When Jorge had said so confidently that the arena had a hell of a view, I’d had big expectations. He’d said similar about the Titan’s Crown the day prior – as I’d learned the basin was called from an absolutely sloshed barbarian in the tavern last night – so I’d expected another natural phenomenon that would light the spark of imagination and wonder in my mind.

  What I saw that morning as I stepped into the ‘arena’ was something else entirely.

  I’d assumed I’d have trouble sleeping the night before a tournament, but when the sun started to flare through the canvas and heat up my tent, I woke softly, as if I’d slept for an entire day.

  I guess after you’ve truly put your life on the line and faced death a dozen and more times, the thought of performing in front of a crowd really didn’t hold the same sort of terror as before.

  It was a leisurely morning for me after that. Stretching, dressing, some light work with the spear and shield against Vera just to limber up and get my muscles moving in the patterns I would ask of them later that day. A heavy breakfast, considering we wouldn’t be fighting for at least a bell or longer.

  Poor old Nathlan didn’t seem to sleep as well as I, bags under his eyes indicating a night fraught with uncertainty and worry. By the time his sword was belted to his waist and armour donned though, he no longer looked quite so miserable.

  We journeyed down, four amongst thousands, towards the hole in the centre of the basin. It was a quick jog for us, Jorge making sure to emphasise the importance of a proper warm up before any strenuous activity. Such a grandad.

  Approaching the hole, the twelve powerful rivers feeding the waterfall began to close in on either side, and the murmuring and excited chatter of the crowd of spectators began to be overwhelmed by the sound of rushing water.

  Green grass faltered under foot, and I soon heard the sound of my leather boots slapping against hard rock. It was a transition I could see from a mile away though, as white marble was the rock of choice, split through with seams of grey and black.

  The mottled rock abruptly ended, with a cascade of water heading over the edge and white foam drifting off the ledge and obscuring the view across to the other side.

  We stopped well before that though, joining a line of people queuing before a tunnel chiselled into the rock, descending at a steep angle. Streaked marble was cut into rough steps, and I could see the passage of time in the wearing of the rock beneath our feet.

  This place was ancient. Untold generations had journeyed through this passageway, pressed against one another in excitement. What stories could be told, what legends were formed in this arena, before the view of thousands of their peers?

  The excitement of the crowd started to leech into my bones, and I felt my heart respond, beating harder within my chest. We pressed on, and eventually reached a fork. To the right, the tunnel flattened out, and guards in clan colours – I had no ideas which corresponded to what clan, but each clan clearly had their own markers – were directing spectators along that tunnel.

  Every now and then, a young man or woman would duck out of the queue and take the left hand tunnel, heading down deeper into the earth. Each one received a nod of respect from one of the guards, and the queue chittered excitedly at each one.

  It was no great feat of deduction to realise there was a tunnel for spectators, and one for combatants. Jorge turned towards us both then, giving Nathlan and myself serious looks.

  “I am not expecting greatness. Go out there and have fun. Pull a blow that you think it will be lethal, but the Holders are all significantly higher levelled than the combatants and should be able to pull out anyone before a fatal strike. Anything you want to say before we part ways?”

  Nathlan shook his head, knuckles standing out white against the hilt of his sword. I hesitated a moment before also shaking my head.

  “Good. Lamb, I want you to use your skills and not rely on your attribute advantage. Wear this.” So saying, he shoved a thin beaded necklace towards me and I hastily put it on. As soon as the beads settled against my skin, I felt the magical connection, mana rushing through the beads and forming a cage around my neck.

  I looked up in alarm as the cage retracted, settling against my skin and applying a subtle pressure. I felt in my soul an ability to resist, to fight off whatever was happening to me, but Jorge explained before I had a chance to decide.

  “Calm yourself, lad. It simply drops your attributes to an artificial limit I set – temporarily.” He said the final word with great emphasis, no doubt reacting to my alarmed expression. “and I can alter it remotely. I’ll be setting this to a similar level as your opponents’ each fight – nothing too precise, but roughly the same total attributes, distributed in the way of your current build. You understand?”

  I nodded uncertainly, knowing I needed more information but not quite sure what exactly to ask.

  “I’ll alter it a bit before each fight once I get a good look at your opponent, so you’ll have time to adjust. Stretch and go through some forms while you wait, aye?”

  I dipped my head again, feeling a little like a donkey with the amount of nodding I was doing. “Yeah understood. Can we go yet?”

  I wasn’t so much impatient to get to the fights as I was starting to feel the nerves set in. We were deep underground again, and memories of the last time I was in similar tunnels were bubbling to the surface. Or the time before that, in the Iona Chasm. Come to think of it, I didn’t have a great track record of tunnels.

  Vera turned around to break the uneasy silence and gave her characteristic wisdom; “Go and fight. Win if you can, lose if you must. It’s all training.” She turned her back on us once more, her wisdom now exhausted.

  We nodded to one another, and then Nathlan and I stepped out of the spectator queue and swung left, heading deeper into the cliff.

  I watched my friend’s back as he descended, spears of sunlight glinting off the steel bands of his pauldrons intermittently as holes in the ceiling allowed light to filter through to the tunnel from above in sections of shadow and light.

  An age later, and simultaneously feeling less than a few heartbeats, the stairs abruptly stopped, giving way to smooth stone floor. We followed the snaking pathway around the edge of what must have been the waterfall, completely insulated by the rock and unable to hear the cascading water just outside.

  The tunnel abruptly opened into a large antechamber, racks of weapons and wooden benches lining the edge of the room. People lounged around, talking intermittently and warming up together in an overwhelming mix of colours.

  Ribbons and silks denoting clan affiliation were wrapped around each person present and tapestries hung on the walls, no doubt liberated from various ‘lowlander’ settlements, given the eclectic mix of peoples and myths that were depicted without any unifying pattern.

  We hovered uncertainly in the tunnel mouth for a few moments before a man in robes came bustling over, a heavy chain hanging on his chest. He introduced himself as one of the event organisers – it was a crude translation of his title that doubtless missed much of the significance he was afforded, but that was the best I could provide to Nathlan in the moment – and things proceeded quickly from there.

  Before I knew it, I was sitting on a wooden bench, looking at my knees and intermittently clenching my hands into fists. Nathlan had won his first match handedly, despite being significantly under levelled. He was only at level 29, but given his powerful and rare combat class, he likely had attributes surpassing most in their 40s.

  He didn’t have much of a chance to give me the rundown, since I was whisked away virtually the moment he returned, but he managed to tell me that he won, that I should relax, and that the arena was ‘a marvel reminiscent of the architectural wonders of antiquity’ – a very Nathlan way of saying it looked pretty fucking cool.

  I was escorted out of the ‘holding cell’ as it seemed to me – I’m sure it was more of a waiting room but with the whole ‘being underground’ thing and lack of sunlight and heavy iron-banded doors…it definitely felt like a holding cell.

  I followed the official out through another looping tunnel, hearing my footsteps echo around us. As we moved though, that sound started to become muffled, overwhelmed by a growing roar.

  I thought at first it must be the roar of the crowd, my heart speeding up at the thought of so many people shouting together. I guess I was a little nervous of performing in front of thousands after all – so much for all that ‘life and death struggle lends perspective’ bollocks.

  I had managed to distract myself with such thoughts for long enough to reach the end of the tunnel, but as we reached the entrance to the arena proper and I stepped out of the unassuming archway following the gesture by the official, I staggered.

  It felt as if a thousand lions roared directly in my face, and I could feel their spittle hitting me. The reality was in fact the thunderous crash of tonnes of water hitting the ground every moment, and the mist rising from the floor that sprayed me in the face. That reality was no less intimidating in the moment though. I felt small, insignificant, and achingly delicate.

  Stolen story; please report.

  I stepped reverently, unable to stop but trying to move as slowly as possible to savour the experience as I walked. Stone steps rose before me, slippery from water but crossed-hatched to give a semblance of grip. To each side was a gently curving wall, overhung with a jutting cliff of white and red stone, though the colours of the rock were partly covered by vibrant mosses; greens and blues and even bright yellows visible at different points – a wild tapestry, chaotic in the way only nature can be.

  And beyond the mosses, a dozen or so meters out into the open air, fell the water. A sheeting mass of white and blue hung as if suspended, details always moving but the totality unchanged.

  It was an impossible sight, and it took me long moments to work out what I was seeing. I was in at the bottom of the hole. The lakes each fed water directly to the massive sinkhole in the centre of the basin, and beneath that is where I now stood.

  I knew this was likely where we were aiming for ever since we’d reached the top of the sinkhole on foot and then journeyed underground. I’d felt the curving of the tunnels, knew we were sketching a path along the wall at the base, and the archway behind me could emerge only at the centre of the cavernous space given the sunlight that now intermittently bathed my face.

  But still. The scale of it was impressive enough to make me hesitate. I started to climb the steps ahead, hearing the roar of water amplify as I drew closer. The steps led to the top of a large stone dais, but as I reached the top, I saw that it was concave, flowing down and away smoothly from where I stood.

  The water smashed into the angled wall, and ran down into a moat that circled a much smaller dais raised above it. It was clear that dais is where I would face my opponent, and so I squared my shoulders and strode forwards.

  The steps reached the top of the ‘wall’ and continued over and down. A few meters below the top of the wall, at the height of the noise and spray was the point at which the curtain of water hit the ground.

  It was many feet thick if I had to guess, and would no doubt knock down a person without enhanced attributes, possibly fatally. I had to assume that if you were deemed strong enough to fight in the arena, you were strong enough to cross through the barrier of rushing water.

  While I had seen it as a relatively clear curtain of water, marred only by the occasional patches of white water kicked up by some imperfection of the rock lining the top of the sinkhole, towards the bottom it was a bubbling, frothing mess.

  I would have been apprehensive to face this if I had stumbled upon such a feature out in the wilds by myself, but knowing that each competitor had to face it too gave my nerves some steel, and I took a deep breath before marching forwards.

  The pressure was immense, and the slap of water on the exposed skin of my neck and arms was a stinging shock. I had faced such pains before though and walked through with my head bent and arms out to my side for balance, weapon and shield in a firm, white-knuckled grip in each hand.

  I strode as confidently through the breach as I could, the impromptu shower waking my mind and refreshing my body in a surprising way. It also hurt like all hells. Without looking I knew the skin on my neck and arms was red, and the sting as it was touched by cool air was enough to tell me it was beaten raw.

  No matter. I didn’t want to show weakness now that the harm was already done, and so descended the remaining steps before leaping the two or so meters up over the moat and onto the dais.

  Blessedly, the stone was dry and I came to stop smoothly, standing from my slight crouch to my full height. Leaning back, I looked up and around, marvelling once again at the view. The sinkhole must have been a few hundred meters wide at its centre, and water fell all around to the floor of the cavern, with a large circle of sky visible maybe a hundred meters above.

  Looking around, I now realised why the water had not been entirely clear – where the patches of disturbed whitewater had originated from. Small caves littered the sides of the rock, and wooden beams extended out from them to pierce the falling water, offering small slices of air through which spectators stood shoulder to shoulder.

  Larger caves had bigger groups and consequently bigger wooden structures to part the water. Towards the top of the sinkhole were smaller groups, often sitting in fine-looking chairs or cushions, food and even attendants present to serve the whims of the no doubt more powerful and rich families and groups that sat, literally and figuratively, above the unwashed masses below.

  I was unsure if anyone could be described as unwashed being so close to this massive shower, and the hierarchy of the clans – while clearly formalised and enforced – seemed relatively flat compared to ‘the lowlands’ through which I’d travelled and learned of, but the point still stood; big dogs at the top, runts at the bottom.

  I smirked to myself at the imagery, especially considering I’d gone by the name ‘Runt’ for a long while before being gifted my current moniker – not really much of an upgrade honestly, but hey-ho.

  My awe must have been fading, hence my irreverent thoughts coming back to the surface, and so I refocused with an effort of will. I was alone on the stadium, and my emergence from the wall of water had enthused the crowd. I couldn’t really hear them over the deafening crash of water, but I could see the ones standing in the lower caves shouting and hollering in excitement through their ‘windows’.

  I looked around for an umpire of some sort, and after a few moments saw a woman standing off to the side, her head barely peeking over the edge of the dais, stood as she was on the curved wall behind it. She nodded at me in respect or acknowledgement – I wasn’t sure which – and stepped lightly up onto the raised dais to join me.

  I say stepped, because she appeared to float as if on air, crossing the distance between us with a grace that looked so normal and effortless, I barely noticed that she was floating above the floor until she arrived and stepped back down to the rock next to me.

  She bowed her head again, and in a soft voice introduced herself.

  “Well met. I am Finanda - the Holder of this circle - and I will be overseeing this fight.”

  *Vera*

  She stood quietly in the cave, high up in the cliff face, trying her best to keep her nerves at bay. Jorge and Sadrianna’s parents sat on comfortable-looking cushions discussing something Vera was neither particularly interested in nor able to understand. Geopolitics was not something she liked to dwell on, despite Jorge’s seemingly renewed interest in recent days.

  Sadrianna seemed to have a similar view, leaning against a wall on the other side of the small cave toying with a small knife, looking nervous but trying to hide it.

  Vera sighed and shifted, looking out past the sturdy wooden beam that split the wall of water in front of them, giving her an unobscured view to the arena below. It was currently empty save for the Holder standing just off the dais at the edge, but she knew Lamb would be entering soon.

  Nathlan had won his first fight handily, putting on an admirable display of swordsmanship, and not having to rely on flashy skills to finish the fight quickly. It was still early in brackets, so the feat wouldn’t garner him much interest, but it was a good showing, nonetheless.

  Nothing Vera didn’t expect to see. He had a style made for duelling – impeccable footwork and great skill with a longsword. His level was comparatively low, but the combat class made up most of the difference in attributes – it was the skills that would be the problem. They were under-levelled compared to most top 1st tiers, and Nathlan’s particularly were not heavily combat focused.

  And yet she hadn’t been concerned and wouldn’t be until he reached later rounds and fiercer competition. Her real concern was for Lamb. He had a comparative advantage with attributes compared to pretty much all 1st tiers at this point due to his combat class – it was no more potent than Nathlan’s, but he still had around 10 levels on the man – but no amount of raw power could make up for a deficiency in skill.

  Well, that wasn’t quite true, but it was in this case. She worried Lamb was going to get a reality check. His skills were well-levelled, although still behind what a normal support classer his age would usually boast, but without the chaos of an active battle and an attribute advantage, she suspected he’d have issues measuring up to the technical ability of his opponents.

  His arrival only confirmed her fears.

  The curtain of water shielded the arena from the view of those waiting, and likewise shielded the competitors from the crowd before they fully entered. This curtain was split on the southern side, as Lamb strode out through the water-wall.

  Fool of a boy she thought to herself, unable to help the small smile that slipped past the stony mask that was her face. It grew wider when she heard the answering roar of the crowd, and Arynia’s exclamation.

  “I love the confidence! Taking a beating like that from the waterfall before the fight! Shows he doesn’t consider his opponent dangerous.”

  Ventus picked up the thread of conversation his wife had started; “Is your man down there cocky, or smart? Can’t tell if this was a calculated risk to mess with his opponent’s head, or just showboating.”

  The question was directed at Jorge, and the older man just shook his head, a mysterious smile on his face. “Guess we’ll find out” he said evenly.

  But Vera knew the truth. Lamb had no idea how to actually enter the gods damned arena and hadn’t bothered to ask.

  “Well, no matter. He’s up against Grashtan’s son, and he takes after his father from what I hear.” Ventus remarked.

  “So he’s a smug prick too?” Sadrianna asked, and her mother laughed in response.

  “Just so” Arynia said.

  *Lamb*

  I bowed myself, feeling a slight charge to the air around us from her power. She was clearly in the 3rd tier. Where Vera dominated the world around her, this Holder – Finanda, I reminded myself – seemed to be accepted by it. Her presence was undeniable but seemed less a challenge than a comforting weight.

  “Your opponent draws near, young lowlander. You had best prepare yourself.” It was the first time I’d heard that expression said without even a hint of derision or insult, and I turned to follow her gesture towards the opposite end of the dais.

  I saw nothing for a few moments, before the water about two meters above the ground split apart. An elegant blade emerged through the waterfall and forced itself into the light, glittering in the early morning sun.

  Water cascaded to either side, and the blade twisted to show its flat to the earth and sky, and the water diverted to either side, creating a doorway of air beneath the blade through which my opponent strode. The blade abruptly dropped alongside the arm wielding it, and its wielder stepped quickly through, not a drop of water marring their person.

  Ahhhh. So that’s how it’s done then. I looked down at my drenched clothes and mismatched armour, still dripping onto the floor in a puddle around my legs, then back at the elegant person opposite as they strode across the dais.

  I must have looked a little embarrassed as the Holder shot me an amused glance before leaning in to whisper, “The crowd loved it. If you win decisively now, it will look like it was a deliberate show of force. If you lose though? Well…”

  I absorbed that while ringing out my soaking hair and tucking it into my leather and scale armoured vest. Squaring my shoulders, I resigned myself to fighting in soggy shoes, and stepped into the centre of the arena opposite my opponent.

  I saw his confident smirk, the finely engraved glaive leaning lightly against his shoulder, and the expensive-looking filigree on his shining breastplate. He didn’t exactly look like a barbarian from the mountains. There was only one thing he reminded me of now that I got a good look at him.

  The sons and daughters of rich nobles I saw hanging around in the canyon city of Colchet, drinking and laughing at all bells of the day. Pampered, entitled, arrogant. Perhaps I was being overly judgemental though, after all I knew precious little about the mountain clans or their society.

  The next words out of his mouth confirmed that I wasn’t, however;

  “Don’t worry boy, I’ll make this quick.”

  Fucking nobles.