“...under certain conditions,” I amend almost immediately.

The temptation to visit this sphere, gaining allies and funds along the way grips me, however I have just been scalded by one betrayal and would rather wait until my next disappointment. Is this how my sire operates? Dealing with others knowing he will be played and will have to get his point across with a hand through the chest? Ugh.

“Name them!” Makyas yells with enthusiasm. If anything, he seems even more eager.

To begin with, I mercilessly interrogate him about every aspect of his plan. Although I would not imply malice from the tiny eye-eating monster — no, I do imply malice, but not aimed towards me — the point of failure of many plans is not enemy action but incompetence. He might just consider an escape plan that I could not use because he can go through keyholes and I may not. I am capable of going through protected doors but most of the time, the lock will not survive the experience. Makyas should not have a perfect understanding of my abilities, nor of my limits. I need to know the plan from the beginning to the end.

To my surprise, he does seem to have one, and it is quite intricate at that. What Makyas also has is numbers. His minions or associates are numerous, and each come with their skills in being where they shouldn’t be. As such, not only does he have extensive information on where we are going, we will also be able to adapt our plans on the fly.

I will also be wearing disguises.

I cannot help but feel excitement growing. Blood and masquerade? What more could I ask for to mark my grand entrance in the faerie games. They can keep to their strange customs while I collect eyeballs and favors.“Yes,” I finally agree after detailing everything. By that time, we are approaching the end of the night and day cycle.

“Yes, this will do nicely.”

Voidmoore is an anomaly, even by Faerie standards. It was discovered eons ago by the Court of Blue and quickly populated by virtue of having readily available houses. Who built those? Even Makyas doesn’t know. What he does know is that Voidmoore used to be a fraction of its current size.

“This house was not there last time I came,” he says, pointing at a spindly building nestled between two fat warehouses.

I inspect the decrepit walls. The roof tiles look like they are a light breeze away from splitting the head of the next passerby. By comparison, its two neighbors display clean walls while warm lights radiate from the windows like cozy invitations in the gloomy later afternoon. I blink and grab the latch of the newcomer, curious.

“Careful, some houses here actually move,” Makyas notes.

“Yes yes, on many foots!” one of his kin adds, bobbing excitedly.

“They eat people!” another gasps. “Rude!”

“Any way to tell?” I ask.

“Check the entrance and you can see the teeth!” the tiniest trumpets in a piccolo voice.

I look around and find only bricks.

With a shrug, I enter the place without resistance. It means it is abandoned, as I felt something when visiting Aunt Carnaciel’s demesne. This one looks clean enough if impoverished. The pantry contains a half-filled bag of millet and a peach-like fruit in syrup, held in a sealed glass jar. It has plumbing.

The proportions are not quite right. Yet.

“They grow like mushrooms!” Makyas laughs. “Or like flowers.”

“With the food in?” I ask.

“You still have to buy your own.”

“Or steal it.”

“Or scavenge it!”

“Or eat your enemies!” the flying chorus replies.

“Hmmm.”

“Let’s not tarry, Ariane the Devourer,” Makyas buzzes by my ear, “We have to resize your disguise before the fighting begins.”

“Oh yes, let us away.”

Above us, a flying frigate leaves a trail of smoke. It fades into the clouds a moment later.

I discover that Voidmoore is a shell upon which live roving bands of lost fae, I discover. Many of the houses we pass by stand empty, though for each strange, empty domain, there is one lived in by fae of all shapes and sizes. Ratmen and boys with hare whiskers run in the street after each other under the benevolent gaze of a parent. Merchants haggle for all sorts of wares in the shadows of leaning apartments. Some warehouses host glass blowers or dye makers or all sorts of industries while others are empty, gutted of their occupants like old crypts. The uniformity of the architecture lends the place a maze-like feeling only reinforced by its immensity, and some of the alleys give me an impression of terrible foreboding rather than the melancholy I expected.

If the streets were Voidmoore’s shell, then the pit is its stomach. Makyas leads me to its edge, while I hide under a cowled cape so as not to attract undue attention. The entrance lies in the heart of the most populous district, this one under guard by armored fae in pristine uniforms. There lie the embassies and trading house branches. There, also, lie the piers. Like the twisted roots of a dead tree, they extend over the abyss in a haphazard mess of splitting extensions, some solid, some so rickety I wouldn’t trust them with Makyas’ weight. Ships themselves come in a staggering variety of specimens. One in particular shines blue and dangerous, its prow mounted with a swordfish blade that crackles under the darkening clouds. Others are merely more than boxes strapped to patched up, stubby balloons. All of them show those strange crystals that keep them afloat and that I will absolutely, definitely, in no uncertain terms acquire before all of this is done. Illinois Guns of Liberty expanding into flying warships? Yes please.

With one last look of regret at a damaged sloop leaning on its side like wounded prey begging to be slain, I return my attention to the Pit’s entrance. It is, quite simply, a dark maw in the middle of the plaza. Even the uneven pavement appears to swirl into its depth, stone as frozen liquid stuck for all eternity at the edge of a vortex. Tough thugs line stairs going down, eyeing the pedestrians with suspicion.

“They look for banned folks,” Makyas whispers from my cowl, “but you are new so we are fine for now. You’ll definitely be banned after tonight though!”

“Can they even stop me? Where are the heavy hitters?”

“You’ll be eating them tonight!”

“Most excellent.”

A basic ramp snakes around the chasm’s walls, without any railings of course. The temperature increases as we go down. Interestingly, all of the fae we come across bow and take a step towards the abyss when they see me. A matter of etiquette towards someone who might be a noble, I presume. My presence is known by now, but it should not leave our prospective foes a chance to do anything but speculate.

After a steep descent, the maw opens to an immense cavern well-lit by crystals embedded everywhere. I study the walls and find them peculiar, smooth like volcanic glass. Before me, half of the cavern is filled with stalls and rickety shops hawking food, weapons and armors, gambling dens, and a variety of projectiles to toss at performers. The other half hosts the circular, walled confines of the arena, with a blockish square at the back to hide the cells and the morgue. It is quite simply massive. So massive, it should not fit in a cavern without its ceiling collapsing. So massive that it could host thousands of people at once, perhaps tens of thousands. Here hides Voidmoore’s devouring mouth of sin, eating contestants and spitting entrails and profit. And here I shall make a killing.

Hopefully.

“The back entrance is over there,” Makyas whispers. He forcefully turns my cowl in the right direction and I walk, feeling a bit like his horse. Once again, I am either ignored or avoided entirely, and the strange feeling reminds me of the foreign nature of the spheres with as much certainty as the flying ships. Back on earth, most social differences are constructs. I can look like an affluent daughter of a Boston family in the afternoon, then wear the guise of a scullery maid by nightfall as I weave between groups of people, my back bent and my eyes modest. At midnight I can be an exotic European beauty and no one except my kin would be the wiser. Here, my humanoid traits place me squarely in the ranks of the nobles. This difference of status stems from inborn magical might, a gap between species that no amount of artifices will ever truly bridge. I could be powerful. They are not. There is no need to delve deeper.

We reach a small gate hidden between two beige stone pillars just as I finish my musing. A titanic man in chainmail with tusks and quills for hair glares at me with suspicion, though he seems less fearful than his brethren. I can feel power from his aura. He could give a Courtier a run for their money, maybe even stall a Master. Makyas flickers and whispers in his ear, then we are through to a long corridor dimly lit by blue stones. The stench of death is cloying here, and it is old. It has soaked in the very stone. My magic will be powerful in this place. Hmmm.

At the end of the passage, we find an incongruously decorated reception ‘manned’ by a bespectacled mole in a fancy outfit. The strange creature taps thin fingers together when it sees us. Makyas dives forward to greet it, as we planned. It is best for me to appear meek and demure until the blood starts to flow.

“Another skull to the pile, winged one?” the creature huffs.

Male, from the voice. He speaks in Child Likaean as well, though his feels clipped and difficult. It lacks the associated meaning, even to my inexperienced ears.

“This one is good!” Makyas assures him.

“You know the rules. We cannot have grudges.”

“This one is not a member of any court. This I swear.”

The mole man glares at me. I remain unfazed. I am mostly sure Sinead will turn this place to ash should I die here, but he asked a question and we gave an answer. Besides, I do not intend to die.

“She looks like a noble. Smells powerful too.”

His tongue flicks out.

“Very powerful. But it will not be enough. You know this, winged one.”

Makyas smiles and our host sighs.

“You, listen. This place isn’t what you think it is. The arena will swallow you whole, as it has many others. It is not a question of skill but of odds. The one in control likes to play them. No matter how strong you are, he will find the perfect counter and then you will wake up in the afterlife or with a collar around your neck to compensate the Thousand Leaves for ‘medical costs’. Do not throw your life away.”

Makyas turns to me, a sign that answering is safe.

“I understand the risks,” I assure the man.

I appreciate that he would go against his employers in the name of fairness. Obviously, he does not believe me.

“You foolish young nobles, always too confident. You have won three duels and think you know danger. I wish you luck. Your candidacy is accepted. You will join the third melee. Do you understand me, winged one?” he finishes with a scowl.

Makyas mimes beating someone with a mace until the mole man takes a swipe at him. On a prompt, I drop a purse of Makyas’ tokens on the table.

“Private room?” the creature asks after inspecting its contents.

“Yes.”

“Number thirteen. I will let the guards know.”

We delve deeper into the base, finally stopping in front of a room that is half a cell and half a make-up room for ballet dancers. There is even a mirror which does not reflect me. I find an old, cracked painting stuck in a corner. It shows an embracing couple moving to hug and separate in a loop. A helpful message is drawn in the corner.

‘I shall win and return to take this back.’

Someone else drew a face laughing itself silly over the doomed oath.

Ominous.

The rest of the support crew arrives as I inspect other discarded memorabilia. They fly through the keyhole though I left the door ajar — a matter of principle, I suppose.

“We’re in!”

“Yeeeee!”

“When eyeballs?”

“Do we have the list yet?”

“It smells like dog in here.”

“HUSH!” Makyas interrupts. “Check the room for tricks and traps and pits and rats. Leave no tile unturned!”

The swarm of flutterlings spreads across the room, pushing and pulling and looking all around. A group almost breaks a small vase and bickers. The other pulls a strange glass from the ceiling. I feel a spell being cast. As before, the world moves around to accommodate the will of the fae with plastic grace, while casting on earth is like pushing mud around. So unfair.

“Looking eye isn’t looking!” the tiniest flutterling reports with an exaggerated military salute.

“Excellent. There isn’t much to do beyond wait for the third melee. It will mean…”

“That I face Tog the Cudgel, yes. I remember.”

“And then a slew of other small timers before the arena really tries to take you down. We will make sure you are protected from ambush outside of the arena, where they will send you between bouts after you have bloodied their nose. They cannot be too obvious about being rotten, cheating scum.”

By they, he means the Thousand Leaves alliance, one of the dominant gangs in this land. I should be out before they have the time to retaliate, if they even dare. Makyas’ target is one of their most dangerous combatants and I intend to make a show out of him.

The wait is made less tedious by two things. The first, and expected, is that I change into my first costume. It is a simple, white gambeson with buckles and a skirt over fitting leggings. Astute eyes will recognize this as an under armor and draw the necessary conclusion as the show goes on. The flutterlings even grant me the intimacy I desire with a curtain they brought themselves, though I am not quite sure how. The second and more pleasantly surprising is that they braid my hair, forming a harmonious, humming chorus to do so. I find the feeling of dozens of tiny hands on my scalp relaxing, just as their songs soothe me. Soon enough, the time has come to join the melee. A heavily armored sentry leads me to a large waiting room where other gladiators await in sullen silence. Crude weapons line a wall, shoved haphazardly against a rack for those who came unprepared. The closest halberd still sports a lone, severed finger curled around its handle.

“You’re up,” a fae finally says.

He is a tall, hunched man with chitinous fingers, his face hidden behind disheveled hair. Only yellow eyes can be seen peering from behind his matted bangs. He glares at each other in turn before addressing us in Child Likaean.

“Rules are simple. Anything goes after the game master says you can fight, and not a moment before. Fights are to the death or incapacitation. You can surrender, I guess.”

I see a hint of fangs when he smiles.

“...but the others don’t have to stop. Hehe. The last one standing gets to face a named gladiator. Now form a line and remember, no fighting before we say so or you die first. Got it? You, near the door, you’re the first out. The others get behind.”

We obey. Most of those I see are lesser fae clutching poorly made weapons in sweaty grips, but there are a few outliers I deem capable, including a tall masked fellow with twin axes and a strange, insectile being with a skull like a horseshoe crab. The strange being and I share a look. Its eyes are pure dark.

The dozen or so fodder line up. I have brought no weapon, nor will I use one at first. We obediently step out.

A roar hits me like a wall. Powerful, hot light weighs upon my shoulders. The sand is red and reeks of old blood. Stained steel hooks angled down prevent people from climbing out, arrayed like so many inward teeth. The space is enormous. In front of us, a high dais hosts the more important people of the place: a smattering of influential people and the current owner of the pit, the Queen of a Thousand Leaves, the infamous Malera. She lounges in a high seat, looking bored. Her visible eye shines crimson while the other hides behind a green band. Blue hair hangs on her jacket like a sash. Her interest in us wanes, and she turns to an advisor to whisper a few words.

The public gives us only a mild roar. The arena is far from full, and those present negotciate or purchase snacks from vendors more than they watch us. It is as Makyas said. We are but cannon fodder.

Above them, vast enchantmented walls show images of us from up close like photographs, but unlike photographs, they move. What a brilliant innovation, if it can indeed follow the contestants.

Meanwhile, we stop in front of the dais in a loose formation. The game master is recognizable from his loose purple toga and antlers rising from his brow. I expected much from Likaean entertainment and this is… unsatisfactory, though to be fair it would be like judging humanity from a back alley rooster fight. The only interesting point so far is the delicious smell of fear that comes from some of my fellow rivals. If the game master shares my feeling, he does not betray signs of it as he spreads his arms wide as if welcoming a trusted friend.

“Ladies of gentlemen, my fellow connoisseurs of the fine things in life,” he announces, and I am struck by surprise.

Not only does he speak true Likaean, but his meaning is conveyed with such clarity that an earthling might understand the notions he conveys.

“We gather tonight to welcome more hopefuls to our warm embrace,” he mocks. “Those fierce warriors will bleed for your enjoyment and a chance to fight a real gladiator. So, have we found steel or will they fold like paper? Let’s find out. Kill!”

Abrupt.

But not unexpected. I backhand a spear wielder to my right and dodge a sword strike to the back of my head by leaning forward. I am using human speed and barely more strength right now. For Makyas’ plan to work, I need to look beatable. Only when our enemies place their head through the noose will we pull on the rope. I have never fought like a human before, but I have enough battle experience to make up for it. I block the next horizontal strike from the swordsman by moving forward and blocking his wrist with my right hand, then I punch his throat with my extended left hand. My claws dig into soft flesh. I smell delicious blood, but do not succumb. Instead, I use his shoulder as a springboard to flip over his head while the spear strike aimed at my back buries itself in his chest. I kick a knife wielder who had used shadow magic to hide himself and grab him by the throat. A headlock, a twist, and his spine snaps like a twig. I lean forward and under the second spear strike and step to the side to dodge the third. I grab the shaft and kick its owner back, then shove the weapon in the mouth of a spell caster. The orb of purple energy she had conjured flickers and dies. I kick high, deflecting an overhead axe strike. I steal a knife from its wielder and stab him in the throat before he can recover. I lick my fingers. So much delicious essence there, but I must be patient and savor the moment. Only take from the strong. Yes. My fangs ache but I resist. I must not indulge quite yet.

The fight has lasted thirty seconds but already there are only five contestants left standing. Most of those on the ground are dead. I am left facing the tall masked fellow with twin axes I spotted earlier and a person with goat legs and a staff. We circle each other, unwilling to strike first and offer our backs to the other. The crowd grumbles. We have gathered their attention with a good display. Now, they want more.

The horseshoe crab head fighter solves the situation by disposing of its enemy with blades growing out of its forearms. Twin axes roars and attacks him while I am left facing the quarterstaff fighter. He controls the pace well at first, but I soon grow used to his rhythm and grab his staff at the end of a swing. To my surprise, the weapon glides from my fingers, so slippery I could not hold it at full strength. It is not enough to catch me off guard and I use my foe’s overconfidence against him by dodging under the next attack, blocking the one after and punching his fingers as they hold the shaft. The pain makes him lose his grip and I am on him soon enough. He never gives up, never stops even as I open wound after wound. I end up licking my fingers pensively as he agonizes on the sand. Not much essence, just enough to tease the appetite.

The insectile being won the other match. It has waited patiently for me to finish, and I give it a short nod to express my appreciation. It tilts its head and raises its blades. When my guard is up, it attacks.

I start by moving backward while it strikes in short jabs. It is very, very fast for a bipedal crustacean, reminding me of a mantis. It also immediately backs away when I counter and I soon realize why when it mistakes a feint for a strike and attacks the air. The interesting foe moves faster than it can think. It cannot adapt mid-movement. I have confirmation when I dive under an assault and kick its leg, causing it to stumble. It recovers quickly, however. From then on, its attack sequences shorten and it mixes with counters. I believe it is trying to slice my arms. A decent strategy.

I try to counter or grab its wrists on several occasions, only avoiding sliced fingers because of my ability to predict where the blade will fall. I am now faced with an interesting aspect of fae life. If I limit my speed and refuse to use a blade, I am completely outmatched. The creature is simply a better technician than I am. Only the speed of my mind protects me from defeat. Although the melee is supposed to involve only fodder, I have already found an opponent who could defeat most human blademasters without breaking a sweat. If it sweats. Nevertheless, I am still me. As we fight by the body of the goat-legged fae, it twitches.

The insectile being is distracted. I strike. Three clawed fingers dig into its armored chest, between two plates. Green ichor covers my fingers. It smells acidic and a little exotic. I step back and lick my fingers while the creature launches a defensive flurry.

Tasty.

In fact, surprisingly full of flavor. There is quite a spark in that one. And it is male. I can almost see a vision at the edge of my mind but not quite yet. The foe still stands. I have not yet defeated it.

The creature moves with small steps now. He shivers in pain, carrying an acrid yet tantalizing smell to my nose. I understand something I had not. He is not wearing armor. He is wearing an exoskeleton.

Which means…

I adapt my fighting style by moving to the sides, forcing him to turn using his feet. I knew it. His chest cannot move like ours do. He is slower in lateral movement.

I use it to my advantage and press him. It soon proves obvious that he trained for just this occasion and manages to fend me off with blind swings, but it is not enough. A last feint and I kick his feet from under him, then I am behind, one hand on his shoulder and the other on his wrist. He bows his skull in defeat, though he does not speak.

“Do you yield?” I ask, not eager to kill an honorable opponent.

“He’s a hive lad from the Marsh Court,” someone screams in the closest section of the arena. “They communicate by smell only! Hahaha.”

I had not been paying much attention to my surroundings and now realize that our fight has gathered more interest than they perhaps expected. The arena had fallen mostly silent. Now, many roar for me to kill the creature. Instead, I tilt its head back and push Charm into its dark eyes.

“Submit,” I order.

I receive a strange smell in response, but the feeling that carries through our link is one of a bared throat and that one is universal. I lightly bite his arm, taking only a sip of essence.

Will not stay in the marsh.

Will not conform.

Will not serve.

Will seek perfection.

Will dance.

Until I die.

I push the arm away and help the interesting creature to its feet. The game master sneers at the display, but the crowd seems to approve. Our demonstration of skill has awoken their interest, it seems. The creature limps away while teams of guards come to carry the dead and dying out. The antlered fae does not show any concern, though the same cannot be said for Malera. She whispers orders to a painfully thin servant. Perhaps she saw through my deception? It should not matter. I have not revealed enough to warrant too much attention. More importantly, they have never met a vampire before.

“And we have a winner. Let’s see if our newest bleeding heart has what it takes to defeat the next opponent! You know him you love him, the headcracker, the master of mace, the thumping, thundering, grumpy thug, the teeth fairie, Tog the Cudgel!”

The roar appears more genuine this time. Many of the fae throw flashy magic in the air to welcome the new contestant. One of the large gates in the arena’s walls opens to let through a giant.

An actual giant.

I barely reach his midriff.

His mud-colored skin shines with whorls of tattoos, but most of them have been marred by deep scars. He only wears a tiny kilt. Hair covers most of his face except for a pair of bloodshot eyes. He waves what is basically a steel-tipped trunk and charges me with a roar, and the reason for Malera’s concern soon becomes obvious when the ‘cudgel’ smashes harmlessly against the ground, then again when I lean under the follow-up swing. I even stand for a second while my enemy attempts to locate me, not realizing I am still at his feet.

He is much weaker than the insectile fighter. His only notable feature is his strength.

I frown. I should not lower my guard. Perhaps he has hidden abilities. In order to deny him his reach, I step close to him which seems to anger him greatly. I circle him and slice at his knees, then at his wrist when he goes for a grab. He is not exactly clumsy, but compared to the other fighters, the challenge is lacking. I suppose not everyone has experience dodging massive blows so as not to become intimate with the nearest cliff wall. I should buy Jarek a present when I get back. Maybe a dictionary.

I decide to play a little bit, half out of boredom and half because being popular with the crowd will afford me a measure of protection when the stakes increase. On the next downward swing, I casually jump on the trunk and find myself face to face with a dumbstruck giant when he pulls it back. I kick him in the teeth and drop down to avoid the grab. I rely only on my feet for the next three exchanges. It soon becomes clear to everyone that I am toying with my prey. Laughs and jeers echo around the bleachers. I am still being careful, though it appears Tog really had only strength going for him.

In desperation, Tog races away, leaving me behind and rather surprised, but it is only to better turn around and charge me. Let it not be said that I would refuse a good challenge. We run at each other at his speed. At the last moment, I kneel and flatten myself, letting inertia and sand carry me under his mighty swing. I take his heels as payment for the smell. Thankfully, I did not look up at the critical moment.

Tog crashes on the ground.

I jump on his back and walk on his spine while he mewls in pain. A puncture near his heart and I latch on his back, drinking a gulp of delicious vitality. Just one, just a little bit. I can only do this because fae vitality already sustains me. The frustrating deprivation will only make the last feeding that much more exhilarating. It will also make this hunt meaningful: an escalation of increasingly stronger prey to — hopefully — a worthy finale.

After taking my due, I kill him by crushing his neck.

The audience hoots their pleasure at the gory finish. I suspect Tog was not the most popular fighter, but more importantly, they are too canny not to realize that Malera was grooming him for her roster. An offense has been made. The bait is set.

“What an upset, ladies and gentlemen, what a fascinating development! Our rookie has disposed of Tog with vicious ruthlessness. The cudgel is broken, crumpled and trampled by the hand of our mysterious challenger. And now, we are short a named gladiator for our next bout! I suppose you will do, newcomer. Let us see how far those skills of yours carry you. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome… Syma the Red!”

Ah, it appears Malera intends to use me to dispose of problematic elements. Makys informed me that Syma was one of those who refused Malera’s ‘generous’ offers of employment. I do not mind being a tool, for now. The Mistress of the Thousand Leaves does not yet realize it, but I intend to take all her assets from her, both good and bad.

Syma sashays from another door under a mixed reception while I pick the cudgel’s handle to make myself one. I end up with a rough mace, a blunt tool barely more than a cut piece of wood. I turn around and study my new opponent while she stops a few steps away. Syma wears a red, form-fitting armor made of some sort of leather. It does not look very sturdy. Black hair caught in a braid hangs down her back and two crimson eyes glare at me viciously. She also has four arms, rather interestingly, yet she holds only two sabers. That strikes me as awfully inefficient.

“From the Court of Fire, Syma has shown she earned her name both from her style and brazen personality. Let us see if she can give our newcomer some new colors.”

Court of Fire?

Oh dear.

The woman rushes forward and takes a deep breath, which is the moment I pick to throw my improvised cudgel at her nose. She does dodge at the last moment, but the effect is done: the gout of fire she spits roasts sand to the side. Ugh, a Melusine equivalent. The Watcher preserve me from those harridans.

To prevent a repeat, I charge and pick my cudgel from the ground. Syma fights me off in a flurry of saber slices. She fights like a dervish, always moving, always rotating. I find myself thrusting much more to try and stop her dance. She is pushed back and it does not take long for me to realize that she is used to wielding four blades. Her style is too telling. Why bring only two? The blades are not even in good condition.

Our fight is fast and decisive. Using the cudgel like a rapier, I manage to land fast jabs between her defenses. The blunt end might not be particularly sharp, but I can tell from her hisses that I might have cracked a few bones. Her dance grows increasingly desperate as we move around the arena. I quickly gain complete control of the fight and keep landing strikes. In desperation, she adopts a more offensive style and loses even harder. The public jeers at the poor woman. They hurl mocking insults, belittling her struggles. Distasteful. Out of her wits, the woman decides one last, daring strike. She catches the cudgel between her two sabers and, with a roar of triumph, cuts it in two.

That little maneuver leaves her completely exposed, so I kick her in the sternum. Her body smashes on the sand, all air stolen from her lungs. I am on her before she can recover. Her four arms give me some problems while the public’s appreciative whistles test my patience, however, I finally backhand her and use the moment of reprieve to disarm her.

“Do it then, kill me,” she spits, but it is bravado. She is quite a bit younger than she pretends. I can taste her terror, hear the rolling drum of her heartbeat.

“Do you yield?” I offer.

“What good would that be? Malera will make me a slave.”

The prey should RESPECT THE HUNT.

“It is to me that you submit,” I hiss. Silly goose. What does another have to do with anything? Wait, no Makyas told me—

“Then I yield, but to you,” she says with some hope.

I grab a wrist and drink one gulp. More essence teases me, still not enough. And I have gained a favor from the little fire spitter. I will be sure to collect it later. For now, I pick a saber and wait for her to leave, which she does, stumbling weakly on the way.

More cheers come, and I see with some vain pride that not only do the crowds enjoy my display, but more and more are pouring to watch the show. Malera seems pleased and I see a mocking expression on the game master’s face, but that is fine. Again, they believe they are using me. I do not mind. Their confidence will make the finale that much sweeter. I test my newly acquired saber and decide that it is a piece of scrap that should never have seen the outside of a forge. My letter opener is a deadlier implement.

As I examine the blade, my next foe makes an appearance.

“From the recess of the Swamp Court, the flying menace and another promising beginner, I give you Nol the Fleet!”

My opponent has wings! How peculiar. Oh, and the head of a fly, except for his mouth which appears quite human. Thin limbs grasp a thinner sword. No armor, only clothes. He will be fast but not very strong. Another undesirable thrown at me, perhaps to test my limits?

“You have done well so far,” the creature declares, “but you have not faced the likes of me!”

Only because he is one of the weirdest things I have ever seen. Without further ado, the fly man charges me, the drone of its gossamer wings overpowering even the crowd. He intends to skewer me in a single charge! I approve until I realize he is aiming for my hip instead of center mass. I side-step him easily and clip his leg, but not too deep. Not yet.

This one’s blood is red as I show the mob the trace of my victory. Nol sees that his own blade remains unbloodied and curses, though he appears undeterred. I find him interesting but silly. He should be using a spear with a curved head at the end, not a sword! I wish for a BETTER HUNT. It will be fine. The night is still young.

“Lucky hit. Let’s see you do it again!” he bellows.

Courage in the face of defeat, a respectable trait. He charges again. This time, I am hit by sound. My ears ring painfully.

I charge him.

Nol flies back and out of reach though he cancels his strange attack. I wonder why he would not fly up, though I suspect the arena might have measures against that. He pretends to charge then swerves abruptly at the last moment. I shrug and spread my arms in silent question. The crowd’s jeers needle him on. He charges several times and tries to clip me, but I simply step aside. He really does need a longer reach. WEAK. I am starting to believe that I am pitted against children.

The next charge, I step into his path and brace. A saber slice deflects the sword before it can pierce my tender flesh. The fly man crashes against my chest. I twist to absorb the shock and send him careening into the sand. As expected, he is very light. I definitely won that exchange. Not that I am heavy of course, it is the armor.

I notice with some annoyance that my saber did not survive the battle. I toss the handle to the side and walk to Nol. He is slow to recover, having landed head-first. I grab him by the throat and pull him up.

“Do you yield?” I ask.

The crowd boos, execution denied, but once more I am assailed by the feeling that those I face have not been given the chance to fight to the best of their potential and killing them now irks me. Besides, they are problematic subjects of my current adversaries. I see no reason to remove this thorn from their flank.

“You… will not kill me? Do I not disgust you?” Nol asks.

I cannot read the expression of his strange face. I suppose some might find the contrast between his almost human mouth and compound eyes disturbing but honestly, I care little.

“The only thing that disgusts me is that sword of yours. Do you yield?”

“Yes, though if our host provides me with their ‘medical care’ and the associated cost, be sure to kill me after you have collected your earnings…” he answers, dejected.

“Then offer your blood, supplicant,” I reply.

I understand the real request. Do not leave him here as slave. He brings his wrist up and I bite, taking one gulp and no more. It tastes of mud and freedom. Intriguing. I recover his sword and send him on his way.

The game master mumbles something about giving me a chance to rest and I leave the din of the arena behind me. The shadows push my instincts further until the guards take a step back. Makyas flies to me with his flutterlings to guide me back to my room.

“They have taken the bait,” he declares excitedly. “They are summoning their more hardened fighters. And we have already broken the bank with our earnings. Look!” he declares.

A cloud of his kin carry a bag loaded with a kaleidoscope of tokens. The riot of light makes me hiss. No more light. Hunts should be done in dim places.

“Do you want to get some now, or?”

“Bet everything on me, HSSSSS. I hope the next opponents deliver.”

“They will be named, all of them. They will counter you, too.”

“They better.”

I hear steps in the alley, someone large and weak and slow and so, so full of life. The gate guard opens the door silently and scowls when he sees me facing him. Stupid degenerate, I am backed by the Court of Wings and Keyholes. How did you expect to catch me off guard, exactly?

“The Thousand Leaves… requests your continued presence. You are not to leave the building. Don’t try to escape,” he grunts.

“Escape?” I repeat, then I laugh. I should not since the head has not quite cleared the noose yet, and Malera could still pull out. She must believe I am as limited as I appear. I simply cannot help it. Me, escape? Hah. WE SHALL SEE WHO RUNS.

“I would not dream of it,” I conclude.

“What she said, dull one,” Makyas adds, “Now off you go. We are busy gazing at our navels.”

“You should clean yours!” the tiniest flutterling adds.

“Ewwwwwwwwww,” they all echo.

The guard takes one step forward, a mistake. The swarm of winged terror assembles in a cloud above me, their tendrils stretched out and linked.

In my mind palace, the thorn walls shiver. I blink. A strange hum spreads throughout the room and I must actively fight off the urge to sing along.

The gate guard wisely decides to take a step back and leave. I admit to being impressed. Their focus was not even on me.

“That was impressive,” I admit.

“Most courts have ways to deal with us,” Makyas admits, “but they are not always ready, and this one was not.”

I nod and kneel, focusing on breathing. I must stay in control for now, despite the mounting Thirst and instincts that scream for an end to the Hunt. Patient. I must be patient. It will be an excellent opportunity for me to practice fighting in adverse conditions.

Meanwhile, Makyas and his kin add pieces of colorful armor to my gambeson. Part of the next disguise.

It takes far too long for the gate guard to summon me. I pick up Nol’s blade and make my way out.

The arena has filled up. Eager Lesser fae occupy every bleacher now. The food merchants must be making a killing. An excited buzz gives the bloodstained aura of the place a bubbly quality I both appreciate and detest. The potency of any blood magic spell here will be multiplied, but the precious vitality spilled here was often wasted in unfair hunts. Those lead to dark paths.

I breathe in. So much vitality here, and I have teased the Thirst into a craving. I hope our foes deliver a proper challenge.

“Ladies and gentlemen…”

I ignore the announcer, let his meaning bounce against my indifference despite how loud it is. Malera appears slightly upset, but in the way of a teacher whose student misbehaved. My status has risen from side note to inconvenience, then to chore. The winter color of the light mail I wear can only increase her discomfort. I will be promoted quite a few times before the night is over.

“... The metal man, the slippery spiked sparrow, Hanadro!”

A tall man enters the arena from another door. The moving paintings above show every detail of his massive body, including strange ram horns curving around his bare skull. He wears a cape and nothing else. His manhood hangs freely. No one seems to care, and so I show no sign of being bothered.

“Fight!”

The man spreads his arm, welcoming a first strike. I could kill him in so many ways, but I must resist and be a patient huntress, and so I charge him, sword first. He doesn’t react.

At the last moment, I swerve away just as liquid steel emerges from under the cape to cover him in thick armor. A massive slab rises over his chest while a helmet merges seamlessly with his horns. Steel even covers his sneer, turning his face into a mask much like Bertrand’s. Even his eyes shine with silvery light. Hmmm. This might be problematic.

The fae twists on himself and swings. I run to the side to avoid whatever comes. Sand explodes at my feet when an overly long whip cracks like thunder in his hand. Seeing he has missed me, Hanadro walks forth with ponderous inevitability.

Contrary to the previous contestants, this one seems well-equipped, and his strangely extending weapon gives him the range he needs to offset the weakness that comes with such cumbersome armor. He is quite adept too. Nevertheless, a whip needs time to wind up and so I charge forward between two attacks. Hanadro smiles and strikes once more. I wait until the last moment and jump, curling into a ball midair. The whip carves a scar in the sand beneath me. Perhaps he expected me to repeat the same stunt as with the giant. They still underestimate me. It will make the reversal of fortune that much sweeter.

I get within reach of Hanadro before he can strike again. To my immense annoyance, he pulls the whip back and turns it into a sword through what seems to be a simple effort of will. I should sue for intellectual property theft. With legal outrage at my back, I attack first. I am not a dimwit and I avoid his truly armored parts, yet I also know that some measure of flexibility must remain or an armor set is merely a statue. I jump to the side and twist the blade in my hand, hitting backwards and down.

My sword’s tip breaks against the back of his knee.

Hmmm.

I avoid and hook and take a step back.

“How are you going to fight now, little girl?” Hanadro asks. “Claws? That butter knife?”

I lunge forward and up, dodging a grabbing hand to smash what is left of Nol’s weapon into my foe’s eye. Even with the steel cover, it has to hurt. And it does. The fae swears and grabs for his head, so I grab for his feet and lift, using my feet to push him off balance. He falls face first, incapable of keeping his balance. I climb on his back and grab a foot and his neck. I pull. He fights me but the weight and flexibility now work against him.

“You will… tire soon enough!” he roars against the sand.

I cannot strangle him, true, and I cannot break his limbs with steel protecting his articulations. I can, however, smother him. Readjusting my grip, I use my knee to shove his head against the sand.

The metal still changes. Spikes emerge from his chestplate to dig into my shin but I am now wearing armor as well and they lack the power and sharpness to pierce through. Choking on the blood-soaked ground, he next tries to use a steel spike to prop himself up, but the sand once again betrays him by letting the spikes in. His struggles turn more erratic. As for me, so long as I prevent him from buckling, he will not be able to push me away.

Eventually, his struggles cease. He extends his hands in a strange sign I do not recognize, though the meaning is easy to guess. I stop pushing and move back.“Do you yield?” I ask.

“Yes, damn you! Yes. You have won,” he bemoans as he makes to stand. I place my index finger against his cheek and he freezes. The sharp nail digs effortlessly through his skin, drawing fresh red blood. I lick my finger and no more. I have my due and he understands. I could have gone through his protection. I merely elected not to.

“What an amazing victory, and the mysterious cold one keeps triumphing! Is there a champion to stop her rampage?” the game master asks.

I look up to see the crowd go wild, while Malera’s face has soured like an old grape. Her one eye glares down balefully, but when she notices my attention, she smiles. I understand her confidence. She operates a gambling operation. From her perspective, all she has to do is to stack the odds in her favor and eventually, the house always wins.

From my perspective, I am cheating excessively.

“...The Mistress of Mayhem, the untouchable mind reaver, Tarana the Elder!” the game master finishes.

Most of the crowd boos, then the moans only increase when crystals set in the walls belch out clouds of smoke. It smells like swamp humidity, their pungent odor diluting that of blood. The lights dim.

A fae who could pass as Makyas’ mother rises from the fog. While her kin flies naked, this one sports a shimmering cocktail dress, the light forming a rainbow prism on her form. She has a mature beauty to her, though it is marred this instant by one of the most arrogant smirks I have ever been subjected to. My defenders scream from the bleachers.

“Booo! Traitor! Vile hag!” the flutterlings hiss.

“Hush, children. You have all been quite naughty, disturbing aunt Tarana from her nap. Why, I believe I will break your toy first, and then we shall see about a few nightmares hmmm?”

Her voice is warm and sultry even with its chilling message. She is also talking in adult Likaean with perfect ease, though the taste of hers differs from Sinead’s, somehow. Her aura is diffuse.

“Let the fight begin!”

She disappears.

Something drills through my mental defenses, fast yet agile. Extremely powerful. The outer walls are breached. It’s in my mind. A simple effort of will places my consciousness back outside the castle’s entrance, where most of the statues are concentrated. An intruder seeks to breach the way in. I can feel her presence, moving around before the thorns have the time to grab her. Some of the outer statues take swings, but miss. She is too fast. I need to get in and close the gates behind me. Get in. Get inside… Get inside?

I scowl, why would I get inside? I am already inside. The inside is me.

“You are merely delaying the inevitable, child,” a voice whispers.

I open my eyes and crouch. I am no match for her. She is old and made for this, and though my defenses are formidable, she will eventually destroy them. Of this, I have no doubt. I focus and trace two circles in the blood-soaked sands. Glyphs soon adorn them, all of them in Akkad. The fog blocks sight which explains why the spectators are displeased. Mental duels must not be all too exciting to watch to begin with. I am done in only a couple of seconds.

“Pierce the Veil.”

I knew I had grown in power since the last battle against Mask, but I had not quite realized how much. The spell is far from perfect in my hands — I shall never be a great mage — but it is very, very powerful. The fog splits apart in a funnel in front of me to reveal… nothing.

“Magic! The cold one can do blood magic! What a surprise!” the game master erupts.

I did not expect to succeed on my first try. That is quite alright.

“Pierce the Veil.”

“Pierce the Veil.”

“Pierce the Veil.”

On the fourth try, I catch the glimpse of fleeing tendrils. My fifth attempt reveals Tarana’s scowling form. The assault on my mental defenses begins in earnest. It appears she was merely playing before. I grit my teeth and endure.

“Pierce the Veil.”

This time I have her well in my sight. I trigger the second circle.

“Promethean.”

Constantine’s signature chains lash out in the dozens. I am so surprised that I almost lose my focus, but of course, this is a place of blood and captivity. There are probably few better places in all the spheres to cast it. A torrent of blood-red links hunt after Tarana’s fleeing form. She is faster, but we are in a closed space and there are just so many. Eventually, she tries to fly up but crashes against a shield.

The chains envelop her. Her next spell dies, smothered by the powerful restrictions. I drag her to me.

“Kill her!” Makyas bellows.

“You miserable cur! I’ll shred your soul like wet paper!” my captive promises.

The crowd goes wild, demanding her blood.

I win. They get a show. That is perfectly acceptable.

I bite Tarana’s head off and use her body like a bottle, drinking one gulp before discarding it like an empty gin flagon.

The crowd falls into a horrified silence.

And then, they go absolutely wild. The deafening roar shakes the walls of the arena. I stretch my arms and bask in their adoration. Yes, prey, love me, fear me, worship me. I am not even done.

I turn my head to the dais and, for the first time, smile smugly. The head is through the noose now. They sent their best at me and I turned it into a show. They have to make me kneel, or they will lose face forever.

Although the game master keeps talking, Everyone present knows that the entertainment part of the evening is done for and we are in open conflict. Malera cannot break the rules but she can certainly skirt them. The fog disperses and runes glow on the wall. The light returns with a vengeance. I feel my magic being smothered in an effect amusingly reminiscent of the becalming spell I used against the skeleton mages. Pillars of heated stone emerge from the ground.

“... I give you…. Fizzledill the Wasp!”

The contestant who enters the area might be short, and lithe as well. I find it hard to tell. He shines like fireworks until I am forced to avert my eyes. Heat radiates from his shimmering body. Magic answers my call sluggishly, too sluggishly to be of use.

“Fight!”

I dodge back, then under flaming rays of incandescent magic. Not a spell. Short range projectile? I can barely see. All I can do is to run and use the heated pillars as shields. It does not work very well.

Fizzledill cuts me off. He opens his helmet to reveal a pair of ruby eyes.

“You — “

I Charm him.

Or rather, I use the mental equivalent of a sledgehammer to capture his attention. He does not have any protection I can perceive. In fact, he is even more vulnerable than the average mortal, something I have noticed with those who enjoy opium. I grab his mind and do not let go.

Fizzledill crashes on the ground. He is a strange one, with tiny transparent scales that cover much of his body. I squeeze his mind like a vice and grab him by the collar. Fiery blades clatter against a rock. He is quite light. I take one sip and no more. He tastes of ash, both from his power and from what he has done to his dreams. I snap his neck. This one is too broken to be of use.

The crowd goes mad. They laugh and point fingers. The air shakes when I toss the corpse to the side. The dais occupants blister with unspoken rage even as they maintain an appearance of aloofness, but I can see the flared nostrils and contracted eyes, the fingers gripping decorated chairs. They know our next play will be the last. The noose has closed, now.

The gates open to let me out. Makyas waits for me by the nearest alley. The usual guard is nowhere to be found.

“They tried to trap the room! Twice!”

“Did you manage?”

“Yes. There are many more of us now that you have done so much fun stuff. The guards had wards but they were cheap, so now they are dead and I have more eyeballs. Follow!”

We return to our room and the flutterlings bring the last elements of the ‘disguise’, true plate armor. This time, they will bring Makyas’ true target. The next opponent will be the last. I can stop hiding.

While the first gambeson was a neutral white and the mail a deceptive blue, this is black plate. A statement. I am entirely dressed when Malera comes calling, only my head remains without a helmet. She stays by the door. Her lone eye finds the dead guard by the wall.

“A social caller,” I comment.

“I don’t know who sent you and I am eager to find out. Not now though, not even if you change your mind. You will tell me everything I wish to know after Gorgath is done with you.”

A hiss reveals a forest of pointy teeth.

“I have seen your kind before, girl. Young and strong and so very naive. You lived in a backwater and cannot possibly comprehend that this is the real world, and you are one of many. I will be seeing you soon. Do try to make the fight interesting.”

I chuckle. She is right. It is quite a large universe.

I stand to leave. Makyas sends a few flutterlings with me but they are not really needed. The gloves are off, the gauntlets are on. No more hiding.

In no time, I stand before the gates. Half of the crowd calls for the cold one, the other, for my opponent. The area is back to full sand, and the dais has returned to cold haughtiness.

“Ladies and gentlemen, she has taken the arena by storm and made short work of every opponent so far! She is as adept with her fists as she is with magic! The winged ones favor her, I give you the mysterious Cold One!”

The arena shakes and I spread my arms, demanding a better ovation. They scream my nickname, as they should.

“And to stop her, the reigning champion of the arena, with seventeen fights and seventeen victories! They say his father was of the Court of Blood. They say he killed his first man when he was six with his bare fists, the cranium cracker, the blood spiller, I give you, Gorgath the Crusher!”

The creature that comes from the largest gate is closer to the traditional Christian rendition of a demon than I would think possible, a stark contrast to his golden, angelic armor. He even has the horns and the utter ugliness of the most revolting of gargoyles. He towers above me and holds in his hands a maul that positively shines with enchantments.

“I hate being bothered without notice, little girl,” he says with a gravelly voice. “You’re lucky the boss wants you in a state where you can just speak.”

I smile at him and quickly cast a voice-enhancing spell, struggling a little to cast under the effect of the arena’s anti-magic runes. It is time to make myself known at least to an extent.

“I am going to kill you without moving a finger,” I state.

Gorgath huffs with disdain, and I notice the source of his confidence shining ominously on his armor: a very, very powerful protection against mind magic. Unfortunately for him, I was not referring to Charm.

When I first triggered my Magna Arqa, using the roots was as easy as breathing. I have struggled to reproduce this effectiveness ever since then, and my mastery showed its limits when I fought Bertrand and his followers. In theory, my Magna Arqa would not simply let me fight, it would allow me to control the terrain for both me and my allies until it becomes as deadly to intruders as the garden of my mind palace. In effect, keeping so many factors in mind when facing foes just as fast or even faster than me remains a daunting challenge. Now that I have grown from the fae offering, I should have a smoother control. All that is left is to practice. It cannot be my ultimate weapon if I only use it for my most difficult battles. Practice makes perfect.

And it will feel good to let go.

Any time now.

“Fight!”

Ah.

YESSSSSSSSSS.

I tilt my head back and release my hold. Essence spreads and my aura flares. The tiniest amount of resistance holds me back, more a matter of finding a path than a real obstruction. Rocks above my head block the purple light but I know, I just know, that Voidmoore’s starless expanse just gained its first astral object. It is here. It has come. It is, as always, WATCHING.

A pulse of wonder, like the coo of a soul.

Yes, feast your eye on this new world. As for me, I shall feast as well. The time has come to bring this masquerade to its inevitable conclusion.

“Magna Arqa.”

Thorn roots crack the bloody sand, thick and strong. I pull one back with an effort of will just as Gorgath charges. When he is in the right spot, I release it. The root whips back and smashes against the chestplate with a resounding clang. The massive fae bounces back, but it will take more to stop him. He bellows.

I sit down, letting an arched root carry me.

Gorgath struggles to advance against the shredding, whipping spikes. His armor resists for now. He grunts with effort and, when he is close enough, takes a deep breath.

I raise a wall to block the acid breath that emerges from his throat. Fluid hisses on the red sand, but the roots hold, just as durable here as they were on earth. The supposedly unstoppable champion is dragged, pushed, carried stumbling through the sands, tossed and caught and smashed down. It doesn’t hurt him yet but the tone is given. I look up to the dais to see Malera standing, arguing with an advisor. The magic-dampening runes are still active. They simply do not affect my power.

She knows now, she understands. I see fear. I can almost taste it.

With one last look, the Mistress of the Arena turns around and abandons the place, leaving me the ground. Oh, such a meaningful decision.

Gorgath roars. He swings his maul vertically and a massive arc of fire emerges, making a beeline for me. I have the root under me carry me out of the way. Hmmm, I should use them to reorient myself more, maybe even change direction midair. Such potential.

Seeing his attack has failed, Gorgath redoubles his efforts. The struggle never ends for him, because the roots never end. They flay him without respite. Even without infusing them with essence, damage has already appeared on the previously lustrous surface of his armor. Pits and scratches accumulate with every smack, every shredding pass. My foe shows he is mad with anger and it makes no difference whatsoever. I stand on a throne of thorns, unmoving despite his best efforts. A new charge ends in a prison I raise all around him. He fails to escape it once more. He bangs on the surface again and again with no result. I think it is time to hammer the point home.

Loth’s statue strikes his flank.

Gorgath turns and roars. His addled mind launches him at the nearest foe even though the dimmest fighter would realize this is a construct. False stone flies, then so does blood. Dalton’s gun roars. The werewolf jumps on his back. Gorgath fights. He bleeds. He resists. He kneels and stumbles.

Sivaya’s statue stabs a spear in his back, finding a chink in the ravaged armor. He screams and falls for good. I use roots to bring him to me. Our eyes meet.

With his remaining strength, he throws a pathetic punch. I allow it to slide on my armor. He tried hard, though not very smartly.

I bite down.

The accumulated essence of all the previous gladiators coalesce into his own as I drink him dry. He is a fae on his own territory, a champion at the end of a line of warriors. And I made an example out of him. I won. He tastes amazing, like life and triumph and struggle on those blood-soaked grounds. I take my due under the ovation of the crowd even as they know they have witnessed history. It feels amazing.

Now, time to collect more!

“Teeheeeheeeeee!”

I go through the door. Its guardian has left, run off somewhere. That was so good! Makyas comes from somewhere to hover around my head.

“Wonderful, Ariane! Such tasty eyeballs! We have your winnings! Follow me!”

“QUIET, WINGED ONE!” I exclaim. “We are not done yet! I have to collect my other dues!”

Makyas turns back, intrigued.

“Other dues?”

How can he not know? He was there! Everyone was there!

“The gladiators, silly!” I explain to the slowpoke. “I spared them so they owe me their lives, and I also promised I wouldn’t leave Syma in their grip. So of course I will, ah, liberate them. Yeeeesh. I liberate Likaeans is what I do. You should know!”

I thought I had seen Makyas ecstatic before, but now he looks like a child on Christmas eve. He will assist!

“No more words! Lead on, faithful guide! For freedom and the pursuit of a great hunt! I am bringing liberty to these forsaken lands, one broken door at a time! Onward, I say! I did not free you all to stop on the earth side! To gates and collars! Teeheehee!”

With the cloud of flutterlings opening the way, I rush deeper into the maw of the arena, meeting only a handful of terrified guards. A thought occurs to me, however. I had a fantastic hunt and a great feeding while I was not even Thirsty. Could it be that the massive influx of power has made me drunk? Am I placing myself needlessly in harm’s way? Could my judgment be impaired?

Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

“Open up, door, you know you swing that way! Teeheehee!”

Cells! Spartan ones, too. The insectile hive thing with the blades on his arms sits against the wall with a collar. Unacceptable! He’s a good lad! I tear it off and pull him to his feet. I know he doesn’t quite get sound communication so I will have to be especially eloquent.

“You are Dancer. Got it? That’s your sound name. Dancer. Daaaaaaaancer. NOD YOUR HEAD BECAUSE THAT MEANS YES.”

Slowly, the Likaean meaning behind the words filters through his chitinous skull. He does nod.

“Excellent! More freedom! Yay!”

Syma is next, then Hadrano. Others too because they are on the way and I don’t really mind. Nol caresses his newly manacle-free wrists.

“Are you a royal?” he asks.

“Nope!”

“Well… you should be.”

“You ca