The gate opened, imposing, as Tyril entered the arena. His own heartbeat muffled the audience’s calls and cheers. As Pok’s Reaper, he would not fail.

  “Why do you still wear Pok’s colors?” Vot asked Millik, still kneeling.

  Tyril’s hard-water sword, of course inspired by the way Millik used Pok’s magic in the past, cut cleanly through his Bower opponent, a large loxodon boasting a heavy spiked hammer. The hammer lodged as it hit the sandy pit, and the elephant’s body– both halves, now– followed it. Tyril released the magic, and the blood mixing with his oceanic blade fell to the ground in a few small spots, now clotting in the sand. The audience erupted in even more cheers as their once-favorite champion was bested by the outsider.

  “He betrayed you, didn’t he?” Vot asked further.

  “No–” Millik started strongly, but cut himself off. He started again, “No, I failed him.”

  Tyril cut through the horde the arena sent out as his next opponent. The Bower fightclub had no shortage of enthusiastic newcomers looking for their big chance at fame. Equally– and because of– they had no shortage of disposable entertainment for the higher ranked members of the audience.

  Tyril combined his water-sword with his own magic to deliver an army-rending swipe against the newly unleashed mass of warriors. Crackles of thunder lingered in the pit, and the new corpses sparkled with a few pulses of electricity.

  Looking around, Tyril had no problems with killing people. Even the Bower audience cheered for him as he did, and they infamously hated Pok’s reapers. But this fighting arena wasn’t the same as the old merfolk he killed just a few days ago. It was so hard to get that image out of his head. His robes, old and slightly fraying, were filthy, and they only got worse as they filled with blood. His eyes, white with fog and showing his helplessness, turned a pale red. Was it the correct choice to kill him?

  “My time as Pok’s reaper is a part of my past,” Millik said solemnly. “I hold great pride in that.”

  Another combatant came at Tyril, and he grabbed their sword with his open hand and sent a surge of lightning through their entire body. The heart attack would kill anybody, but the full-body burns would ensure their death even further. Pok wanted him to join this arena to train his strength. He never explained further, but these pawns being thrown at him were not very helpful.

  He was Pok’s Reaper now. He had learned how to control the God’s magic, and now he needed to get stronger. It was his duty to his God to serve him fully. Yet… his mind kept wandering to Millik.

  “My only shame is that I ran,” Millik said, “That is a part of me as well, and I will learn to live with it for the rest of my life.”

  “And after that,” Vot said, amused, “You may start anew.”

  Millik had disappeared after Tyril killed that merfolk. Where he went, Pok wasn’t sure, so neither was Tyril. He had always admired the previous reaper, and wanted to be just like him for so long. Millik had spent so many years serving Pok, and Tyril was always jealous that he got to attend Pok directly. That was what Tyril had wanted, too, and, now, he had it. So why did it not feel right?

  “However,” Vot said, “Until death comes, you are left without a God to follow.”

  The arena’s announcer called over his megaphone, declaring the semi-final act of the night.

  Tyril conjured his sword once more. Infusing it with his lightning created a shimmering wave-like effect around the walls of the pit.

  Another large loxodon emerged from the lifting gate before it was fully opened, shattering the lattice and leaving splinters in the sand. This elephant-person’s armor was heavily spiked, and they unsheathed two large broadswords. The announcer called them their “true champion.”

  They charged, thrashing their swords throughout the air. Tyril, calmed, sent four bolts of electricity up from the ground, creating a barrier between them and stopping the loxodon in their tracks. Tyril didn’t really want to fight this person. He had no interest anymore. Pok sent him here to train, but he has yet to take any hits whatsoever. He sighed.

  “You hesitate,” Vot commented, “Do you not rescind Pok for what he has done to you?”

  The loxodon verbally challenged him, calling Tyril plenty of names unbecoming of a reaper.

  His mind was still torn between his idol and his God. Pok would never admit it, but, at this point, Millik was practically a defector. Pok still liked Millik– No, that wasn’t why he kept the ashamed reaper’s company. Pok liked toying with Millik. Maybe that was the true punishment for betraying a God: endless torment, however pitiful. If Pok ever saw Millik’s judgement finished, would Tyril have to kill him?

  Tyril changed the shape of his sword, elongating its handle and shortening its blade. With a flash of light and a boom of thunder, he threw the spear into the loxodon. The champion reacted in time, but it was ineffective. The water-spear moulded around the blades as it drove itself through the loxodon’s armor and into their chest. As it struck, a large crash came down on them, illuminating the entire arena. The smell of burning skin filled the air.

  “I don’t know,” Millik said. “I do not wish to follow anyone else, but living without Pok leaves me meaningless.”

  Tyril was devoted to Pok. It didn’t matter what happened with Millik; that would always be true. That was the choice he made when he killed that merfolk, and he didn’t want to jeopardize his new position.

  As the charred loxodon’s body sent a small cloud of sand into the air, more cheers erupted.

  “Answer me truthfully: do you hate Pok?”

  For the final battle of the night, the announcer kept Tyril’s opponent’s identity a secret until the very last moment.

  As the gold-haired reaper paraded out onto the bloodied sands, waving the crowds into cheering the loudest they had yet, Tyril had to realize something. He had been stuck in his mind throughout this arena, but, now that he faced a deadly challenger, he needed to stop thinking about Millik. Millik was gone, and he was no longer a reaper, and he could no longer be Tyril’s idol. As he fought, it was Pok’s power that flowed through him.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I’ve been wondering,” Fahva started. She cracked her whip before pointing it at him. Her voice was venomous. “What’s it like being Pok’s new plaything? He sent you here to train, didn’t he? Does he know I won’t hesitate to kill you?”

  “Of course he does,” Tyril said. He reconstructed his sword in its standard state, and then he charged it with his lightning.

  “It’s a much more pretty combination,” Fahva said, commenting on the pattern falling on the walls. “Unlike that coward’s teleportation.”

  As much as Tyril wanted to forget about Millik, it wouldn’t be quite possible. He was Millik’s replacement, meaning that whenever someone saw him, they would also be reminded of the traitor who cost them their honor.

  “There’s no point in downtalking a man who’s not here,” Tyril defended Millik as much as he could allot.

  “No,” Fahva laughed, “But you’re the bastard who took his place.”

  As she finished, Tyril stomped, sending his power through the ground. A bolt ran straight through Fahva. Such a strike would of course kill anyone without the favor of a God. That was a large reason Pok chose him to be the next reaper: his magic was strong, and such strength was always rare. Millik would have been chosen for a similar reason, although teleportation offers more strategic advantage than the raw power of Tyril’s electricity.

  Fahva swiped some blood from her mouth before branding a menacing smile. She twirled her whip around her body, spinning like a wondrous dancer, her gold hair lifting as a strong wind blew through the arena. The loose sand lifted into the storm as it was flung around the pit. Tyril planted his feet. His sides were berated with grating sand, each grain the smallest shard of glass. Sand got in his eyes, his hair, everywhere it could be uncomfortable, it was. Bracing against the winds, a heavy blow hit his chest. A flash of light illuminated the arena as she hit him, sending small cones of shadow behind every grain of sand still twirling in the air. Fahva called Tyril’s combination of magic pretty, but hers was stunningly magnificent, at least, to all but the man within it. With each blow, all in rapid succession, the light built up brighter and brighter, and her punches were getting stronger and stronger, both due to the nature of Bow’s magic and because Tyril was getting worn down. With one final hook, Tyril was pushed backwards and flung off his balance. Fahva lowered her glowing fists and the storm calmed, sand mixing back with the ground.

  Laying in the sand, inspiration– Pok’s grace– struck him. Ideas were always slow to come, but quick to fester, and this one was no different. Now he just had to put on a show:

  Tyril started laughing boastfully. “You know,” he said to her, “it’s not fair when you have the ground on your side.”

  “It’s even more cowardly to claim something unfair,” Fahva said, “although I suppose Pok’s no stranger to cowards.”

  “You can insult Millik all you want,” Tyril said, “I don’t know your history. But I’m no coward, and you’re not the only storm here.” Grabbing hold of Pok’s magic inside him, Tyril conjured a raincloud within the arena. By itself it wouldn’t do much, but the sand was eager to drink. In just a few moments, Tyril had transformed the sand that battered his skin into a slurry of mud, all while basking in wonderful rain, each drop a show of Pok’s affection.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Fahva cracked her whip. It glowed with the same magic in her hands. “Prove your words.” She sent a strong gust of wind straight at Tyril, still laughing as the rain finished. As she built up the light in her fists, it also strengthened her magic’s abilities, so this gust of wind shot Tyril tumbling, pressing him into the wall. As the wind died down, Tyril cracked a smile.

  Both fighters were ankle-deep in a smoothie of wet sand. Even a tiny tributary of Tyril’s magic would electrocute anything in the sealed, stony pit. But Tyril didn’t want to restrain himself; that would be cowardly.

  Even with the blinding illumination of Fahva’s light-filled fists, the electricity running through the entire arena was painfully beautiful. Tyril could resist most of it, but such a large quantity would shock him, too, and with the damage he’d already taken, he was gambling that she’d go down first.

  Fahva was resilient. Tyril knew that when he started the fight. She had been a reaper for years– not as long as Millik had been, but still. The Bower kingdom was second largest only to Vot’s, meaning she had the most people to take care of. When Danger came, she was the first to answer Millik’s call for assistance, with her God following when they proved ineffective. Bow may have dealt the killing blow, but Fahva’s feats in that battle were just as historic. She held her ground against that monster with not a scratch to show for it. And now, with Tyril’s electricity coursing through her entire body, he was worried he would shock himself to death first. Luckily, his worries did not come true. As Tyril released his spell, Fahva let out a life-sealing gasp. She fell flatly face-first into the muddy sand pit. Tyril was the only one who cheered.

  He stumbled over to her, still feeling the extra static within his limbs. With heavy, shaking arms, he rolled her onto her back so she could still breathe. Her face was muddied, and her glorious golden hair was filled with sand. All of her muscles were still tensed from the shock, so her face was distortedly upset, her brow deep and nose crimped. Her eyes opened as she coughed up a small ball of wet sand. She sat up slightly as she wiped the dirt from her mouth. Only after this did she notice Tyril standing above her, his hand outstretched.

  “It’s a battle to the death,” she said, slapping his hand away. “I don’t want your pity.”

  “Maybe.” Tyril couldn’t stop his smile from spreading. “But I already won.”

  “So kill me. Take your prize.” She glared at him with the conviction of a warrior.

  “It would be pointless to waste such a powerful fighter in a place like this,” Tyril said. “And I get the feeling I’m going to need your strength soon. I’m not Millik, and I don’t necessarily agree with what he did. My name is Tyril, and I propose we be allies from now on.”

  “You say you’re not him,” Fahva spat, “but you talk just like him. And his words ended up meaningless.”

  Tyril took a thought, then held out his hand once more. “I can’t promise the future. No one can. But for this moment, I will stand at your side.”

  Fahva took his hand and he pulled her to her feet. “Fine,” she said, “But I’m not in your debt.”

  “Very well.”

  Fahva raised Tyril’s hand into the air. She shouted to the assembled arena, “You have your winner!”

  The audience finally broke their silence, only cheering for the victor after receiving their reaper’s approval. As the cheers filled the arena, the announcer called for the end of the night as Fahva and Tyril exited to the gladiators’ waiting room.

  It was empty inside as the only two survivors of the night entered the warm and pleasant chamber. Fahva collapsed onto a bed in a small alcove on the side of the room, and Tyril took a seat on one of the benches lining the middle. It was far from comfortable, but it was nice to be off his feet after such a long evening, even if only the last fight was intensive. He stretched his back.

  “Ugh,” Fahva called from her spot, “You got my hair all filthy, Pokian!” As she sat up, she threw a small lump of wet sand onto the ground.

  “Your duststorm filled me full of sand, too,” Tyril argued casually.

  A delicate blast of wind swept over Tyril’s face, getting into and all around each of his hairs, blowing the loose, still-dry sand out of it.

  “That stuff’s easy,” she said. “It’s all this wet stuff that’s impossible to get out.” She blew her own hair with her wind, making it flow like her own personal golden cloud. Then she picked out a few more wet globs.

  “I’m not going to apologize for winning,” Tyril gave her a cheeky smile, no doubt purposefully taunting her.

  “Shut up,” she responded. “It’s bad enough I lost, you didn’t need to keep me alive for everyone to see.”

  “Aren’t your people proud of their greatest warrior?”

  “The greatest warrior isn’t supposed to lose to a newcomer.” She paused her hands midway through picking out more wet sand. She looked down wistfully.

  “You have plenty else to be proud of, don’t you?” Tyril offered, “You fought Danger with no hesitation. Holding your ground against such a beast is perfectly glorious, and you came out of it unscarred, too. This is nothing compared to such a feat.”

  “You’re wrong about that,” Fahva said quietly. Tyril wasn’t sure he heard her correctly until she said it again: “You’re wrong.” She shifted on the edge of her seat, showing her back to him. She pulled her silky golden hair, which definitely still had a few clumps of sand still in it, to her front. Then she let down the part of her robes covering her shoulder. Beneath it, a large scar ran all the way up her back and over her shoulder, ending just above her chest. The rehealed skin looked raw compared to the rest of her. It was a thick band running over her shoulder, making it look almost like the strap of a book-bag. No doubt the original wound had been treacherously volatile.

  “I would have lost my arm if it weren’t for our healers. That monster was able to wound a God; it would be impossible for someone like me to come out unscathed. This is merely one of many just like it.” She looked over her shoulder to meet his eyes. “No one else knows about this.”

  “Why?” Tyril asked, “Shouldn’t the people of valor take pride in their scars? They tell the greatest of tales.”

  “No,” Fahva said, lifting her robe back over her shoulder and turning to face him properly. “Great warriors, maybe. But the greatest warrior? She can’t have any impurities. To be unmarred is to be victorious. With the scars visible, you can count the battles they’ve fought, but when there are no scars to be seen, and she is still great, that means she has fought in infinite battles, and won even more. If it’s impossible to count, then it is as many as imagination allows. To be the greatest is to be perfect. That is what it means to be Bow’s champion. I cannot be anything less.”

  “Then why tell me this?”

  She gave him a small smile, “You wanted allegiance.”

  “With your power, my God,” Allimer addressed Sor with a large grin as he presented his final weapon’s design, “the devastation this weapon can bring will render Vot’s undead army nothing but dust.”

  Ameri yawned. Her family was no stranger to theatrics, but this was the seventh weapon her father had boasted about so confidently. She had honestly stopped paying proper attention after the third weapon, which was a large hammer-like object. It’s not like she was going to use any of them when she fought. She had always used her axe, even before becoming Sor’s reaper, and she would never swap it out for anything else for as long as she lived. Her dad had given her that axe when she was little, but, if asked about it now, he probably wouldn’t even remember. Really, a gift given when she was still a child was nothing compared to the marvels he had produced after his training with that Pokian craftsmith years ago. One of the few cross-cultural students, his existence was special among the Sors. That his daughter would go on to be Sor’s reaper was unrelated, but delightful. Well, delightful to all but Ameri, as she always had to sit through her father’s ramblings.

  “Splendid,” Sor said to him, “Albeit unnecessary. It would be marvelous to see such destructive capabilities, but it is not Vot’s army we need to worry about.”

  “What?” Ameri asked.

  “I will explain in due time, but before that: Ameri, I am proud to know your investigation was a success.”

  “But–” Ameri didn’t consider only a single dead-end lead to be successful. That one-off bombsmith may have been the culprit, but he was far from helpful. It would be impossible to learn who was controlling Rock’s mind.

  “The actual attack was inconsequential,” Sor said. “Finding the arsonist was never my concern.”

  “Then why do you say it was a success?”

  “Because you were able to cooperate,” Sor said. “It is unlike you to trust in others, especially those who do not follow me. But you showed that cooperation was possible, even if you were merely tolerating them. In preparing for this war, I knew that this would be a skill necessary for you to master.” Sor paused, looking expectantly at Ameri, who was visibly displeased. “This is where you praise my wisdom, Ameri.”

  “Of course,” she said with a smile, “Oh God of War, known for her talent and grace.” She had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. “How would I ever manage without you?”

  “Ameri!” Allimer addressed her, smacking her shoulder, “Speak properly!”

  Sor laughed alongside her reaper. “Pay it no mind, my loyal craftsman.”

  A knock rang on the closed sanctuary’s doors, not unheavy. Ameri could see the calculations running through Sor’s mind. She knew her God better than anyone, and for her to not be expecting a visitor, this encounter was bound to be important.

  “Enter,” Sor said loudly.

  The shrinekeeper, Iphora, pushed open the doors, casting a long wall of light onto Ameri and her father. Walking past the keeper, a man in blue ropes kneeled in the presence of a God which was not his own. Ameri recognized this man, although she didn’t have to. The button of Pok’s power gave away exactly who he was. Iphora nodded to the visitor as she closed the doors behind him.

  “How pleasant,” Sor said, silently sarcastic, “What might Pok want with me today? It is unusual for him to seek anything.”

  “Mighty Sor,” said the blue-robed reaper– his name was on the tip of Ameri’s tongue– “Pok fears that something is coming that may put all of Bitrect in the line of fire. He wishes for us to be prepared–”

  Sor had to stop herself from laughing. Ameri had to agree: proactivity was not Pok’s specialty.

  Tyril– Aha! Ameri remembered!– cleared his throat and started again. “He wishes for us to be prepared. In so, he recognizes my virginity as a reaper. He has tasked me with training before any other duties, and so, I come to you, Sor, and Miss Ameri. It would benefit me greatly to duel an opponent with equal power, yet countlessly more experience. I have nothing to offer more than my collaboration in the coming conflict.”

  Ameri hesitated to respond. While she hated the idea, it was Sor’s decision.

  “Intriguing,” Sor said, “Young reaper, do you know what this coming conflict is?”

  “No. If Pok does, he has not told me.”

  “I agree to your terms,” Sor said. She leaned down to see the three servants before her. “Before you begin, I must share what I know. We are going to war with Vot and her forces. Not without due cause, of course. You all recall the battle that tore through Bower and Pokian territory just a few years ago, yes?”

  “It can’t be–” Allimer connected the dots aloud, but stopped himself before treading on a God’s words.

  “When things die,” Sor continued, “They become Vot’s. Whether human or beast, after death they are her servants. Danger is no different.”

  “In that case,” Vot said to Millik, “Would you like to learn how to kill a God?”

  To Be Continued…