The arm tugged him closer to a warm body. His eyes shifted toward the body and looked up to see Colhern’s face.

  Xala had never seen someone look at him that way. It was too gentle, too concerned, too understanding. Xala did not deserve it. His eyes darted, his mind frenzied with thoughts, as he took in every single one of Colhern’s features, the facial muscles that pulled his lips drawn and left his eyes half-lidded, and watched them tug upward into a smile that reached the eyes.

  He could have cried.

  Instead, he rested his head against that warm body, into the offered shoulder, and closed his eyes. He had slaughtered countless people. Stabbed them in the gut and ripped out their innards. Bitten the necks of people who had seen and done atrocities unspeakable. His mind was a cesspool of depraved memories both his own and others’.

  And yet, after all that, after all the horror and bloodshed he’s caused and suffered, he was still weak.

  “Breathe. You’re ok. We’re ok.”

  Xala obeyed, sucked in air through his nostrils and exhaled through his lips, and repeated the process over and over again. And then, the voices became distant. The canal was darker beyond his closed eyelids. The sound of cheers, jeers, and threats diminished.

  “Ok, open ‘em up.”

  Xala obeyed, opened his eyes, and looked around. They were in a tunnel, leading toward a larger chamber on the other side. He turned his head back to see the canal they must have turned from and could not see anyone on the banks from his point of view. He swallowed, turned his head to look at Colhern, and asked, “What just happened?”

  “Well, I could ask you the same thing?”

  He still had his arm around him. He still leaned against his body like a life support. Xala did not mind. Not right now. But, he could not answer.

  “Is it safe to say that was the last straw and you need to recharge?” His gentle, teasing smile made Xala want to become one with the water around them.

  “I,” his lips twitched into an amused smile, but fractured the moment he attempted to sustain it. He could not look at Colhern’s face. The floor of the boat was far more appealing. “I’ve only felt that way one other time.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  His gaze shot up to witness the visage of guilt. Xala raised his hand and cupped Colhern’s cheek, held his face, and spoke sternly, “It is not your fault.” His gaze faltered, lowered, and he spoke painfully, “It’s mine. I, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You,” he bit the inside of his cheek and muttered, the thought of matching Colhern’s stare too impossible to fathom, “You’re too good to me.”

  Another arm wrapped around Xala’s front and he was pulled into a hug. Xala was shocked, almost instinctively squirmed out in a desperate attempt to be free, but realized he was not trapped. He was being held.

  “Shh, don’t say that. I’ve got you.” Colhern whispered. A few beats passed, each one counted by the powerful rhythm of his chest against Xala’s ear, before he said, “Y’know, I like holding you like this.”

  He was at a loss for words. Why? Why did this man want anything to do with him? If he was the casual romantic he hinted himself to be, why did he not see how hopeless Xala was? Why did he want to be so gentle with him?

  “I like this too.”

  Colhern went quiet. It made Xala immediately worried. He glanced up. Barely hidden amusement was not what he expected. They locked eyes for a few silent seconds. Where once soul crushing anxiety clouded his vision, now, his vision clouded with a different emotion. He felt like he was suspended, as though his mind, body, and spirit were atmospheric. His eyes traced the shape of Colhern’s lips, his fingers brushed against the strong arm around his middle, his frame fitted snugly against his, and stole the glances Colhern offered as he looked at Xala in a similar way.

  Their lips would fit perfectly together. Their hands could touch and soothe each other. Their bodies could move as one.

  Xala tilted his head upward, eyes fashioned upon Colhern like a worshipper to a deity. The light of a lantern passed behind Colhern’s head and illuminated him in a fiery halo. A war god. Quan himself could not be as powerful as Colhern was in Xala’s eyes at that moment.

  The boat abruptly halted.

  Xala’s face stumbled into Colhern’s chest, snapped a glare at the ferryman who sat with a smug grin on the end of his boat, and cursed the fact they had reached their destination. The rumbling chuckle he felt against his face did not help. Xala pushed off of him and looked Colhern in the eye. “How long until your match starts?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “Take me somewhere we don’t belong until then.”

  Wolfish delight crossed Colhern’s mug as he grabbed Xala’s hand and led them out of the boat. He waved back at the ferryman who already pushed his boat off the dock and into the waters. The domed chamber they were in was a drop off point. It was secluded and out of the way. Xala figured it was a place combatants could discreetly come and go, affirmed by the facial scanner Colhern used to open a door that led down a hallway and up some stairs.

  A room full of people was further up ahead, clearly other combatants, but Colhern dipped them both into a side tunnel. The brick closed them in from both sides, made them squeeze through narrow gaps in some places, and opened up into a spiral stairwell. They dashed up two steps at a time. Xala’s laughter echoed off the walls and up the glorified pipe. A few flights later, they entered another hallway, another stairwell, another hallway, and finally a balcony.

  The open air kissed Xala’s face, a welcome reprieve from the stale chill below, as they walked out onto a terrace that overlooked Dimside itself. Above them was the empty space a large bell once hung. Below them, three arenas with massive stadiums sprawled out before them. He grabbed hold of a column that upheld the arched, pointy roof and leaned out to get a better look at them.

  The smallest arena was a simple sand base with a metal grate in the center. The grate was stained in fresh and long dried blood. Two warriors currently fought there, eager to prove their worth. The medium-sized ring was a jungle naturescape. He marveled at the dozen warriors who used the environment to their advantage, set up traps for one another, battled in the tree tops, camouflaged themselves in mud and leaves, and cried for glory. Finally, the largest one was a marshland. Xala stared at it and felt a familiarity with it.

  The marshland was a mire of putrid water and fungal trees. Wretched shadows lurked beneath the surface, a cruel energy emanated from its environs, and served as an ultimate testing ground. Beasts lurked within, from chimeras to basilisks. Warriors fought each other as they evaded the monsters whose domain they quarreled within.

  Xala’s eyes glittered from the starry night beneath them. Dimside’s lanterns, ones tethered to the ground and others that floated aimlessly through the buildings and stone pillars, created a sight he wished he could stare at forever. A flame-powered paper lantern gently passed by, moseyed along wind currents, and bobbed up and down whimsically.

  Colhern’s hand found Xala’s. Xala’s eyes found Colhern’s. As they gazed into one another, one eye reflected the lights below and one reflected each other. He felt small. He felt at ease. The wind toyed with their hair and clothes. His scent wafted into his own and merged to form an aroma unlike any other. His other hand joined with his. His back pressed against the column he once held, while he advanced and looked down with adoration etched into every contour. His lips parted to speak. His lips moved closer. Their breaths mingled, their eyes dared the other, and their bodies aligned like the planets.

  Time meant nothing. What were years, days, seconds, compared to the instant they found themselves in? The world fell away save for the parts that made him shine. His touch was the only reality. No looking glass could reflect him as well as his eyes did. No scar could remain unmended past his embrace. No feeling matched him. Stars could rip holes through the world before he looked away.

  “Xala,” he was close. So close. The threads of his iris’s color never looked so lovely. “Do you want this?”

  Every reservation, every memory, every person dissolved beyond Colhern. His mind’s eye, at this moment, held space for one man. His voice could hardly move past his tongue as he said, “Yes.”

  His lips were nova. Their touch against his own caressed his very soul. His hands moved up his arms while he found his waist. He felt like water against stone, wind through a canyon, clouds against skies, pollen across a flowery plane, the world to the moons. His knee pushed between his legs, parted them, so he might get even closer. Their bodies pressed together. Their closed eyelids fluttered. Their lips moved against one another, each one offered the other what they could, and let the other lead. His embrace cooled the furnace of his mind like a summer spring. His touch added fuel to a fire that knew no end. His breath made his own shallow. His hands made him utter nonsense through a kiss he desperately wanted no end of.

  He felt fangs.

  His nose pressed against a snout, before those jaws opened and closed around his throat. He wanted to cry, but he could not breathe. He felt those cruel claws dig into his sides as he took what he wanted. His neglected lips parted in a silent wail, his hands scrambled for purchase, to find a way to make him stop, but nothing worked. No spell, no force, no touch could make him stop.

  He wanted it to stop. He needed it to stop. He couldn’t stop it.

  Tears flowed, the pain too much to bear, as those claws clung to his sides like pockets. His bare flesh was on display and belonged to him. No one else could love him like this. No one else would ever love him. He was all he had. He was all he deserved. He was a monster, and thus, deserved a monster.

  Lacerations marred his body, skin hung from muscle, and blood covered his flesh while lights shone upon that white, scaly, horned, ritually scarred back. Eyes watched from all directions. Smiles glinted in the light. Laughter echoed in the chamber. Morl, around his throat, made his own chuckle as he clamped down a little harder just to feel his pulse quicken.

  And on the verge of death, his lips were against his. His gentle, wonderful lips. His body was pure, painless, and euphoric. Without me, you are nothing. Without me, you are a sad, loveless beast who deserves the chain. I will be your chain. Forever. Alas, he was not here. He was gone. Meanwhile, he was held once more. The hands who held him did not bleed him. They did not bruise him. They welcomed him. They accepted him. They invited him. They wanted him to want them in a soft, tender temptation.

  Thus, he chose them. He chose Colhern.

  When Colhern’s lips attempted to part, Xala chased that touch. His body made a noise of desire, his hands rose up to clutch his back, and he attempted to pull him closer. The thought that this moment could end was anathema, but eventually, it had to.

  Colhern permitted Xala himself a while longer, before he finally pulled away to catch his breath. Their eyes opened, locked, and the world came rushing back into view.

  He stared at Xala with dread. “Oh, are you ok?!” Colhern’s hands found his face and cupped it. Beneath his touch, Xala could feel the tears that must have cascaded down his face.

  He blinked away the wetness in his eyes and laughed. He brought his hands up to Colhern’s, kept them there, and nuzzled against them. They were warm, a bit rough, and shuddered as Xala kissed their palms. His gaze went back to Colhern as he said with a smile, “I’ve never been happier.”

  Relief became the pool of his features. He came forward and kissed away the tears on Xala’s cheeks, both of their worlds condensed once more into the space around their heads. They saw only each other. Colhern spoke softly, “I can’t wait to see you after my fight.”

  Xala’s lips twitched as he looked away. Both of their flushed faces could not get any worse. “I don’t know what I’ll do. All I can think of is you,” his hands moved from Colhern’s down the length of his muscled, toned arms. As he went, he pushed up the sleeves of his jacket and grazed over the faded battle scars. When the jacket refused to give past the elbows, he said, “Soaked in sweat,” his hands moved out from beneath the sleeves, continued across the fabric up his biceps, “Breath heavy,” they slid past the shoulders, along the collarbones, and rested there as Xala looked into Colhern’s eyes, “Blood pumping.”

  He felt the heartbeat across from his own. It thudded in his eardrums. He could smell the internal arousal in the other man. It bled through his cologne. Colhern’s blood rushed to a place pressed against Xala’s stomach. He leaned forward and spoke into Xala’s lips, “You know, you’re all I can think about, too,” his hands went from Xala’s face to his necklace, then the collar of his shawl, tugged the fabric away to expose Xala’s neck, and leaned downward. He planted a soft kiss against his neck.

  Xala made a loud moan, every part of him set on fire in that single kiss. His eyes wetted. Colhern just touched a spot on his neck where, in his Moor form, a deep scar existed. A place that Morl enjoyed carving into each time they laid together. Except, what would have caused a sharp, masochistic whine, now felt euphoric. The flesh was far from sensitive, hardened over the years, but what Colhern did to him was unlike anything else.

  “You like that?” He breathed against his neck, his lips terrorizing him with their scant yet grand proximity.

  “Mhm,” he managed. His hands moved from his collarbones to his neck and the back of his head.

  Colhern kissed his neck again. The same noise escaped. He moved to the other side, did it again, and caused a different, but similar sound. Xala felt like he was on fire. Desire shrouded his mind.

  Until, it abruptly ended.

  Colhern lifted himself, stepped away, and gave Xala a smug expression.

  Xala stared up in disbelief, pushed off the column, grabbed Colhern by the jacket, and pulled him down to say, “Why’d you stop?”

  “Because, I’m just getting started.” He kissed Xala’s forehead, “And, it’s almost time.”

  Xala sighed, felt the arousal in his mind and body, and groaned as he stepped away from Colhern and looked out over the arenas. “Well. You’ve got me worked up, and I can’t even relieve myself. That was very cruel of you.”

  “Hey, it’s not all my fault. It’s not like I prefer going into fights horny.”

  Xala grimaced at his choice of words. He mauled over an idea, smirked, and said, “You know, a good way to distract from that feeling is an adrenaline rush.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Xala grabbed Colhern’s hand. He raised his other, twirled two fingers in the air, and generated a spell from his fingertips. It flourished to life, warped and fractured into dozens of runes, sent them around the pair like a hoard of butterflies, and made the runes descend upon their clothes.

  Xala looked toward the confused man beside him, gave a trickster’s smile, and snapped his fingers.

  The runes activated. The ones on their backs emitted a bright light as they provided a forceful push. Xala and Colhern blasted off of the balcony and into the open air. Colhern’s scream matched Xala’s laughter as they free fell directly toward the small arena. At the same time, Xala cast an invisibility spell over both of them to remain hidden from the nulls below.

  Xala used the runes to twirl them through the air, grabbed Colhern’s other hand, and spun in flight with him. He laughed as they fell through the atmosphere. Wind whipped at their bodies, the noise of the crowd got closer, and the light of spectacle and merriment bent around them. He modified his spell so that their eyes were visible. Xala looked into Colhern’s, both of theirs wide but filled with different emotions. Colhern’s were full of shock and fear. When he looked into Xala’s, and saw the thrill within them, that shock and fear gave way to hesitant adrenal joy.

  When the crowd of people below were close enough to hear their conversations, Xala abruptly warped them out of free-fall. As they teleported, their minds and bodies reconfigured, shifted, and adjusted to the sudden change in speed. A form of teleportation that reduced whiplash, in exchange for something far more nausea inducing, but not neck-snapping.

  They reappeared in the hallway they started in, between the docks and the chamber full of combatants. Xala’s invisibility spell fell away when no one was looking.

  Their hair was windblasted and untamed, their clothes not much different, and their breath heavy. Xala raised his hands and cheered as he savored the rush, grabbed Colhern’s face, and pulled him down into a celebratory kiss.

  “You thought I was going to drop you, didn’t you?” Finally, he had a chance to be devilishly smug.

  “Hah,” Colhern heaved and shook his head. “No. I knew I was safe. Well, kind of.” He grabbed Xala’s hand and walked them closer to the warrior’s hall.

  “Herne!” A Minobos tauran welcomed from his seat. Around him was an array of weapons from different nations, cultures, styles, and martial schools. He held dual battle axes in his hands, but his size made them look like oversized hatchets. “Hah, there you are. So, is this why you were almost late?” He held out his hand and pointed at the couple with the blade of his axe.

  Xala smiled politely as he inspected the room itself. It was a massive chamber, full of training areas and three separate, small rings people actively sparred within. The smell of sweat and blood permeated the space, the latter sent Xala’s senses alight. He restrained himself as he followed the architecture, whose bricks encircled the space while the ceiling above was their own separation from the arenas and crowds above. The walls of the hall were covered in etched names. They were names of fallen gladiators. Crimsire’s colosseum had a similar tradition. Above the names were red banners that had the silver insignia of a creature with the head of a woman, the wings of a hawk, upper torso of a lion, and the bottom half of a snake — the mythical Sphinerala, the sphinx-serpent.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Metal clashed around him, conversations muttered in between strikes, and eyes glanced his way with a mixture of desire and envy. Though, as he followed their gazes, he realized Colhern was the one they envied. That made him a tad flattered.

  “Twinaxe,” Colhern addressed the Minobos, walked toward him, and let go of Xala’s hand as he reached toward the weapon rack and plucked out a spear. He spun it in his hand, tested its weight, and looked toward Twinaxe. “Did you sharpen it?”

  Xala heard the name, forced a poker face, but wanted to giggle at the ease with which he must have come up with the name.

  “Nah, newbie did,” he thumbed behind him at the comically small Dreaful goblin on the stool with a dagger and whetstone in hand. Xala only met one another Dreaful in his lifetime, and smiled toward the ugly, malformed creature. Unlike Osha goblins, who were comparable to thin dwarves, the Dreafuls had four fingers on their hands, three on their feet, bulbous heads full of scraggly, untamable hair, wicked scowls, and rat-like tails. The fact they were the same species, and perhaps even the original goblin species, perplexed scholars around the globe during Xala’s time. They were exceptionally rare too. “Scamp, you almost done with that dagger?”

  “Yessir!” His high pitched, nasaly voice squeaked out from his many-fanged mouth with a slight hiss. Scamp made the last few passes of the metal against the stone, gently rubbed it with a cloth, and handed it out for Thunderhoof to take. “Here ya go, sir!”

  “Twinaxe, call me Twinaxe,” he took the dagger, held it up to his eyeline, and inspected it with a jeweler’s skepticism.

  Meanwhile, Xala approached the rack and observed the weapons, turned on his heels to face Scamp, leaned down, and asked, “Tell me, Scamp, do you know a goblin named Diagdosor?”

  “Woah! Misser, I haven’t heard that name in a long time! Yeah, I know him. Though, he hasn’t been ‘round the Bone Yards in a long time! But, eh, you seem familiar?”

  Xala provided Scamp a calm, cold gaze. Twinaxe twisted around in his seat and held the dagger out for him to take, “Aight, you did well. Keep it up.”

  “Oh, thank you sir!” Scamp took the blade, set it off to the side for arrangement later, and reached for a sword to take to the nearby grindstone. He looked over his shoulder at Xala, curious as he watched the elf, before he took up his seat and got back to work.

  “I want to speak with him further. Is that alright?”

  Twinaxe seemed confused, but shrugged and said, “Fine by me. You won’t take long, I bet. You’ve got Herne’s match to catch.”

  Colhern crossed his arms and smirked, “Why do you seem familiar to him?” He leaned closer to Xala and teased him with a whisper, “You some kind of criminal where he knows you from?”

  Xala dismissed Colhern’s playful accusation with a wave of his hand, “I’m not sure, but if he thinks so, I’d like to know!”

  “Alright, I’m gonna go get ready. See me off by the elevators,” he pointed across the room at the terminal point where nearly a dozen elevators led. They were larger and more accommodating than the ones at Colhern’s building, but they still made Xala shudder a little. Colhern gave Xala a kiss on the cheek and jogged off to get the rest of his equipment.

  When he was gone, Twinaxe leaned over and said, “You’re special, y’know? I’ve seen the people Herne brings around here, and he never looked at them the way he does you.”

  “Really? We met yesterday. I figured that’s how he was with everyone.”

  “Ha-ha. I’m serious. But, at the same time, if he ever treats you wrong, look around. I bet half the guys in here are desperate to treat ya right. In whatever way they know how.”

  He was not used to that. He had noticed the stares he got in public, the watchful eyes of the crowd, the double takes people took when they saw this pretty face of his. It was strange. He had never experienced such a thing in Crimsire. “Well, thank you for letting me know.” He frowned slightly. “You seem to know him well. If he looks at me the way you say, why? What do you think he sees in me?”

  Twinaxe’s jaw shifted as he mauled over the question, offered a slightly concerned look, and huffed through his bovine snout, “I think that’s something you oughta’ ask him. He usually reads people pretty well. I’ve seen him meet a new combatant, size ‘em up, and tell me their life story after that first glance. He’s usually pretty accurate. So, if he did the same to you, I imagine he likes what he thinks he found.”

  “He cannot use magic. How is he capable of clairvoyance?”

  “Nah, ain’t that. It’s just a gut feeling, he says. But, what do I know? Maybe he has some magic blood in him afterall, and it just comes out as,” he frowned, “Whatever you said.”

  Clearly. That had to be it! Although, if Colhern was truly capable of clairvoyance, why in the world did he like Xala? Was he, deep down, as troubled and twisted?

  “Thank you.” He turned to head toward Scamp.

  He took a seat on a stool next to the grindstone Scamp worked at, leaned over to get a better look at him, and said, “I’m afraid I don’t remember you, sir. I apologize, if I should. You said Diagdosor hasn’t shown himself in the Bone Yards in some time?”

  “Yup, haven’t seen him in centuries. Er, and, yes, you shouldn’t remember me. I was Diagdosor’s messenger to you! I was tasked with making sure you got those letters, no matter what the Emperor’s precautions were!”

  “Ah, no wonder I always received them on time. So many other letters were lost to me. At one point, I figured only he was sending me anything. Thank you. Your efficiency saved me many times.”

  “Heh, yes.” Scamp frowned. “I am sorry I could not do more, then.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, you needed help. Desperately. And, I did nothing but deliver your letters.”

  “I don’t see why you should be sorry for that,” he smiled. “After all, are you particularly skilled at magic?”

  “Not a lick!”

  “Then, there you are. There was no way you could have freed me. Regardless, if you still feel guilt, I’ll forgive you in exchange for Diagdosor’s whereabouts.”

  “Ah, mm, then I’m afraid I won’t have your forgiveness today, misser. He’s been missing since the Collapse. He didn’t die, since he didn’t show back up in the Bone Yards, but nobody’s located him in a long time. That’s not exactly a-typical for us, since it’s only been four centuries, but I had started to mourn him in the last decade. If I see him, is there anything you’d like me to tell him?”

  “I just wanted to thank him. His letters were lights in a darkness I needed. Our talks liberated me. His philosophies entranced me. Since then, I’ve had a lot of time to think about them all.”

  “Hm, I’m sure he’ll enjoy hearing that. Oh, it seems your man’s fight is about to start! Best not be late! But, before you go, can I ask what happened to you? I was long gone before the cataclysm. I haven't seen many folk I recognize from Okra since.”

  “I myself am hazy on that bit of trivia. I only woke up from a long, very long lucid dream in the middle of the ocean yesterday, right off the docks of Fillman Port.”

  “Ho-ho!” He exclaimed, leaned forward, and excitedly whispered, “So it was you? With them fishies?”

  “Ah, so you also knew what I was doing back in Crimsire? My nighttime sorceries?”

  “Uh, yeah! I was Diagdosor’s messenger. Y’know, willing errand boy of the greatest Dread Lord our people knew? I saw what you did from time to time. You were always very impressive.”

  “Thank you. If you had seen what those investigators found, you likely wouldn’t have recognized the craftsmanship. I worked with what I had.”

  “No shame in that, sir! Well, lovely chatting with you. I wish you luck in this strange new world. But, it seems luck already favors you.”

  Xala bid farewell, walked through the hall, past the warriors who looked up from their spars and training sessions to observe his passing, and headed directly for Colhern. He did not mind this sort of attention. In fact, he was fascinated by it. Was his elven person-suit truly that mesmerizing? Was it truly that captivating? When he sank his fangs into this soul’s throat and drained him of his soul, he did not find him all that lovely. Then again, that was when he was very young. One of his first kills. He would have been too young to think the man attractive. Perhaps he needed to look in the mirror again and inspect himself more closely.

  “Col, I’ve been meaning to ask, why are you named after a spirit of the hunt? Last I heard, he was a patron guardian of the Elm-Kin.” He asked Colhern when he got close enough. He needed to distract himself from how good Colhern looked in those breathable shorts and bandaged limbs. He marveled at how scantily clad he was, even though he wielded a shield and spear like warriors of old. Had combat advanced to such a state that martial arts no longer required armor? Xala’s eyes roamed over the exposed skin. His body was free of ink, but gave way to countless battle scars. Nicks and cuts from training and fighting over the years. His eyes studied each and every one he could without seeming too inappropriate.

  “What? Doesn’t fit? I figured Herne was a good replacement for Colhern. And, I guess he’s a symbol I’ve always liked. Can’t use magic, but can defend his homeland and people from all threats. Even when the Moors tried to invade Yakov, they say he appeared in the final battle and used nothing but his spear to kill a legion of undead and wizards. What null fighter wouldn’t like the sound of that?”

  “I see the appeal, but I hope you don’t have an interest in killing wizards. It’d be rather hypocritical. Unless, of course, you mean to conduct foul play in my sleep?”

  “Ooo, do I hear a possible scenario?” Colhern stepped closer, whispered his next words, and gave Xala a sultry gaze, “Do you want me to pretend I’m a mage-killer? I’d find you, trapped in the woods, unable to break out of my trap. Except, I can’t kill you. Instead, I need you?”

  Xala’s speechlessness, as per usual, made Colhern burst out laughing.

  “Think about it.” Colhern nodded toward a towel-boy off to the side, “Hey, Rasid, help Xala find a front row seat to my fight, will ya’? Look for my usuals, he’ll sit with them.”

  “Yes, Herne, sir!” Rasid, a frail Hokuhou human, jogged forward as he used his watch to send a few messages across the Lyceum.

  Colhern moved his spear into the elbow of his shield arm, wrapped his free hand around Xala’s waist, and pulled him close. Immediately, Colhern’s scent flooded Xala’s nose once more. Except, now, it was liberated. The fabric obstructed something more natural that made his lips quiver.

  “You gonna cheer for me?”

  “I will, but I can’t promise I’ll be the loudest.”

  “Heh, that’s fine. I’ll keep an ear out for yours. It’ll be the only one that matters.” He gave Xala a quick kiss on the cheek. He wanted so much more, but Colhern stole the chance away from him as he stepped onto the elevator that led to the smallest arena, winked, and ascended.

  Xala flexed his hands, looked toward Rasid, who was a bit starstruck, and asked, “Are we ready to go?”

  “Uh, yeah. Right this way, sir.” Rasid turned on his heels and led Xala toward an elevator off to the side.

  A hidden doorway later, Xala was out among the crowds of Dimside’s Arena. Their roars vibrated the very air they breathed. He held his hands behind his back as he walked behind Rasid, down the flight of stairs that separated their seats, toward the front row. As he neared, he could smell the blood from the arena. The previous battle had just concluded, and the announcer shouted from the speakers, “WELCOME TO THE ARENA! Now, I know you’ve been waiting for this fight all night! On one end of the ring, we have a Champion who has held his title for nearly a decade! Many of foes have been fallen by his magic-blocking broadsword, will our opposing contestant stand a chance?! Give it up for PERUN!”

  From the left side, an Oba human suited up in half armor stepped out from the gates. He wore a sleek breastplate, greaves, boots, and a gauntlet on his right hand, the one that held his broadsword. Xala stared at that blade and felt immense disgust toward it. It was a filthy thing that emitted filthy energies. Or, more accurately, consumed energy. It was a hungry thing that nullified the air around it. Any arcane charge Xala sensed was equalized and snuffed out in its presence. The man himself had salt and pepper hair, looked quite well built for his middle age, and had a well kept beard that both obscured and made his appearance. A vertical scar went across the left side of his face, narrowly missed his eyeball, and added to his overall gruffness.

  “Hey Xala!” Lilith called out to him from the front row, over the loud cheers of the crowd, where she, Wakatya, and Brook all sat. She launched to her feet, walked up to meet Rasid and him, and leaned forward to give Rasid a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks Rasid! We’ve got him now, have a good one!” She grabbed Xala’s arm and dragged him back to their seats, which left a very flustered man behind.

  “On the other end of the ring, you know and love him folks! His spear and shield made him the youngest undefeated Champion in this arena’s history! Give it up for HERNE!”

  Colhern stepped into the arena. He somehow seemed even more lethally gorgeous surrounded by the bloody sand and brutalist design of the small arena. The lights bled across his body in a way that caught every contour of his muscles. Xala could not look away.

  The roar of the crowd, loud enough to blow out his eardrums, forced itself into his attention.

  A thunderstorm would have had more politeness toward the neighbors of the arena. If these people loved him this much without actually knowing him, or even his real name, then what had Xala signed himself up for?

  “Champions! Ready your weapons! BEGIN!”

  Herne bolted. Xala’s mouth fell open as he watched him cross the gap between him and Perun in seconds. He must have covered over thirty meters in two seconds! Perun also moved forward, but not nearly with the same speed. Herne lept into the air, his feet as high as Perun’s head, and drove his spear forward.

  His broadsword swiped upward, batted the spear out of the way, and Perun launched forward with his fist for an uppercut.

  Herne held his shield out, in the direct path of the fist.

  Perun’s uppercut turned into a sideways block, where he parried with his bicep, sending Herne past him while he skidded in the other direction. His sword spun in his hand and jabbed forward while Herne’s back was turned.

  When Herne landed, he spun his right leg backwards and up, launched it into Perun’s side, and sent him reeling backward. Herne was already moving, low to the ground, spun around to face Perun, and pushed his spear upward to catch him unaware.

  As the spear headed for his arm, a part that was unprotected, Perun side stepped and parried the momentum to drive his broadsword down toward Herne’s face. Herne launched himself backwards, used his shield as a platform to catch his fall, and used it to tumble backwards back onto his feet. In the second he landed, his spear launched forward from his hand in an attempt to increase his range.

  Perun flipped his blade to the broadside, held it up, and the point of the spear was masterfully deflected along the angle of the sword opposite from Perun.

  Right before it flew out of his hand, Herne caught the end of his spear, pulled it backwards to catch it in the middle, and stepped forward again to jab at Perun’s stomach.

  Before it struck, Perun used his free hand to catch the shaft of the spear, pushed himself up and forward, and swung his broadsword toward Herne’s neck.

  Herne lifted his feet off the ground and fell.

  For a split second, they were both airborne.

  Herne’s body fell to the ground, the sword’s swing finding nothing to hit, as Herne landed on his shield, used it as a platform once more, and contorted his body to throw both of his feet into Perun’s gut in a brutal kick.

  The impact made a guttural noise come out of Perun as he folded against that kick, fell backwards, and held his stomach as he spun himself back onto his feet in a reeling fashion.

  Herne kicked his legs the opposite direction with enough force to lift himself back off the ground, onto his knees, and a final vertical launch to get back on his feet. He spun his spear with a calm look on his face. He did not sneer, did not boast, did not even grin. His eyes were too focused, his lips drawn into a flat line, his breathing heavy but controlled through his nose.

  Xala could barely speak as he held his hands in his lap.

  Perun’s recovery did not take long. He went on the defensive to Herne’s ballistic barrage of strikes, but when his stomach no longer ached he became his own sort of whirlwind. His heavy swings and efficient defense negated and parried Herne’s quick movements over and over again. The crowd sat on the edges of their seats. Holograms of their fights illuminated the sky above the arena, where the details of their skirmish were visible for people in the highest and furthest seats. The hologram kept up well, but there were some points where both of them became blurs of motion, too fast and nuanced for the systems to pick up.

  Meanwhile, from Xala’s front row seat, he saw every movement. Every fluid motion demanded his attention. He did not sense any magic. Was human anatomy capable of such speed and lethality? Earlier, when he smelled Colhern’s blood, he did not detect any performance enhancers or elicit chemicals. He was all natural.

  Give and take, push and pull, a motion as seismic and elegant as the movement of mountains and continents across time, all while being as fast and rugged as the monsoon winds. The sand and blood beneath their feet vanished as they became celestials quarreling among the clouds.

  Perun wanted Herne to burn out. To exhaust the stamina in a battle of attrition. The moment Herne began to slow down, Perun initiated the second phase of the fight. His strikes immediately became volleys of strikes and jabs, his steps sidewinded through the sand, his stances changed in a myriad of confusion, his strikes became harder to react to, and Herne was on the defensive. Herne bounced on his feet, moved his body in quick bursts, but did not try to get too far away. He was being led by Perun into the center of the ring, where they both stood over the metal grate blood drained into.

  Herne angled his body sideways, to reduce the amount of surface area Perun could strike, while he began to move in a circular motion around Perun. Perun’s assault never ended, even when he nicked and sliced up and down Herne’s shield arm whenever he could not raise it in time. Perun’s jabs alternated between slashes and pierces, over and over, as his assault wore down Herne’s ability to deflect and dodge.

  Perun was too close for Herne to adequately use his spear.

  Everything was in Perun’s favor. Herne was visibly exhausted, his movements were slowing down, and the crowd was a motley of silent awe and loud cheers.

  Herne pulled his spear back, let it fly backwards, caught it just beneath the blade, and used it like a dagger. He began to parry, each swing met with a stab toward the chest. Perun had to step back, switch sword hands, and match those stabs. He parried and deflected them, but Herne’s shield also became a weapon of its own to bash and batter at Perun’s side. Perun stepped away from these bashes repeatedly until Herne led them in a circular dance around the rim of the blood grate.

  Herne’s exhaustion was a front. His speed only increased now. His stabs became lightning strikes that forced Perun even further back, step by step, his broadsword no longer efficient enough to stop the cuts that spawned across his body.

  Finally, in a last ditch effort, Perun bashed Herne’s dagger hand with an elbow and drove his sword forward, directly toward Herne’s forehead. Meanwhile, Herne’s dagger found the space just below Perun’s jaw.

  Then, they stopped. Right before the killing blows were dealt.

  “DRAW!”

  In Xala’s time, a battle that did not end in death was rapturously hated. Every member of the crowd would rather throw stones to kill them both than to see a draw.

  But, as the uproar ensued, Xala once again proved himself outdated.

  “WELL DONE, CHAMPIONS! Please, return to your battlemasters and enjoy your rest, you’ve earned it!”

  Xala’s eyes narrowed. That was short. He remembered gladiators who had to skirmish a dozen times before they even had a drop of water. He supposed that was the difference between fighters for sport and fighters for spectacle. And, the fighters chose to be here, he imagined.

  Lilith cheered the loudest beside him, Wakatya and Brook followed suit on the other side of her. Xala realized he was the only odd one out, stood up, and clapped excitedly. He caught Colhern’s eye and smiled. He was satisfied to see him alive. Colhern nodded and waved his way.

  Herne and Perun exited in the same direction, clapped each other on the back, and walked in unison as comrades.

  Lilith broke Xala’s concentration as she grabbed his shoulders and cheered, “Wasn’t that amazing!” She leaned in closer and whispered, “Betcha he enjoyed showing off for you.”

  “Ha, I enjoyed it. A lot.” He could feel the heat in his face.

  “Awww,” Lilith turned to Wakatya and Brook, “Alright, ready to go?”

  “Yup,” Brook grunted as he stood up from his seat and started toward the exit. The other three were quick to follow his lead, much to the chagrin and confusion of people who were here to watch all of tonight’s battles.

  Xala himself was surprised by the abruptness, until Wakatya leaned over and said, “We have passes to get in whenever, thanks to Col. The thing is, we only come for him. We usually grab something to eat after his matches.”

  They entered another secret doorway thanks to Rasid, who Lilith teased again, that led to a lounge area. It was a bathhouse with a large pool that steamed and sizzled while a Sphinerala fountain in the middle poured water from her mouth. Colhern and Perun sat together in the steamy water.

  When the group got closer, Xala eyed their wounds. New scars existed where fresh wounds once did. He sniffed the air. Through the steam and citrus incense, he detected the ointments that worked on their bodies. It was a wretched chemical smell that assaulted his nostrils with a myriad of flavors he did not know of. No herb on the planet smelled like that! What sorts of vile medicines existed in Trymora to produce such rancid stench?

  Colhern looked up from his conversation with Perun and called out to them, “Hey guys! I’ll just be a few more minutes and then I’ll be ready to go.”

  Lilith chuckled, “Oh, no worries, we’re just dropping off Xala! We’ll be outside,” she squeezed Xala’s shoulder before she giggled and led the other two out.

  Xala stood there, flustered as he averted his gaze from Colhern’s nude form, and said, “You did very well.” He glanced toward Perun. “You both did.”

  It was then he realized the way Perun looked at him. The scowl he had. The sternness in his gaze. He matched it for a split second before Colhern broke their tension, “Thanks,” he pushed himself away from Perun, swam across the pool, and put his elbows up on the edge as he gazed up at Xala. “So, do I get a reward?”

  “You didn’t win,” Xala crouched down and poked Colhern’s forehead, “But, I guess you could get a pity prize.”

  “Wah?!” He pouted, “I guess I can live with that. But, we both won!” He pointed his chin at Perun.

  Xala smiled. “You both lost.” His eyes slid toward Perun, whose gaze had softened ever so slightly. “But, as I said, you both did very well.” His eyes shifted toward the stone slots in the wall, where both of their equipment and belongings rested. “The announcer said your sword has anti-magic.” Xala’s gaze became lethal as it bore into Perun. “An impressive imbuement. Crafted by a mage?”

  “Aye, it was.” That voice! He remembered that voice! “Find that mage! Don’t let him get away! Check every alley and nearby building, he’s gotta be around here somewhere!” He was the enforcer from the club! The one who hunted him. “Why? Got a problem with it?”

  Xala could have killed him right now. He could electrocute the waters and slaughter this mage-hunter in a single word. He could summon a ghostly claw from the depths of the spirit realm and have it slash his throat to smithereens. Though, he glanced toward Colhern, who seemed intrigued by their back and forth, and smiled sweetly. “I’m just curious about it.” He sat down on the stone and addressed Perun, “How does it work?”

  “Hah, you want a demonstration?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’d be careful if I were you. Dimside isn’t welcoming to magic.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Xala? Is everything ok?”

  His eyes did not leave Perun. At that moment, he knew they wanted to kill each other. Xala simply smiled. “Yes, of course,” he took Colhern’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll be outside with the others. Pleasure meeting you, chief.”

  A silent, pregnant pause permeated between the three. Colhern was confused. Perun matched Xala’s glare. “Name’s Geralt. Pleasure’s mine, Xala.”

  He made a small, forced, polite smile, stood up, and left the room.

  Dimside served its purpose. It was an inarguably beautiful, rustic place where he experienced something he had never even dreamt of for himself. It was also a place where he found purpose. Colhern, Lilith, Wakatya, and Brook led simple, comfortable lives. They stayed in their stable structures. It worked for them. However, Geralt also reminded him of the systemic, structural cruelty of Feltkan. His face became synonymous in Xala’s mind with the social hierarchy mages existed at the bottom of. How could these nulls possibly suppress their superiors with any modicum of success? Xala pondered the technology they must have used to chase him on the surface. He knew artificers in Crimsire who could create truly magnificent inventions with scrap metal. Feltkan was built with far more complex designs with material far better than scrap metal. Technology was the doom of the sorcerer. It was the only logical conclusion that made sense to Xala.

  His lip twitched. It could not remain. He had spent too long in darkness. He had spent too long in a prison at the bottom of the ocean. He had spent too long in dungeons and sewers. He wanted the surface.

  He did not desire sunlight. No, never something so oppressive in its own way. He wanted to walk under the stars. He wanted to dance in the moonlight. He wanted to sing into the fresh air. He wanted to fly beneath the shadows of clouds. He wanted to watch night time tides. He wanted to climb the tallest mountain and see the world as nocturnal gods did.

  And he knew that the mages of Fae Town also wanted that. Whether they knew it or not. If they were not going to claim it for themselves, perhaps they required a hardened revolutionary to assist them.

  But first, dinner. Then, Colhern’s pity prize.