Two children played beneath the setting Sun. They were a boy and a girl, both with red hair. The girl’s hair was longer, but the boy’s wasn’t much shorter. Nearby, a few workers were finishing part of the foundations for the castle’s wing.

  The kingdom was slowly regaining its former appearance—the one described by travelers and merchants in their chronicles. The way it was also depicted by the Pen that knew all things written.

  Yar had never seen it in its entirety. He was born amidst its ruins, but he remembered what a traveler named Lucas Artemius had written: “The castle was the most beautiful of all the five kingdoms of the West—the most beautiful part of it wasn’t even the flowers that fell like drops upon its walls, but the two towering spires that seemed to touch the Sky.”

  He had made the builders memorize everything written about the castle by travelers. He made them repeat every day what he wanted from them. He promised them double what he had initially offered, just to bring back the old splendor, as it was described in the books.

  When the Sun finally lost its battle with the darkness, and the silence outside lulled everyone to sleep, Yar slowly rose. He had been sitting in his chair for too long. He loved doing that, though sometimes he would lose track of time.

  The pain in his thigh always intensified at this hour. He gritted his teeth and endured it. Besides, he only needed his leg to cross the small room in one of the surviving wings of the kingdom. He took two or three larger steps, then leaned against the wall, waiting for the throbbing to stop. With a couple more steps, he reached the bookshelf in his room. He was looking for a particular book and quickly found it. He had read it hundreds of times, but there were things that still didn’t sit well with him. He was missing something.

  The book was green, with large, golden letters spelling out the title—The Great Battles.

  And the author’s name was written there too: Yar.

  He took the book in his hand and headed back to his favorite desk by the window, from where he could see the entire courtyard—now empty, but once filled with flowers that, according to tales, even obscured the view from the city. He dragged his chair a bit noisily and sat heavily. His thigh still ached, but once he sat down, the pain faded quickly. He flipped through the book and opened it to the last pages. He had gone too far ahead. He flipped back a bit and found exactly what he was looking for: the Sixth Great Battle.

  And the year was 1292.

  Yar slowly closed his eyes. He felt the scent of the waves, the sand beneath his feet, even heard the cheers of the crowd that watched and awaited the battle to begin. But it wasn’t enough. He tried to linger in that moment a little longer. He didn’t want to use the ring. It had grown too powerful for him. He heard the voice of a child speaking to someone, but he couldn’t yet see anyone.

  He opened his eyes abruptly and found himself back in the room where he had been moments ago. He reached to the corner of the desk and pulled a wooden box toward him. He opened it quickly and took out what he was searching for.

  The ring was beautiful. It wasn’t made of any special material—just the same alloy used for forging swords. Yet it was more magical than they were, and he could feel its power the moment it touched his palm.

  This time, he not only felt the crowd, the scent, and the heat; this time, he saw the arena before him, where soon five great warriors would emerge to fight to the death. He was no longer in the small, dark room with its cool evening air.

  He was now in the middle of the day, with the sun high above, a gentle breeze blowing, and surrounded by hundreds of people. Amid their shouts and not-so-censored exclamations, they all awaited one thing—the Great Battle.

  What fully immersed him in that past moment was the voice of a child standing beside him.

  “Why in Shilan, Grandfather? Why here?” The boy tugged at the sleeve of the old man standing on his other side, yet he never took his eyes off the arena.

  The old man was also watching intently. In a lifetime, one might witness two or three Great Battles—not because one was not allowed more, but because the Great Battle took place precisely every thirty years. And the old man seemed like someone who had likely witnessed at least two.

  “Shilan is the capital of our World, child,” he replied.

  “The capital?” the boy asked his grandfather. “And what lies outside the capital?”

  “Haven’t we learned this already?” The old man’s tone became slightly more stern. “Volkar, Meihar, Chernoval, Solis, and Ishold.”

  The elder had just listed the five main kingdoms, and the five warriors appeared to the cheers of the entire crowd. Yar had witnessed this moment countless times before, yet he still relished it. They stood in the God’s Pit of the Godless Arena. That’s what he liked to joke, though it was the truth. The arena was called the God’s Pit, and they called the arena the Nameless God’s arena. The idea was that here, only weapons ruled; the Gods had no say. But in the end, they would come and claim the dead. And there would be dead today, four to be exact. And the fifth would become king. Yar had watched this battle many times and knew the victor, but he still wanted to follow everything once again. He was seeking answers.

  The five warriors sized each other up, each searching for fear in the eyes of the others. Each of them was standing on the arena for the first time, though it didn’t show. They looked at each other as if they had vast experience in combat. And in a way, they did.

  The boy next to him stared at one of the warriors. He was dressed in brown and wore a wolf’s fur cloak. His black hair blended with his swarthy, rugged face, and he held a massive sword in each hand.

  “Valrak,” the boy pointed. “From Volkar.”

  Though the old man didn’t reply, the boy was correct. Valrak was the warrior of Volkar. He stared straight ahead, somewhere into the crowd, ignoring the others.

  “Why don’t we have a warrior?” the boy asked again.

  “We are a land without battles, child. Shilan has never ruled by force. The people of Shilan are peaceful.”

  “Then why do they allow others to fight here?”

  “All five kingdoms want to rule over our World. And Shilan is the best place where a ruler can establish himself. When the understanding was signed many years ago, they agreed upon this. And the first battle was held the very next year—right here. Do you remember who won?”

  The boy thought for a moment and placed his finger on his lips. He was about four or five years old.

  “Kassian from Volkar.”

  “Exactly.” The grandfather was pleased.

  Valrak was the first to step forward, and according to the old customs of the battle, he bowed to the audience. Thunderous applause erupted from all sides. The locals feared the wolf people, but they liked them. Valrak surveyed the entire stadium and returned to his place. Yar tried to see more, but he had witnessed this scene many times, and Valrak remained just as imposing.

  “The second is Astrid,” the grandfather leaned toward the child. “From Meihar.”

  “Meihar?”

  “Yes, Meihar is south of Volkar.”

  “And they sent a woman?”

  “Yes, only women live in Meihar. But do not underestimate them. They can also be fierce and fearless.”

  The child stared, mouth agape. Astrid held a long spear and made two sideward leaps to present herself to the people and gain their approval. She was graceful, and her red hair was tied in a ponytail that reached almost to her waist. Yar liked her too. There were so many stories surrounding her that could be mere legends, yet they had elevated her to a near-mythical status, especially in Meihar.

  “And that’s Gideon, right?” the child exclaimed, pointing with his finger. He was excited about each warrior.

  “Yes, how do you know?”

  “Everyone in Shilan talks about him. He’s the best.”

  “Is that what you think?” The grandfather responded with a slight chuckle.

  “Yes. Just look at that hammer…” The boy was lost in admiration.

  “He is certainly the strongest. But that doesn’t make him the best.”

  “Gideon is from Chernoval, child. The Black Kingdom.”

  “Black?”

  “That’s what they call it because the castle is dark. But they are not bad people. There are no bad people anywhere in the five kingdoms.”

  “Then where are they?”

  “The bad ones have long been gone from our lands, boy.”

  “But what if the King of Shilan becomes a bad person?”

  “That can’t happen. But even if it does, it will only be for thirty years. And at the next Great Battle, another will come.”

  Gideon did nothing graceful. Nor could he, even if he had wanted to. Gideon was massive, with long hair reaching his shoulders and a large scar beneath one eye. He wore a large, thick cloak, but even through it, one could tell how massive his body was. Gideon took two steps forward, glanced at the crowd, and then stepped back. Nothing more.

  The grandfather placed his hand on the child’s small foot and guided his attention to the fourth warrior.

  “Ajax.”

  “The Serpent,” the boy sighed.

  “Yes. The animal of Solis is the serpent. That’s why they like to fight with whips. It looks like a snake.”

  Yar also looked in that direction. At first, he couldn’t control the body of the person he was in, but now he could. And he was getting better at it. He sensed the foreign presence within him, and perhaps that person knew something was amiss, but Yar wouldn’t let him break free. Later, he would forget anyway.

  Ajax was tall, slender, with blonde hair. He held a whip in his hands that ended with a serpent’s head. And at his feet slithered a real one.

  “She doesn’t look scary.”

  “That’s just a snake for his introduction.”

  “There’s another?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I understand.” The boy clasped his hands to the sides of his face and stared. Ajax didn’t do anything special either, but the snake at his feet hissed at the crowd. Astrid glanced at the snake, but Gideon and Valrak paid no attention to it. Both stood watching ahead, their expressions showing they couldn’t wait for everything to begin.

  “And Kaltus,” the boy shouted, his voice lost in the crowd’s applause.

  Kaltus was tall and slender. His hair was black as tar, and he carried a bow on his shoulder.

  “Kaltus doesn’t stand a chance, Grandpa. A bow against Valrak’s swords? Or against Gideon’s hammer? They’ll kill him first.”

  “Do not underestimate any of them, child. Each had to surpass a great number of strong and willing fighters from their kingdom to come here. Each one of them has defeated at least a thousand opponents in battles to earn the support of their people.”

  “Maybe,” the boy said, “but none of them have fought in a battle like this.”

  “They’re starting,” the grandfather said, placing a hand on the child to catch his attention.

  Yar looked at him. He tried not to show it, but he was more excited than the boy. And he had seen this battle many times.

  The arena was round and enormous. It could hold the entire city, and it was so high that the people in the uppermost seats could hardly see what was happening below. That’s why, when the battles began, many of them would descend and crowd among the others until the guards quickly pushed them back up. This often led to fatalities, but that happened rarely.

  “Zoran,” the grandfather pointed out to the boy one of the high terraces above the arena. And from there appeared a tall, handsome man.

  Yar recognized him. Zoran at that time was around fifty years old. He also knew how Zoran’s life would end. But now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.

  Zoran stood tall, surveying the crowd as if studying each spectator one by one.

  “Warriors of the kingdom!” Zoran shouted, then continued more quietly, “Today is a great day for Shilan and its people. Today is a great day for all the other kingdoms of these lands. A great day for all the cities. We have gathered here with the permission of the Gods, but beyond their gaze, to honor the ancient agreement of our forefathers. The time has come for the Great Battle. Five of your bravest warriors will stand against each other, stepping onto an arena where the blood of far more renowned and powerful warriors has been spilled, as well as those who did not deserve to be there. This battle will determine which kingdom will rule over Shilan and the land we tread upon for the next thirty years. These great warriors hold in their hands not only the fate of their own lives but also the fate of their kings. And rest assured, they will give nothing less than their all. The Nameless God is hungry, and today we will satisfy him with four souls. Four souls of great warriors and, above all, men trained and ready to fight in his honor. As we stand on the threshold of the greatest moment for the kingdom, let me thank each one of them. Let me thank them for their sacrifice, which forges the unbreakable bond and understanding between our cities. Four of you will go into eternity, where you will feast with the God, and one will remain to receive the greatest honors that mortals can offer. And his king will take the highest place at the highest point on Earth—Shilan. So it has been, and so it shall be. Go forth, valiant warriors, and carve your names upon the wall of history. Long live Shilan and the Free Kingdoms!”

  Yar loved hearing the speech every time, even though he already knew it by heart. He listened with interest as the crowd reacted to Zoran's words, their applause and shouts filling the arena—even those seated in the furthest rows joined in.

  "Are those the other kings, Grandpa?" the boy asked, pointing with his finger toward five men seated in the front row.

  "Yes. The first is Oberon."

  "From Volkar?"

  "Yes. Valrak is his warrior."

  "And the second one?"

  "The ruler of Chernoval and Zoran's brother. He governs while Zoran is here, on the Shilan throne. His sons are still too young to take the kingdom. The next two are Lyra and Soren, from Meihar and Solis, respectively. Their warriors are Astrid and Ajax."

  "So Meihar has not only a woman warrior but a woman ruler too?"

  "Yes, my boy. Unlike the other lands, Meihar's population is predominantly female. There, it is more common to see men doing tasks considered women’s work, while the women wield swords and practice combat on the sands."

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  "Have they always sent women as warriors?"

  "Always. Even their first warrior was the creator of the Pact—Florentina."

  "What is he doing?" the boy suddenly shouted, pointing toward King Zoran.

  The grandfather turned toward the arena.

  "It's an old tradition that marks the start of every great battle," he told the boy. "Watch closely. If you wish to become strong and fearless like them, watch and don’t avert your eyes. Someone might see if you’re afraid."

  The boy took these words very seriously, trying not even to blink. The king had extended his left arm forward, holding a dagger in his right hand. The blade was so polished it was nearly white, reflecting like a mirror. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, Zoran first pierced the crook of his arm and then, with a gentle pressure, ran the knife across his palm. The boy clutched his own hand as if he had been cut and recoiled slightly, but he kept watching. Zoran’s blood began to drip onto the sand.

  "But why?" the boy asked his grandfather.

  "An old tradition. It was once believed that this would awaken the interest of the Nameless God, that he would smell the royal blood and come to watch."

  The king continued to hold his hand above the arena and spoke again:

  "In the name of the Gods and in the name of the Nameless God, protector of us all… And for the honor of Shilan!"

  The final words seemed to echo throughout the arena, signaling the warriors. Valrak, Gideon, Astrid, Kaltus, and Ajax were already prepared, and the old man could see that none of them had heard a word of the king’s speech. They just wanted to fight. The tension was palpable among the crowd and the rulers of each city. Yet the warriors had trained their entire lives for this moment. None of them wished to succumb to their emotions.

  Zoran’s blood continued to drip. All five warriors watched it, and so did the crowd. The boy didn’t ask his grandfather any more questions, and for Yar, this was the most fascinating part. The battle would begin as soon as the blood stopped dripping. And just when everyone held their breath, the blood ceased.

  Kaltus removed the bow from his shoulder, bent his knees, and finally sized up the other warriors. Acting on his first instinct, he leaped into the air, separating himself from the others. His jump was so high it stunned the audience. While everyone was mesmerized by him in the air, they failed to notice that Astrid from Meihar had already positioned herself beneath him. No one, except Yar. But Yar was watching that exact spot. He knew what was about to happen. He had witnessed this many times and always saw something new. And now he saw that the falcon, the bird of Meihar, seemed to soar above everyone’s heads as Kaltus landed on Astrid’s spear.

  Some called it the fastest kill in the arena’s history, and if Yar recalled correctly, that was indeed the case. No one had ever died as quickly as Kaltus.

  "Kaltus!" The boy shouted, pointing and looking at the old man.

  "Yes, child. Kaltus is now with the Nameless God," the old man replied, glancing up at the terrace above the arena. Zoran was smiling, while one of the three kings seated in the front row rose without a word and left. It was Ekill, the King of Ishold. Once again, his kingdom would not be victorious.

  Four warriors remained in the arena. And also around it.

  Kaltus’s body still lay where Astrid had struck him down, and her swift attack served as a warning to the others. Each warrior took slow steps in different directions, carefully watching their opponents to the left and right. They were all waiting for the others to make the first move. Astrid seemed the most satisfied. She had successfully demonstrated that they would have to contend with her. And she was certainly the primary target for the others. Because she was a woman.

  The battle had been won four times by a warrior from Chernoval and twice by one from Volkar. Neither Solis, Ishold, nor Meihar had ever won, though there had been times when they came very close, only to fall short. Yar knew not only the victor of each battle by heart but also who had killed whom. A woman killing the warrior of Ishold had now happened for the third time.

  The whip in Ajax’s hand twitched as if it moved on its own. He muttered something under his breath toward Valrak, who responded just as angrily. Astrid continued to circle them, holding the bloodstained spear in her hands. She was more frightened than confident.

  The warriors had studied each other well, and it was difficult to surprise one another.

  Several moments passed in which no one made a move. Moments that Astrid broke once again. This time, her target wasn’t the small, bow-wielding Kaltus, who was already dead. Her target was Gideon.

  After so many times witnessing this battle, Yar knew why she was doing it. Gideon was undoubtedly the strongest, but his muscles hampered his agility, and he wasn’t known for his speed or sharp mind. A single accurate strike from Gideon could kill Astrid on the spot, and she knew it. That’s why she wanted to be fast. Otherwise, she would end up like Kaltus.

  Valrak and Astrid remained back, exchanging words but not yet attacking each other. Astrid, however, lunged toward Gideon with her spear aimed at him. But neither did he strike her, though he was close, nor did she manage to land a blow. Astrid landed on her feet far from him. Gideon merely snorted like a mare and took two steps forward, not in a threatening manner, but more to show her who was in charge and who should win.

  On the other side of the arena, Ajax was still whipping his weapon around as if it were stronger than Valrak’s swords. Valrak was the first to use the three-sword technique he had mastered over the last five years. Yar had learned about this recently from another merchant’s travelogue, in which the writer had even spent a night with the guards of Volkar, and there Valkar himself had arrived, drenched in blood, fresh from one of his training sessions.

  "Damn it," the old man beside Yar muttered. "The dark blue sword on his back."

  It was as if he knew what Yar was thinking, though he was more likely speaking to the boy. And the boy was staring wide-eyed at the sword. The old man was right; one of the ten swords was in Valrak’s possession, or rather, strapped to his back. The two swords in his hands were ordinary, but the powerful one was the dark blue sword protruding behind his head. Every kingdom, every great warrior or king, had their sword. But some were missing, and no one had seen them for a long time. However, that wasn’t the issue now.

  Valrak advanced with his two swords, swinging them in front of Ajax’s frightened face. Once again, Yar realized that Ajax didn’t resemble a warrior. He hadn’t found in the books how Ajax had been chosen to fight. He was more comical than threatening. And with a whip in hand, he incited even more laughter among the people.

  "Run, Ajax!" the boy shouted. A few people around him laughed.

  "Do you like Ajax?" the old man asked him.

  "Yes. I want him to win."

  "That will be hard, boy. Look at the others. Even Astrid is more dangerous."

  The boy didn’t respond, clenching his fists and pounding them on his knees.

  Meanwhile, Astrid attacked Gideon once more. But this time, she didn’t rely on jumps and quick kills. She simply ran around the giant, bombarding him with strikes that he successfully parried. Finally, Gideon struck back. One of his hammers hit Astrid’s spear, breaking a large portion of it. The crowd erupted, and Lyra, the queen of Meihar, gasped in surprise. But Astrid was fine.

  Valrak was still pursuing Ajax with his two swords, but the Solis warrior skillfully evaded his strikes. The whip was more of a hindrance than a help. In fact, during one of Valrak’s strikes, Ajax lifted the whip high, wrapped it around part of the terrace where Zoran was watching, and used it to escape from Valrak. The Volkar warrior cursed so loudly that the boy next to Yar laughed.

  The crowd shifted their gaze between the two pairs of combatants. Meanwhile, Gideon had cornered Astrid, and she was barely holding off his onslaught with the remaining piece of her spear. Gideon was probably three times her weight. But Astrid managed to slip out of his grasp, risking the spear that Gideon was leaning on. She ducked low and escaped his grip, kicking the giant in the ankle as she did. He shouted, though it seemed more out of anger than pain. He turned to her with an even fiercer expression, gripping one of his hammers in hand. And suddenly, the hammer flew toward her. She hadn’t expected it. Neither had the crowd. The speed of the hammer was so great that Astrid had no time to dodge, and it struck her square in the face, breaking the arm she raised to protect herself.

  A hush fell over the arena, followed by new cheers. Lyra’s voice could be heard pleading for Gideon to spare her warrior’s life, begging just to let her live. She surrendered.

  But those weren’t the rules, and Lyra knew it. Gideon had another hammer, and he was moving toward the fallen Astrid. Everyone stood up. Yar did too. The child beside him had climbed onto the chair next to him.

  Gideon stood over Astrid, his legs straddling her, and he was saying something. Blood had covered her entire face, and even if she survived, she would never regain her former beauty. Gideon gripped the handle of the hammer with both hands, the head of the hammer aimed at Astrid’s skull. Someone shouted for him to stop, but he wasn’t going to listen, of course. And no one, except Yar, knew what would happen next.

  "Don’t look," Yar made the man whose body he inhabited say to the boy next to him. The boy just looked at him. The old man on the other side didn’t even notice them.

  "Why?"

  "You’re still too young."

  The boy didn’t hear him and kept watching. Yar didn’t expect him to listen. And the scene before them was horrific. Gideon didn’t finish off Astrid immediately. First, he shattered the shoulder of her arm. The sound of bones breaking and the sight of her arm dangling by just a shred of skin echoed everywhere. With a laugh, he did the same to her other arm. Astrid screamed at the first blow. By the second, she had already passed out from the pain.

  Gideon roared. The boy beside Yar was crying, curled up against his grandfather. Astrid wasn’t dead, but she had no chance now. Even the best healers couldn’t save her. And they wouldn’t have to. She would die from her wounds or at the sword of one of the contenders.

  Gideon left Astrid lying there and moved toward Ajax and Valrak. The battle there wasn’t particularly contested either. Ajax’s only advantage was his speed, which allowed him to escape from Valrak. But that was all. Gideon was about to cut off his escape. He seemed to be watching him.

  Over the years, battles between the warriors of Volkar and Chernoval had become legendary. The two kingdoms always seemed to produce the strongest and most worthy people for this arena. That’s why they always won. Now the crowd expected the same. They expected everyone to die before them and to see a real fight. No one wanted to watch Ajax, running around like a rabbit, avoiding both of them, even though he seemed to be the children’s favorite.

  "Valrak!" Gideon shouted, coming to a halt. Valrak turned to him. "Leave that little boy and face me."

  Valrak didn’t wait for a second invitation. He left Ajax behind. And Ajax was smiling, pleased. Valrak lumbered toward Gideon. He held both his swords and glanced behind Gideon, where the half-dead Astrid lay.

  "Why doesn’t Ajax attack them from behind, Grandpa?"

  The boy’s question was clever. But Yar knew the answer. So did the boy’s grandfather:

  "Even if he did, he would kill one of them. Then the other would quickly kill him. It’s better for him to let them kill each other."

  He had barely finished speaking when the clash of steel rang out once again in the arena, silencing everyone. Gideon swung his two hammers, while Valrak blocked with his two swords. Ajax had indeed retreated to the side, sitting in the sand, smiling and crossing his legs to show that he was better than them, resting while they fought. No one in the stands liked this, but the people were too busy watching the exchanges between Valrak and Gideon. This was what everyone had been waiting for. They had waited thirty years, most of all, for this. And as always, these two delivered the most excitement.

  Gideon seemed slightly better. His hammers were heavy, bending Valrak’s swords, though they were still sharp enough to kill a man. Gideon knew this. On the other hand, Valrak wasn’t as large as Gideon, but he didn’t retreat; in fact, he pressed forward, trying to hold his ground, no matter how difficult it was. Ajax remained motionless behind them, smiling and waiting. But he saw something else. He saw something that everyone in the crowd saw. Only the two locked in combat didn’t notice.

  "Look, Grandpa." The boy pointed.

  Yar smiled. He knew and had seen it hundreds of times. And yet, it was indescribable. Astrid had risen and was walking toward them. The crowd cheered her on, shouting. Her face was covered in blood, redder than her hair. Her shattered shoulders prevented her from lifting her arms high, so she kept them hanging limp at her sides. But her broken shoulders didn’t stop her from gripping the broken spear in her hand and moving forward. She stepped slowly, deliberately, toward the two giants, who no one was watching anymore. And they continued exchanging blows. Gideon had even managed to wound Valrak’s arm, though not severely enough to stop him from fighting.

  "He'll kill him from behind."

  "Unlikely, my boy. She can’t even lift her arm."

  Yar merely smiled, trying to capture the expressions of those around him. Everyone’s eyes were on Astrid’s small, staggering steps and her blood-soaked face. The blood had already stained her clothes. She knew she was already dead, but it seemed there was one last thing she needed to do before she truly died.

  However, Valrak saw her. He saw the spear in her hand. Yar hadn’t noticed this the first few times he had watched the battle. He only saw it the last time, and now he was sure. Valrak did exactly what was expected. He paused his attack, waiting for Gideon to move closer. When the giant warrior from Chernoval drew near, Valrak lifted his foot and kicked him hard in the stomach, sending the giant stumbling backward. Gideon laughed at Valrak’s clumsy attempt to push him away. But then he noticed the spear protruding from his own belly. The hammers fell from his hands, and the crowd fell silent once more. That’s when he seemed to feel the pain, and blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

  "Bitch!" His voice rang out, amusing many in the crowd. Yar looked up at Zoran. The former King of Chernoval watched without expression. He knew he would return to Chernoval and lose his throne. As much as Yar knew of him from the writings, Zoran didn’t seem to care. But a loss was still a loss, and no one liked that.

  Gideon died relatively quickly for such a large man. Astrid dropped her spear and collapsed to the ground again. That was the last thing she could manage.

  But she was no longer of interest to the people. Something else was happening nearby. Valrak shouted, and Ajax had already drawn his whip. A wound appeared on Valrak’s ankle.

  It was from Ajax.

  "Is that all?" His shout echoed. "Is this how you plan to win?"

  Ajax was smiling.

  "It looks like Valrak will win, Grandpa," the boy said, echoing the thoughts of everyone around him. Yar knew the answer but said nothing.

  "If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a battle, my boy. Just watch. The winner might end up on the Shilan throne."

  "Or the winner’s king."

  "There have been times when the champion himself took the throne."

  The grandfather was right. Legends still lingered about the reign of Velibor, later called the Dark One.

  Valrak limped toward Ajax, dragging his injured leg and drawing the third sword. He held two swords in one hand and the third in the other.

  Ajax laughed, stepping back. The whip in his hand twitched. Valrak lumbered toward him, looking like a man with nothing to lose. But Ajax had something to lose. He wanted everything.

  Valrak drew closer. Ajax halted his retreat. And when everyone expected Valrak to strike, Ajax attacked instead. He threw his whip forward, the snake’s head aimed at Valrak. But the move was too predictable. Valrak slashed through the whip with a single swing. Ajax continued smiling. It had bought him time. Yar thought it had bought time for Valrak too, though even that wouldn’t help him.

  The whip was gone. Two warriors were dead, and Astrid couldn’t rise a second time. She lay on the ground, writhing in pain. Valrak glanced back several times to make sure she wasn’t behind him. When he looked at Ajax again, the man was alone. A mountain of muscle with a sword in each hand was advancing on him.

  When Valrak was right next to him, Ajax calmly sat down on the ground.

  "Well, you cur. Come on."

  Valrak didn’t hesitate. He raised his sword high. Ajax laughed.

  "Swing and finish me off. Finish the kingdom, too."

  "Stop talking and accept your death."

  "You too."

  They spoke quietly, but Yar knew what they were saying. Sometimes he returned here in the body of one of the two. The conversation was always the same.

  Valrak was confused, a look of bewilderment crossing his face at Ajax’s calm demeanor.

  "You destroyed my whip, but it did its job," Ajax said, glancing at Valrak’s leg. The warrior from the wolf city did the same. There was a small wound on his ankle, bleeding but nothing that should have worried him.

  "A desperate move," Valrak said in his deep voice. "Is that the best you can do?"

  "I don’t think so, wolf. You’ve been poisoned. The poison was in the head of the whip."

  Valrak leaned down, grabbed Ajax with one hand, and lifted him off the ground. Then he slammed him back down. He picked up his sword again and aimed it at Ajax.

  "Go on, kill me, and Shilan will be left without a ruler."

  "I will be the ruler."

  "You’ll be dead by nightfall. Nothing can save you."

  "There are healers in Volkar and Shilan."

  "You have no chance, wolf. There is no antidote. Kill me. We’ll both die. You know what will happen in Shilan, don’t you?"

  Here, Yar was unsure. He didn’t know what would happen. If Ajax was right, the kingdom would be left without a ruler. But they had never reached this situation before. The Pact didn’t mention anything about such a scenario.

  "What’s wrong, wolf? Are you going to kill me?" Ajax taunted him again.

  Valrak didn’t hear Ajax. He looked toward King Oberon. His king was on his feet, waiting to see his warrior victorious. He wasn’t thinking about the throne. He was thinking about victory. His hands were ready to raise triumphantly to the sky. As soon as the moon rose, everyone at the Wolf’s Gate would celebrate, and he would sit on the throne in Shilan.

  Valrak turned his gaze back to Ajax. He gripped the hilt of his sword with one hand and placed the other above it. A slight pressure, and Ajax would be dead. He held his life in his hands.

  And then he let go.

  Ajax laughed from the ground. Valrak swayed and fell too.

  "You said by nightfall."

  "Well, I might have lied. It could be a bit quicker." Ajax had risen, taken Valrak’s sword, and was walking toward him. Yar had seen this dozens of times, and it was still thrilling. Ajax simply stood over Valrak, holding the dark blue sword, the sword of Volkar, smiling and saying nothing. Valrak’s eyes were clouded. Yar wasn’t sure if he could even see him. Even the little boy next to Yar held his breath. He shouted something, but it was too late. Valrak was killed with his own sword.

  Ajax raised his arms in victory, but almost no one cheered. Then he threw the sword onto Valrak’s body, returned to where his whip had been, or at least what was left of it, and wrapped it around his hand. His direction was clear. Astrid.

  The red-haired girl who had killed two of the contenders was still alive. She was on her knees, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Her shoulders were crushed, the blood had stopped flowing, but it was everywhere, around and on her.

  Ajax didn’t even stop. He spun the whip, threw it forward, and it wrapped around Astrid’s neck. All that was left was to pull. When he did, the King of Solis, Soren, was already on his feet. But no one applauded.

  And Ajax looked into the crowd. He looked directly at Yar, as if thanking him. As if Yar had helped him.

  Yar’s eyes snapped open.

  He was back in his room. The dark room, on the dark night, where everything had begun.

  Something flew past the open window. It was a bird. Likely a falcon. Falcons loved flying here. A light breeze entered through the window, flipping the pages of the book before him. The next chapter was to be about the Seventh Great Battle. But it hadn’t been written yet. And to write it, he would have to go back again.

  Back to the past, from the perspective of the present, and into the future from the perspective of the last battle. Specifically, twenty-eight years after it, two years before the next one, and twelve years before he was born.