It is an interesting point of historical fact that philosophy and culture booms following catastrophe. We see throughout the 2nd, 3rd and 4th ages a tremendous increase in cultural output in the first century in comparison to the later years of each era.

  Some of my colleagues argue that as society drags itself further from the ashes of devastation it gains access to new, more efficient means of record; stone and bark slabs exchanged for scroll repositories. Scrolls exchanged for libraries of thick-rimmed books, and eventually to the advanced printing presses one sees emerging from our brothers and sisters in Altine across the sea.

  That is certainly an argument of merit, and it would explain why we tend to find evidence of such a huge cultural output following disaster – primitive records survive longer than easily destroyed paper and papyrus. I have a counter-theory though.

  Apocalypse has a way of lending one perspective. Only once you have lost everything, both personally and as a society, are you truly free to wonder why. To question the whole grand plan of existence and our place within it.

  I disagree with almost everything my opponent has just stated, and find myself wondering if perhaps they may have more success with their pursuit of truth if their home were to be razed before their eyes. At least I would not have to listen to such drivel any longer if it were so.

  - Opening arguments from Aristo Santovelli in ‘the great debate; were hawk or duck feathers the primary material for quills in the 3rd age’, as discussed at the White Tower Consortium circa .267

  I felt hollow after my victory. I faced three more fights after a brief rest but none of them were more of a challenge than Jacyntha.

  One man weaved a stunning defence of cursed smoke that he used to confound my eyes and nose while he picked away at me with some strange weapon that resembled a knife at the end of a long rope. Eventually though, I managed to catch the weapon, and from there it was a quick finish.

  The other two weren’t worth mentioning. Worthy combatants and each more skilled with their weapons and skill-use, but the amulet’s restriction was removed, and my superior attributes did more than level the field.

  I sat in the antechamber, my armoured vest dripping onto the floor from where it hung on the armour stand. Smaller puddles pooled below both feet, where I had upended my leather boots onto the floor before putting them back on again. I was a sodden sight, and it did much to shield me from the raucous banter traded by the myriad fighters around me.

  The winner’s bracket – otherwise known as ‘the real competition’ – was still in full swing, and while Sandent Varselli was the favourite to win after her knock-out of Jacyntha, there were other challengers that had some hype behind them.

  The mood in the rest of the room was uplifting. Excited. That feeling when the snow starts to thaw, and the first green shoots emerge after a heavy winter. In the midst of it, I sat alone, in a little puddle of disquiet, as men and women bustled about around me.

  I wanted to be done with this now. The competition no longer excited me. I was receiving no experience because of my combat class, and none of my skills required more experience to grow at this point. The Blending would doubtless help sharpen my skills, and I expected to see a bevy of levels in various skills once I began hunting and fighting in earnest once more, but without the instant gratification, I was left to stew.

  Nathlan was injured. I doubted it would last long, that Jorge and Vera didn’t have a way to speed up his recovery significantly, but it still rankled. Felt like a reminder, more than anything, that had this been a true battle he would have died.

  Had this been a true battle, he wouldn’t have been alone though. I would’ve been there.

  It was a strange realisation to have. That I would gladly risk my life for a friend. That’s what he had become in all this. The weeks trudging through the grass seas of the Wandering States had introduced us, but the few days shared in Colchet, and the brief sojourn in the Iona Chasm, had sharpened that connection into a friendship.

  It was…nice. To have someone to fight for. To have a reason to trudge through all the weariness and pain. I laughed to myself then, drawing a few strange looks from those nearest by. Get your head out of your ass, Lamb.

  My inner critic emerged then, poking his vicious little head out of whatever hole he’d been hiding in for weeks. I hadn’t heard him much recently, and I imagined it was thanks to the company of my companions. So why are you here moping about, and not with them right now?

  He had a point. I had a point? It didn’t matter. I clapped my hands on my knees and rose to my feet, determined to leave this stone-carved room behind, and my emotional turmoil with it, even if it meant withdrawing from the tournament. I’d lost once already, after all.

  Striding through the antechamber, heading back towards the tunnel that wended its way towards the surface, I was intercepted once more by an usher. They lacked the strange presence of the man I’d spoken with before my fight with Jacyntha, but they delivered their message clearly.

  “You are Lamb, the lowlander?”

  At my uncertain nod, the woman bowed her head in a polite show of respect. “Congratulations on your performance. Your next fight was to be for the title of Second, but it has fallen through. Your opponent sustained heavy injuries and is unable to fight again today.”

  I was nonplussed. “I’m sorry to hear that. I wish them well with their recovery. I was actually about to-”

  They spoke with the kind of bland politeness that told me they were used to dealing with strong personalities. Or children. She steamrolled right over what I was saying without ever once raising her voice. I blinked at her, having no choice but to cut myself off to listen as she continued.

  “Therefore, you may rejoin the true Blending now if you wish, or you may leave and be crowned Second in absentia.”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked, blinking.

  “The role of Second is coveted, although not to the same degree as a high rank in the true Blending. It conveys with it not just a reward from the united clans, but also the opportunity to rejoin the true Blending and pit yourself once more against the best talents of the young generation.

  “Traditionally you would face one more fight to determine who is most worthy, but both the winner and loser of the last fight in your bracket are too heavily injured to continue, and there is nobody else able to face you for the title. Do you wish to rejoin the true Blending, or bow out gracefully?”

  It seemed a little too good to be true, but I shut my mouth before I could jeopardise my good fortune. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. Instead, I nodded formally and accepted.

  “Thank you for the honour. I would like to withdraw from the competition.”

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  She nodded, unsurprised. “Excellent. One of us will fetch you tomorrow for the closing ceremony where titles and rewards are conveyed. You may ask for a minor boon from the clans, as is tradition, though please use the rest of the day to rest up and learn more of what that entails. It would not do to ask for something beyond your station.” She gave me a knowing glance at that, which I felt was a little unfair.

  “Where will you be staying?” she asked.

  Recovering from the veiled insult, I hesitated a moment before answering, “Clan White-Cliff, on the west side of the Basin of Tears. Most there should know where we reside.”

  One more perfunctory nod later from the usher, and there was nothing between me and leaving this sunken arena. I headed for the sky.

  *Sadrianna*

  “So it was magical backlash stemming from Lamb himself? Not instigated by you at all?” her father asked once more.

  Jorge sighed wearily, as if resentful of answering the same question once more. “Yes. I placed an artifact on him to limit his attributes to approximately those of his opponents. He broke it during the fight with Hastor’s daughter, and the mana surge you noticed was the result of him breaking that artificial limiter.”

  “Horseshit! We all saw how quickly he beat my Jacyntha after your little stunt,” Hastor growled, though he remained seated. Whatever had passed between the two men earlier was enough to make the big man wary, at least.

  “…and as I have explained, the lad has very potent attributes for his level derived from a rare combat class he received before I took him under my wing. He would have had a significant physical advantage over your daughter from the moment he broke that link.”

  “Not with-“ the big man stopped himself mid-sentence. “You might be surprised, old man, what my daughter is capable of. To lose after such a dominant performance does not make sense without outside interference.”

  Her mother butted in then, the diplomacy with which her father spoke no longer in evidence. It was clear Arynia was tired of the brash man by this point. “Give it a rest Hastor. She wouldn’t have fared much better even had she reached Second and rejoined the true Blending. Sandent is not the only surpassing talent in this year’s crop, and there are many that would likely have overcome your girl.”

  His eyes bulged slightly at that, vein in his forehead throbbing. “Not with-” he let go of another explosive breath before trying again. “She was denied the right to find that out for herself because this stranger” he practically spat the word, “decided to manipulate The Blending in his favour. It is a sacred rite of our people, and he pissed all over it!”

  Her mother leaned back at the tirade, and when Sadrianna caught her eye, she thought she saw a faint smirk crinkling the corner of her mouth. Jorge’s next words quieted things down again, however.

  “Are you so sure you want to talk about tampering, Hastor? I’m happy to undergo a formal investigation, but I reckon it’s not Lamb that’ll have trouble explaining the power he showed during the fight.” It was softly spoken, but even Sadrianna, who had no idea what was being alluded to, could pick up the edge of a threat in that sentence.

  Hastor glared on in silence, nostrils flaring. Ventus picked up the thread, leaning forwards in interest as he did so.

  “What are you implying, Jorge?”

  The older man spread his hands wide and locked eyes with Hastor for a few long breaths. Nobody spoke, and the silence stretched across the room like a mist, filling the space and eddying about until nerves ran taught.

  Finally, Jorge leaned back and stretched languidly. “Jacyntha’s scars…that’s old magic. I noticed she didn’t use many skills in the fight. They a bit more out of reach than normal, perhaps?”

  Hastor flinched at the mention of his daughter’s scarification but recovered after a moment. “I don’t know what you’re implying, lowlander, but the mountain clans have dabbled with empowerment and enhancement skills for centuries. This is nothing taboo, no matter what petty biases you might harbour.”

  Ventus frowned. “You’re talking about sacrificial vows?” He looked over to his wife, asking “Did you see her use any skills against Sandent? I wasn’t paying much attention at that point.”

  Arynia shook her head after a moment, and Hastor blustered once more. “You can’t be seriously considering what he says? The allegations of a lowlander hold no sway here. He’s not to be trusted! He struck me in this very cave not moments ago! That you would support him is shame enough, but to accuse my daughter of…of…of what? Cursed magic?”

  His eyes were wild, looking from Arynia to Ventus as if seeking support. Her father only shook his head slowly. “Your wife passed recently, did she not?” he asked softly.

  Hastor’s stool slammed into the wall as he leapt to his feet. “I won’t take this from you! The affairs of my family are those of Grey-Rock. They are no business of a couple of traders and their pet lowlander whore!” He turned to leave but Arynia stood herself.

  “Don’t move.” It was spoken quietly but carried the aura of command. The big man hesitated, though he didn’t turn. Arynia stalked forwards until she was standing in front of him, her back to the exit tunnel. Water still cascaded down from either side of their viewing port, and the noise drowned out any nearby ears.

  “The High Council will have questions for you, Hastor. You can walk out of here by my side as an honoured guest until they have their answers, or I can deliver you to them unconscious. But I will be delivering you to them. Now.”

  His great shoulders fell, and Sadrianna breathed out in relief. It was pathetic in a way. She didn’t understand all the details, but it was clear that he had dabbled in forbidden rituals and forced that upon his daughter as well. He had sacrificed everything for power, but when it came down to it, he had given up without a fight.

  Fine for others to fight and sacrifice on his behalf, but he was just a coward at the end of it all. Jorge caught Ventus’ eye as Hastor and Arynia departed the cave. Her father shrugged before sighing.

  “I assume I should follow along?” the lowlander asked, but her father waved him off.

  “No need. The Elders will take their time combing through this mess. You and Lamb will be needed at some point, but it will likely be a few days at least by the time they’re ready for you, and I will vouch for you in the meantime. Go; eat, drink. Rest up and see to your pupils. I will send for you when it is time.”

  Jorge inclined his head graciously and left after a few more parting words, spoken with kindness.

  I trudged slowly up from the arena, breaching the rock tunnels into daylight with a sense of relief. The late afternoon sun was shining, and I wondered briefly how the huge underground arena would be lit come the evening, but ultimately decided I was too tired to care.

  My mental bookshelf filled with tomes of questions I needed to ask about the world was already straining under the weight of its burden, and I had no desire to tip it over the edge. I was already sulking, nobody needed me having a meltdown as well.

  Despite my dour mood, it was a pleasant walk up from the central bowl of the valley, and as I felt the warm rays of light caress my face, I felt my soul begin to lighten once more. I was still tired, and knew I wouldn’t be fully back to myself until I had confirmed Nathlan’s recovery with my own eyes, but the weight of weariness that felt like it was lodged in my very bones had abated.

  The Basin of Tears appeared as I crested the gentle rise some time later, and I looked down over the beautiful lake, shrouded as it was by tents and loghouses. The colourful bolts of cloth streaming in the gentle breeze gave the encampment a cheery feel, and the few people I saw scurrying about looked, if not happy, then at least content.

  My plodding steps drew me to a large, semi-permanent structure close to the water’s edge, and I ducked inside without pausing to take in the wonderful view. I was close now, and my nose had caught a familiar scent on the air. Blood.

  A pale man stood in the central atrium, three or four hefty texts laid out on a crude wooden table before him. He was pointing to something on one book while tracing through another with his off hand when I walked in, and he spoke without looking up.

  “What is your purpose here?”

  He had a strangely commanding tone, the expectation of being listened to lending his quiet voice a subtle power. I blinked a moment before getting my bearings. My mind was still partly trying to decipher what my nose was telling me.

  “Visiting an injured friend. Nathlan.” Then, unsure how many people this strange hospital treated and how familiar this man was with his patients, I expanded, “the lowlander with the broken knee.”

  There was no hesitation from the spidery man when he answered. “Among a few other things. Yes I know the man. And what is he to you? We both know that is not a term of endearment.”

  “He’s a friend. I would see him now,” I said with conviction. I was probably firmer than warranted, because he did look up then, peering with strangely intense eyes at me over the covered table.

  A moment passed before he pursed his lips. “I believe you. Follow me.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed towards one of the two hallways veering off from the atrium. A short walk later, he deposited me in front of a plain door and promptly left without a word.

  I would have found it strange if not for the smell of blood growing in intensity every moment. I heard the sound of a blade sliding in a sheath, and ripped open the door, nerves ablaze.

  Vera stood over a comatose Nathlan, arm out over his injured leg and gushing blood down onto the ruined joint. She looked faint, an arm propped beneath her on the bed frame to keep her steady, while crimson dripped from a glistening wound in her wrist.