Two children played beneath the setting Sun. A boy and a girl. Both had red hair. The girl’s was longer, though the boy’s wasn’t particularly short either. Near them, a few builders were finishing part of the foundations for one of the castle’s wings.

  The kingdom was slowly regaining its former glory. The kind described by travelers and merchants in their chronicles. The kind that the quill had captured for countless readers.

  The quill that had written nearly all the knowledge of the World.

  Yar had never seen the kingdom in its entirety. He had been born amidst its ruins, but he remembered what a travel writer named Lucas Artemiy had once written: “The castle was the most beautiful of all five kingdoms in the West—its greatest beauty wasn’t even the flowers that fell like droplets along its walls, but the two immense towers that seemed to touch the Heavens.”

  Yar had made the builders memorize everything the travelers had written about the castle. He forced them to repeat daily what he expected of them. He promised them double what he had initially offered. All they had to do was restore its old splendor. Exactly as the books described it.

  When the Sun finally lost its battle with the darkness and silence blanketed the outside, lulling the children to sleep, Yar rose slowly. He had been sitting in his chair too long. He loved doing so. Sometimes, though, he lingered there too much, and the pains wouldn’t forgive him.

  The ache in his thigh always worsened at this hour. He gritted his teeth and pushed through it. His leg, in any case, was only needed to cross the small room in one of the kingdom’s few remaining intact wings. Yar took two or three larger steps, then gripped the wall, waiting for the throbbing to subside. With the next two steps, he reached the bookshelf in his room. He was searching for one specific book and found it quickly. He had read it hundreds of times, yet there were still things that didn’t sit right with him. He was missing something.

  The book was green, its bold golden letters proclaiming the title—“The Great Battles.”

  The author’s name was there too. And it was none other than himself—Yar.

  He took the book in hand and shuffled back to his beloved desk beneath the small window, where he could see the entire courtyard—now empty, though once, according to tales and legends, brimming with flowers that obscured even the view of the city beyond. He pulled his chair with a slight scrape and sat heavily. His thigh ached, but once seated, he forgot the pain. It faded quickly anyway. He flipped through the book and opened it to the final pages. He had gone too far, though. He turned back a little and found exactly what he sought.

  The Sixth Great Battle.

  The year was 1292.

  Yar closed his eyes slowly. He smelled the waves, felt the sand beneath his feet, even heard the crowd’s cheers as they watched and waited for 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 a child’s voice speaking to someone. But he still couldn’t see anyone.

  He opened his eyes abruptly and found himself back in the room he’d been in moments before. Reaching to the corner of the desk, he pulled a small wooden box toward him. He opened it swiftly and took out what he was looking for.

  The ring was beautiful. It wasn’t made of any special material—just the same alloy used for swords. Yet it was more magical than they were. He felt its power the moment it rested in his palm.

  This time, he didn’t just sense the crowd, the scent, and the warmth. 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, dim room with the cool evening air.

  Now it was midday, the heat was intense, a faint breeze stirred, and hundreds of people surrounded him. Amid their shouts and less-than-polite exclamations, they all awaited one thing—the great battle.

  What fully transported him to that past time was the voice of a child standing beside him.

  “Why in Shilan, Grandpa? Why here?” the boy asked, tugging at the sleeve of an old man standing on his other side, though he never took his eyes off the arena.

  The old man gazed in the same direction. In a lifetime, a person might witness two or three great battles. Not because they weren’t allowed more, but because the Great Battle occurred exactly every thirty years. And this old man looked like someone who had likely attended at least two.

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

  “The capital?” the boy asked his grandfather. “And what’s beyond the capital?”

  “Haven’t we studied this already?” The old man’s tone grew slightly stern. “Volkar, Meyhar, Chernoval, Solis, and Ishold.”

  Just as the elder finished listing the five main kingdoms, the five warriors appeared to the roar of the entire crowd. Yar had seen this moment countless times, yet he still savored it. They stood in the God’s Pit of the Godless Arena. That’s how he liked to jest, though it was true. The arena was called the God’s Pit, yet they dubbed it the Arena of the Nameless God. The idea behind its name was that here, only weapons ruled—God had no say. But in the end, God would come to claim the dead. And there would be dead today. Four, to be precise. The fifth would become king. Though Yar knew the victor, he wanted to relive it all again. He was searching for answers.

  The five warriors eyed one another, each seeking fear in the others’ gaze. It was their first time on the arena, but it didn’t show. They stared as if they had vast experience in combat. And, to some extent, they did.

  The boy beside him fixated on one of the warriors. He was clad in brown, with a cloak of wolfskin. His black hair blended with his tanned, rugged face, and in each hand, he wielded a massive sword.

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

  Though the old man beside him didn’t reply, the boy was right. Valrak was Volkar’s warrior. He stared ahead, somewhere into the crowd, paying no mind to the others.

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

  “We’re a land without battles, child. Shilan has never ruled through violence. The people of Shilan are peace-loving.”

  “Then why do they let others fight here?”

  “The five kingdoms all want to rule over our World. And Shilan is the best place for a Ruler to establish themselves. Long ago, with the signing of the pact, they agreed to this. The very next year came the first battle. Right here. Do you remember who won then?”

  The boy pondered, placing a finger to his lips. He was about four or five years old.

  “Cassian from Volkar.”

  “Exactly.” The grandfather smiled, pleased.

  Valrak stepped forward first and, following the battle’s ancient custom, bowed to the crowd. Thunderous applause erupted from all sides. The locals feared the wolf-folk but admired them too. Valrak scanned the entire stadium, then returned to his place. Yar tried to see more, but he’d witnessed this scene so many times, and Valrak remained as imposing as ever.

  “The second is Astrid,” the old man leaned toward the child. “From Meyhar.”

  “Meyhar?”

  “Yes, Meyhar lies south of Volkar.”

  “And they sent a woman?”

  “Yes, Meyhar is home only to women. But don’t underestimate them. They can be fierce and fearless too.”

  The child stared, mouth agape. Astrid held a long spear and performed two graceful side leaps to present herself to the crowd, earning their approval. She was elegant, her red hair tied in a ponytail that nearly reached her waist. Yar liked her too. So many stories surrounded her—possibly legends—but they’d elevated her to a cult figure, especially in Meyhar.

  “And that’s Gideon, isn’t it?” the boy jumped, pointing excitedly. He was thrilled by each warrior.

  “Yes, how did you know?”

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

  “Do you think so?” the old man replied with a slight smirk.

  “Yes. Just look at that hammer…” the boy said dreamily.

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

  “Gideon’s from Chernoval, child. The Black Kingdom.”

  “Black?”

  “They call it that because the castle is dark. But they’re not bad people. None of the five kingdoms have bad people.”

  “Then where are the bad ones?”

  “The bad ones haven’t been in our lands for a long time, boy.”

  “What if a bad person becomes King of Shilan?”

  “That can’t happen. But even if it did, it’d only be for thirty years. Then, at the next Great Battle, another would take their place.”

  Gideon didn’t do anything graceful. He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. Gideon was enormous, with long hair reaching his shoulders and a massive scar beneath one eye. He wore a thick, heavy cloak, yet even through it, his hulking frame was unmistakable. Gideon took two steps forward, surveyed the crowd, and stepped back. Nothing more.

  The old man placed a hand on the boy’s small leg and directed his attention to the fourth warrior.

  “Ajax.”

  “The Snake,” the boy sighed.

  “Yes. The animal of Solis is the snake. That’s why they love fighting with a whip. It looks like a snake.”

  Yar looked that way too. At first, he couldn’t control the body of the person he inhabited, but now he could—and he was getting better at it. He felt the stranger within him, and perhaps the stranger sensed something amiss too, but Yar didn’t let him break free. Afterward, he’d forget anyway.

  Ajax was tall, lean, and blond. In his hands, he held a whip tipped with a snake’s head. A real snake slithered at his feet.

  “It doesn’t look scary.”

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

  “There’s another?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I see,” the boy said, cupping his face with both hands and staring. Ajax didn’t do anything elaborate either, but the snake at his feet hissed at the crowd. Astrid glanced at it, but Gideon and Valrak ignored it. Both stood gazing ahead, their eyes betraying their eagerness for it all to begin.

  “And Kaltus!” the boy shouted, his voice drowned by the crowd’s cheers.

  Kaltus was tall and thin. His hair was pitch-black, and he carried a bow over his shoulder.

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

  “Don’t underestimate any of them, child. Each had to overcome countless strong fighters from their kingdom to stand here. Each has defeated at least a thousand opponents in battle to earn their people’s support.”

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

  “They’re starting,” the old man said, placing a hand on the boy to draw his attention.

  Yar glanced at him. He tried to hide it, but he was more excited than the child. And this wasn’t his first time here.

  The arena was circular and vast. It could hold the entire city and was so tall that those in the highest seats struggled to see what happened below. So, when the battles began, many descended, crowding together until the guards quickly pushed them back up. Sometimes this led to deaths, though it was rare.

  “Zoran,” the old man said, pointing the boy to one of the high terraces above the arena. A tall, sturdy man stood there now.

  Yar knew him. Zoran was about fifty at this time. He knew how his life would end too. But now wasn’t the time to recount that.

  Zoran stood upright, gazing out as if studying each spectator individually.

  “Warriors of the kingdom!” Zoran called, then continued more softly, “Today is a great day for Shilan and its people. A great day for all the other kingdoms of these lands. A great day for every city. We’ve gathered with the Gods’ permission, yet beyond their sight, to honor the ancient pact of our forefathers. It is time for the Great Battle. Five of your bravest warriors will face one another, standing upon an arena where blood has been spilled by far greater and stronger warriors than they, as well as those unworthy of being there. This battle will decide which kingdom will rule over Shilan and the Earth we tread for the next thirty years. These great warriors hold in their hands not only the fate of their lives but the fate of their kings. Rest assured, they will give nothing less than everything. The Nameless God is hungry, and today we shall sate him with four souls. Four souls of great warriors—above all, men trained and ready to fight in his honor. As we stand on the threshold of the kingdom’s greatest moment, let us thank each one of them. Let us thank them for their sacrifice, which forges an unbreakable bond and understanding between our cities. Four of you will pass into eternity, to feast with the Gods, while one will remain to receive the highest honors mortals can bestow. And his king will take the highest seat at the highest point on Earth—Shilan. So it has been, and so it shall be. Step forward, valiant warriors, and carve your names into the wall of history. Long live Shilan and the free kingdoms!”

  Yar loved hearing the speech every time, though he knew it by heart. Then he listened keenly to how the crowd received Zoran’s words. They all clapped and shouted—even those in the back rows.

  “Are those the other kings, Grandpa?” the boy asked, pointing to five men seated in the lowest, front row.

  “Yes. The first is Oberon.”

  “From Volkar?”

  “Yes. Valrak is his warrior.”

  “And the second?”

  “The ruler of Chernoval and Zoran’s brother. He governs while Zoran sits on Shilan’s throne. His sons are still too young to take the kingdom. The next two are Lyra and Soren, from Meyhar and Solis respectively. Their warriors are Astrid and Ajax.”

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  “So Meyhar has a woman warrior and a woman ruler?”

  “Yes, my boy. Unlike the other lands, Meyhar is dominated by women. There, it’s more common to see a man doing women’s tasks, while the women are out on the sands and training fields, wielding swords and swinging spears.”

  “Have they always sent women as warriors?”

  “Always. Even their first warrior was a woman—Florentina, the creator of the Pact.”

  “What’s he doing?” the boy exclaimed, pointing at King Zoran.

  The old man turned toward the arena.

  “An old tradition that begins every Great Battle,” he said to the boy. “Watch. If you want to grow strong and fearless like them, watch and don’t look away. Someone might see you’re afraid.”

  The boy took the words too seriously, trying not even to blink. The king extended his left arm forward, holding a dagger so smooth it was almost white, reflecting like a mirror. Then, with slow movements, he first pierced the crook of his arm, then drew the blade lightly across his palm. The boy grabbed one hand with the other, as if he’d cut himself, and stepped back. But he kept watching. Zoran’s blood dripped onto the sand.

  “But why?” he asked his grandfather.

  “An old tradition. It used to be thought this awakened the Nameless God’s interest. He’d smell the royal blood and come to watch.”

  The king kept his hand over the arena and spoke again:

  “In the name of the Gods and the Nameless God, patron of us all… and for the honor of Shilan!”

  The final words echoed across the arena, a signal to the warriors. Valrak, Gideon, Astrid, Kaltus, and Ajax were already poised, and the old man could see none had heard the king’s speech. They just wanted to fight. Tension hung in the crowd and among the rulers of each city. But the warriors had trained their whole lives for this moment. None would yield to emotion.

  Zoran’s blood continued to drip. All five watched it, as did the crowd. The boy didn’t ask his grandfather, but for Yar, this was the most thrilling part. The battle began the moment the blood stopped falling. And just as everyone held their breath, the last drop touched the sand.

  Kaltus unslung his bow from his shoulder, bent his knees, and only now scanned the other warriors. Acting on instinct, he leapt from the ground, distancing himself from the rest. His jump was so high it stunned the crowd. And while they all watched him in the air, marveling, no one noticed Astrid from Meyhar position herself beneath him. No one but Yar. He was looking right there.

  He knew what would happen. He’d been here dozens of times and always saw something new. Now he saw a falcon—Meyhar’s bird—seem to soar over everyone’s heads as Kaltus landed on Astrid’s spear.

  Years later, people long considered this the fastest kill in the arena’s history, and if Yar recalled all the battles correctly, it was true. No one had died as swiftly as Kaltus.

  “Kaltus!” the boy shouted, pointing and looking at the old man.

  “Yes, child. Kaltus is with the Nameless God now,” the old man said, glancing up at the terrace above the arena. Zoran was smiling, while one of the three kings in the front row stood and left without a word. It was Ekil, King of Ishold—a kingdom that, once again, wouldn’t win.

  Four warriors remained on the arena. And around it too.

  Kaltus’s body lay where Astrid had struck him, her swift attack a warning to the others. Each took slow steps in different directions, eyeing their rivals to the left and right. They all waited for someone else to strike first. Astrid looked the most satisfied. She’d proven they’d have to reckon with her. And she was surely the others’ first target.

  Because she was a woman.

  Four times so far, the battle had been won by a warrior from Chernoval, and twice by one from Volkar. Neither Solis, Ishold, nor Meyhar had ever claimed victory, though there had been times when they came close—something always seemed to fall short. Yar knew by heart not only the winner of each battle but also who had killed whom. And a woman killing Ishold’s warrior had now happened for the third time.

  The whip in Ajax’s hands seemed to twitch on its own. Something came from his mouth, directed at Valrak. Valrak responded just as angrily. Astrid continued circling them, clutching her bloodied spear. She looked more frightened than confident.

  The warriors had studied each other well and could hardly be caught off guard.

  Several moments passed with no one moving. Stalking prevailed. Moments that, once again, Astrid was the first to break. This time, her target wasn’t the slight Kaltus with his bow, who was already dead. Her target was Gideon.

  After witnessing this battle so many times, Yar now understood why she attacked him specifically. Gideon was undoubtedly the strongest of them, but his bulk slowed him down. He wasn’t known for speed or a sharp mind. A single precise strike from Gideon could kill Astrid instantly, and she knew it too. That’s why she needed to be swift. Otherwise, she’d end up like Kaltus.

  Valrak and Ajax stayed back. For now, they only exchanged words, neither launching an attack on the other. Astrid, however, charged with her spear aimed at Gideon. But neither did he land a blow—though he came close—nor did she manage to wound him. Astrid landed on her feet far from him. Gideon merely snorted like a mare and took two steps forward, not threateningly, but more to show who was in charge and who ought to win.

  On the other side of the arena, Ajax still brandished his whip as if it were mightier than Valrak’s swords. Valrak would be the first to use the three-sword technique he’d mastered over the past five years.

  Yar had recently learned of this from another merchant’s travelogue. The merchant had spent a night with Volkar’s guards, and there, Valrak himself had appeared, drenched in blood, fresh from one of his training sessions.

  “Damn it,” the old man beside him muttered. “The dark-blue sword on his back. That’sDewdropThat’s what it’s called.” He spoke to the boy.

  The old man seemed to know what Yar was thinking, though he was addressing the child. The boy stared wide-eyed at the sword. The old man was right—one of the ten was in Valrak’s hands, or rather on his back. The two swords he wielded were ordinary but strong; the powerful one was the dark-blue blade jutting behind his head. Every kingdom and every great warrior or king had a sword. But a few were missing, unseen for ages. That, however, wasn’t the issue now.

  Valrak advanced with his two swords, swinging them before the frightened face of the slight Ajax. Once again, Yar realized Ajax didn’t resemble a warrior. He hadn’t found in the books how they’d chosen him to fight for Solis’s honor. He seemed more laughable and useless. And with the whip in hand, he provoked even more amusement among the crowd.

  “Ajax, run!” the boy shouted from the stands. But it only drew laughter from those nearby.

  “Do you like Ajax?” his grandfather asked.

  “Yes. I want him to win.”

  “Unlikely, lad. Look at the others. Even Astrid is more dangerous.”

  The boy didn’t reply, clenching his small fists and striking his knees.

  Down below, Astrid attacked Gideon again. This time, she didn’t use leaps or the swift kills Meyhar’s warriors were known for. She simply ran circles around the giant, pelting him with strikes he deflected successfully.

  Until he struck back. One of his hammers hit Astrid’s spear, shattering much of it. The crowd erupted, and Lyra, Meyhar’s queen, gaped in shock. Astrid, though, was unharmed.

  Far from them, Valrak hunted Ajax with his two swords, but Solis’s warrior deftly dodged his blows. The whip, for now, hindered more than it helped. In fact, during one of Valrak’s swings, Ajax raised it high, wrapped it around a terrace where Zoran watched, and used it to escape. Volkar’s warrior cursed so loudly that the boy beside Yar laughed.

  The crowd’s eyes darted between the two pairs.

  Gideon had cornered Astrid, and with the intact remnant of her spear, she barely withstood his pressure—especially since Gideon was likely three times her weight. Yet Astrid prevailed. Risking the spear Gideon leaned on, she crouched low and slipped from his grasp. As she escaped, she kicked the giant in the ankle. He roared sharply and halted. Turning to her, even fiercer, he gripped one hammer. Suddenly, it flew toward her. She hadn’t expected it. Nor had the crowd. The hammer’s speed was so great that Astrid had no time to dodge, and it struck her full in the face, breaking the arm she raised to shield herself.

  Silence fell, followed by fresh cheers. Lyra’s disapproval rang out, pleading with Gideon to spare her warrior’s life. Just let her live. She surrendered on her behalf.

  But those weren’t the rules, and Lyra knew it. Gideon held his second hammer and advanced on the fallen Astrid. Everyone rose to their feet. Yar too. The boy between Yar and the old man stood, bouncing with excitement.

  Gideon towered over Astrid. Straddling her, he muttered something. Blood coated her face, and even if she survived, she’d never reclaim her former beauty. Gideon gripped the hammer’s handle with both hands, its head aimed at hers. Someone shouted for him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen, of course. And no one but Yar knew what came next.

  “Don’t look,” Yar made the man whose body he inhabited speak to the boy beside him. The boy only stared at him. The old man on his other side paid no mind.

  “Why?”

  “You’re still too young.”

  The boy ignored him and kept watching. Yar hadn’t expected him to obey. The sight was ghastly. Gideon didn’t finish Astrid immediately. First, he shattered one shoulder. The sound of breaking bones and the arm wrenching loose echoed everywhere. It hung by skin alone. Laughing, he did the same to the other. Astrid screamed only at the first. By the second, she’d fainted from pain.

  Gideon bellowed triumphantly. The boy beside Yar wept, curling into his grandfather. Astrid wasn’t dead, but she had no chance left. Even the best healers couldn’t save her. Nor would they need to. She’d die from her wounds—or from another claimant’s blade.

  Gideon left Astrid lying there and moved toward Ajax and Valrak. Their fight wasn’t much of a contest either. Ajax’s only edge was speed, letting him evade Valrak. But that was all. Gideon would soon block his path.

  Over the years, battles between Volkar and Chernoval warriors had grown legendary. Those two kingdoms always seemed to produce the strongest, worthiest fighters for this arena. And so, they always won. Now the crowd expected the same—everyone else dead, followed by a true clash. No one wanted to watch Ajax scampering like a rabbit, dodging both, though the children seemed to favor him.

  “Valrak!” Gideon roared, halting in place. Valrak turned. “Leave that little boy and face me.”

  Valrak didn’t need a second invitation. He left Ajax behind. Ajax grinned, pleased. Valrak lumbered toward Gideon, gripping both swords and glancing past him. Somewhere back there lay the half-dead Astrid.

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

  The boy’s question was clever. But Yar knew the answer, as did the old man:

  “Even if he did, he’d kill one. Then the other would finish him fast. It’s better for him if they kill each other.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, the clash of steel rang out again, silencing the arena. Gideon swung his twin hammers, and Valrak parried with his swords. Ajax had indeed stepped aside, sitting cross-legged on the sand, smirking—just to show he was above them, resting while they fought. No one in the stands liked it, but they were too engrossed in Valrak and Gideon’s exchange. This was what everyone waited for. Thirty years of anticipation, and, as always, they delivered the battle’s highlight.

  Gideon seemed slightly superior. His hammers were heavy and had bent Valrak’s swords, though they remained sharp enough to kill. Gideon knew it. Valrak, less massive than Gideon, didn’t retreat—on the contrary, he pressed forward, struggling to hold his ground in the fray. Ajax didn’t budge behind them. He smirked and waited. But he saw something else too. Something the crowd saw. Only the two locked in combat didn’t.

  “Look, Grandpa,” the boy pointed.

  Yar smiled. He knew it, had seen it hundreds of times. And it remained breathtaking. Astrid had risen and was staggering toward them. The crowd cheered and shouted. Her face was bloodied, redder than her hair. With both shoulders crushed, she couldn’t lift her arms high, so they dangled lifelessly. But her broken shoulders didn’t stop her from clutching her shattered spear and advancing. She moved slowly, inching toward the two giants, whom no one watched anymore. They kept trading blows. Gideon had even wounded Valrak’s arm, though not badly enough to stop him.

  “She’ll stab him in the back.”

  “Hardly, my boy. She can barely lift her arm.”

  Yar only smiled, catching the expressions around him. Everyone watched Astrid’s small steps and her blood-smeared face. The blood had stained her clothes too. She knew she was already dead. But she clearly had one last task before truly dying.

  Valrak saw her, though. He saw the spear in her hand. Yar hadn’t noticed this the first few times. He’d caught it the last time he watched this battle. And now he was certain. Valrak did exactly what he’d intended. He paused his attack, waiting for Gideon to close in further. When the hulking Chernoval warrior did, Valrak raised a leg and shoved it into his gut, staggering the giant backward. Gideon smirked and laughed at Valrak’s feeble push. Then he saw the spear protruding from his stomach. His hammers fell from his hands, and the crowd fell silent again. Pain hit him then, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

  “Bitch!” His voice rang out, amusing many. Yar glanced up at Zoran. The former Chernoval king stared blankly. He knew he’d return to Chernoval and lose Shilan’s throne. From what Yar knew of the writings, it didn’t matter to him. But a loss was a loss, and no one relished it.

  Gideon died relatively quickly for such a massive man. Astrid dropped her spear and collapsed again. That was truly the last thing Meyhar’s chosen could manage in her life.

  But she no longer held the crowd’s interest. Something else was unfolding nearby. While most watched the redhead fall to the sand, Valrak shouted, and Ajax was already reeling in his whip. A gash appeared on Valrak’s ankle.

  It was from Ajax.

  “Is that all?” His shout echoed. “That’s how you plan to win?”

  Ajax grinned.

  “Maybe Valrak will win, Grandpa,” the boy said, echoing the thoughts of those around him. Yar knew the answer but said nothing.

  “If it were that easy, there’d be no battle, lad. Just watch. The victor might claim Shilan’s throne.”

  “Or the victor’s king.”

  “There’ve been times the champion himself took the throne.”

  The old man was right. Legends still lingered of Velibor’s reign, later dubbed the Grim.

  Valrak advanced on Ajax. Dragging his wounded leg, he’d drawn his third sword. He held two in one hand, the third in the other.

  Ajax laughed, stepping back. The whip in his hand stirred. Valrak trudged slowly toward him, a man with nothing to lose. But Ajax had everything to lose. He wanted it all.

  Valrak drew closer. Ajax halted his retreat. And when everyone expected Valrak to strike, Ajax did instead. He flung his snake-headed whip forward at Valrak. But the move was too predictable. Valrak severed the head with one swing. Ajax kept smiling. It had bought him time. Yar thought it had bought Valrak time too—though even that wouldn’t save him.

  Ajax was now without a whip. Two warriors were dead, and Astrid couldn’t rise again. She lay writhing on the ground. Valrak glanced back several times to check if she was behind him. When he faced Ajax again, the man stood alone. A mountain of muscle with a sword in each hand closed in on him.

  When Valrak reached him, Ajax sat calmly on the sand.

  “Well, you dog. Go on.”

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

  “Swing and finish me. Finish your kingdom too.”

  “Stop talking and accept your death.”

  “You too.”

  They spoke softly, but Yar knew their words. Sometimes he returned here in one of their bodies. The exchange was always the same.

  Valrak looked puzzled, astonishment creeping over him at Ajax’s calm.

  “You ruined my whip, but it did its job,” Ajax said, glancing at Valrak’s leg. The wolf-city warrior followed his gaze. A small, bleeding cut marked his ankle—nothing to worry him.

  “A desperate move,” Valrak rumbled in his deep voice. “Was that your best, little snake? A whip strike. They warned me about you for nothing.”

  “I don’t think so, wolf,” Ajax replied in kind. “Poison runs through you. Poison from the whip’s head.”

  Valrak bent down, seized Ajax with one hand, and lifted him. Then slammed him back to the ground. He grabbed his sword again and aimed it at Ajax.

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

  “I’ll be the ruler.”

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

  “Volkar and Shilan have healers.”

  “No chance, wolf. There’s no antidote. Kill me. We’ll both die. You know what’ll happen to Shilan then?”

  Here, Yar wasn’t certain. He didn’t know what would occur. If Ajax was right, the kingdom would lack a ruler. But they’d never reached that point. The Pact said nothing about it either.

  “What’s wrong, wolf? Going to kill me?” Ajax taunted again.

  Valrak didn’t hear him. He looked to King Oberon. His king stood, awaiting the moment his warrior would triumph. He wasn’t thinking of the throne—only victory. His arms were poised to rise triumphantly to the sky. And once the moon rose, all of Wolf’s Gate would celebrate. He’d take Shilan’s throne.

  Valrak looked back at Ajax. He gripped the sword’s hilt with one hand, placing the other atop it. A slight press, and Ajax would be dead. He held his life in his hands.

  He pressed lightly. And let the sword fall.

  Ajax laughed on the ground. Valrak swayed and collapsed too.

  “Didn’t you say by nightfall?”

  “Well, I might’ve lied—it’s a bit quicker,” Ajax said, rising, taking Valrak’s sword, and approaching him. It was thrilling every time. Ajax stood over Valrak, holding his dark-blue Volkar sword, smiling silently. Valrak’s eyes were clouded. Yar wasn’t sure if he even saw him. Even the boy beside Yar held his breath. Then shouted something, but it was too late.

  Valrak was slain with his own sword.

  Ajax raised his arms triumphantly, but almost no one beyond Solis’s folk cheered. Even they seemed more disbelieving. He tossed the sword onto Valrak’s body, returned to his whip—or what remained of it—and wrapped it around his hand. His direction was clear: Astrid.

  The red-haired girl who’d killed two contenders was still alive. On her knees, her arms hung limp around her. Her shoulders were flattened, the blood no longer flowing but staining everything around and on her.

  Ajax didn’t even pause. He swung the whip, cast it forward, and it coiled around Astrid’s neck. All that remained was to pull. When he did, Solis’s king, Soren, was already standing. But no one clapped.

  Ajax looked into the crowd. He looked right at Yar, as if thanking him. As if he’d helped.

  Suddenly, everything blurred. As though Ajax’s eyes had banished him from the past. The world spun wildly, and he snapped his eyes open.

  He was back in his room. The dark room, in the dark evening. Where it had all begun.

  Something darted past the open window. A bird. Likely a falcon. Falcons loved flying here. A light breeze slipped through, flipping pages in the book before him. The next chapter would be the Seventh Great Battle. But it wasn’t written yet. To write it, he’d need to go back again.

  To the past from the present’s perspective, and the future from the last battle’s. Precisely twenty-eight years after it, two before the next, and at least twelve before his birth.