Ashes of the Fighters (Peregrine x CJ Liston)

[Peregrine]

Declan hadn't known what to expect. A part of him had expected Visrah to fly at him again, sword and water in hand, to try and rend him apart once more. A part of him, a very vain, prideful part, had expected her to flee in terror at such an impossible sight. His mind darted from option to option as he slowly climbed back to his feet. He had thought he was prepared for anything she could do, thought he would be ready to counter.

When she came at him, that was exactly what Declan prepared to do. The silence of the crowd meant that there was no need to kill her to sate their bloodlust, but he had no intention of dying again if he could avoid it. He had gotten his messy exhibition, and had no desire to repeat the effort.

What he didn't expect was for her to suddenly collapse against his chest.

He caught her by instinct, strong but surprisingly gentle arms wrapping around her to support her, even as he stepped back slightly to keep from tipping over. For being such a ferocious fighter, Visrah was surprisingly light, and he was certain in that moment that he could have easily picked her up and carried her bridal style out of the arena. Of course, he didn't, but that realization was also accompanied by the knowledge that the fight was over.

"Declan Hyrell," he answered her, voice equally quiet. One hand released from around her back, lifting into the air in a fist, silently asking for the judgement of the crowd. It was only then that everyone else realized the fight was over too. Declan's eyes flicked about, as a collection of hands lifted into the air, all over the arena, palms open in the gesture of mercy. It didn't surprise him in the least. These people liked the Black Water. Most of them had probably placed their money on her. None of them would want her to die now, not after such a spectacular fight she should have, by all rights won.

Which she hadn't won. Aeron would be very, very pleased.

"Time to go, Visrah," he said, voice still soft. "Fight's over. Go rest."

 

[SilentxChaos]

Her hand tightened on his clothes. The sensation of his arms was unexpected. She meant to get close, if not collapse against him, but figured he'd back away instantly. Instead his reaction didn't seem to come from a want to make her look weak, or fragile. It was almost... gentle. Instinctive. Their warmth surfaced long-forgotten sensations. Dark coarse hair scratching her cheek. Falling asleep to the scent of balsam. Killing grief piercing her ears.

Visrah's face hardened again. She pushed away, wearing a mask of brittle ice. Giving him a sparing glance, she whispered, "I hope your worth outweighs the sacrifices... Declan Hyrell."

Without pause, Visrah turned her back and walked towards the gate. The eyes of some slaves followed her; some reached between the bars towards her as a sign of respect. She passed them without sparing a glance. Some hissed with disapproval. Most bothered not at all with her. Instead, they stared heatedly at Delcan. Glimmering specks of shock, fear, confusion, and anger bore on him with muted oppression. Among nobles, Declan Hyrell would be talked for months. Heavily sought after- jealous of whom owned him- doubtless he'll become the champion star of the arena. He'll be placed upon a pedestal and praised for his bloody achievements. And as he stands upon it, the slaves at his feet will look up with unchanged eyes. Because they all know now: to face Declan would mean defeat. To face him would be a joke, utter humiliation, perhaps even a form of new punishment by the masters.

To face him would be death.

 

[Peregrine]

"Start again."

Declan paused in the middle of his motion, turning to cast a frustrated glare at the wrinkled face of the old slave that confronted him, Kadderac. The man was far, far too old for the arena now, but the numerous scars all over his body attested to the fact that he had fought, and the fact that he was here right now attested to his skill. Well, former skill. A wildly crooked right leg kept him from walking properly, let alone sparring with anyone. All the same, Lord Rydell's father had kept the man around after his injury to train the new slaves that would inevitably be entering the house. The man was known for a harsh tongue, strict expectations, and a tightly controlled temper. Right now, though, he was mostly known in Declan's mind as a source of frustration.

When Aeron had told Declan a week ago that all his fights would be put on hold while Declan made up an athletic form to showcase his skill and expertise, Declan had assumed it would mean he would be working alone. As soon as he had the basic plan in his head, though, this curmudgeon of a man had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and started pointing out every single flaw in Declan's performance. Declan had tried ignoring him at first, he had eventually lost control of his own temper, and essentially told Kadderac to fuck off.

"I have been instructed by Lord Rydell to perfect your form before you will be expected to present it before the King and Queen at the Festival of Red Sand," Kadderac had responded, blandly. "Our Lord only received his invitation a couple days ago, while the other lords who will be in attendance have had months to prepare. You have two weeks. Therefore, you will not rest until the form is flawless."

Kadderac was as good as his word. Declan worked the pieces of the form over and over again, until they were so ingrained in his brain that he would have sworn that he could have done it in his sleep. Not that he got the chance to sleep. Kadderac only let him rest for ten to fifteen minute stretches, as a meager reward for a particularly well-executed segment of the form.

It wasn't as though the lack of breaks was having any real impact, though. It hadn't taken Declan long after recovering from being imbued with universal essence to realize that losing his mortality meant a lot more than simply not being able to die. It was like he was a moment frozen in time, and whenever his physical state got too far away from what it had been when the process had started, he would snap back to that state. The most obvious example of this was, of course, his wounds, but it included everything. Hunger. Thirst. Tiredness. Even, much to his frustration, arousal.

That didn't mean his mental state didn't change, though. He quickly became nearly overwhelmed with boredom and frustration, and only Kadderac's occasional well-placed reminder that this form was going to be demonstrated in front of the King kept him from giving up on the whole affair, slapping the old man in the face, and seeing if Aeron would dare try and dish out some sort of punishment. He kept his mind focused on those two solitary words whenever he felt like giving up. The King. This was important. Very. Important.

"Flawless," Declan reminded himself quietly as he once more ground to a halt mid-section. "It must be flawless to impress the King."

And flawless it would be, one way or another.

 

[SilentxChaos]

Visrah glared at the stone wall and picked at her sleeves. Even through the thick limestone, hearths from the banquet hall warmed her skin. She heard tittles of the crackling flames, along with raucous of many voices, drinks clattering, peels of a lady's laughter, and a small orchestra artfully threading its music through it all. The Festival of Red Sand was in full swing.

Removing her gaze from the wall, sweeping across the great banquet doors that framed the festivities occurring beyond, Visrah looked back at her master. They stood outside one of the King's great banquet halls. It was a smaller, more unused part of his palace, and perfect for occasions such as the Red Sand. No one cared as much if the place became defiled by dirty property. Lord Saffen Ranggard stood several paces from his slave, chatting with a noble lady. She was dressed in heavy silks of sea foam green and lavender, leaning on a ornate cane with her right hand. Every finger on that hand, along with the other waving a delicate fan, sported multiple rings of colorful gems. Her neck was adorned similarly, with strands of silver pearls and a gold cross. Visrah's pale eyes glinted. The lady was only known as Mistress Araelia to her. A former handmaiden to the Queen, supposedly, until an unfortunate accident crippled her. Now she spent her time gossiping and betting in the arenas. Arealia's voice lilted with laughter, causing Ranggard to laugh as well. By comparison, Ranggard dressed modestly in the colors of his house and only adorned a dress sword- a relic from his military years.

His slave mimicked him. Visrah dressed in a black shirt, breeches, and boots. The clothes were of rough cotton, poor quality, and poorly dyed, as many parts were faded. The only thing of semi-quality she wore was the long, half-tunic over top. The fabric was cheap red velvet, sleeveless, and hung down to her calves. Standing still, she appeared to be wearing a crude dress. However, the sides were slit, allowing her free motion. Stitched to the front was the Ranggard family crest: a gold gauntlet holding a spear and red-and-yellow chrysanthemum, guarded by two turrets. Visrah knew by the few glances of other attending slaves, she was one of the better dressed, but it wasn't out of misplaced affection by her master. It was little more than a mark of property; his own living flag, parading his emblem.

"Being an emblem is better than being a dog, Hibeck thinks."

Visrah jumped and her hand instinctively went to the small of her back. Soft, tumbling laughter berated her. Visrah glared at its source: a hulking man, almost seven feet in height, and quiet as a spectre, stood next to her against the wall. He flashed a white grin and held out a hand. "Good to see Visrah alive."

He frowned and let his hand fall. "Ouch. Threatening to cut Hibeck is not very nice. Hibeck is only here because of his mistress, same as Visrah is for hers. Must she be so isolated?"

Visrah's head tilted, her face darkened, and she crossed her arms. This time Hibeck flinched noticeably and looked down at his hands. "Hibeck sees...Hibeck wounded Talon and he is still recovering? That hurts Hibeck to hear. Talon was a friend... does Visrah remember, the wooden crane Talon made for Hibeck?"

Hibeck smiled even as Visrah remained unchanged. "Yes. The one with the swirling grain, Visrah recalls detail very well. Mistress Araelia allowed Hibeck to keep it after Lord Ranggard sold him. It's a dear treasure- Hibeck hoped to repay Talon," he paused and reached into his tunic. Visrah stiffened, but the hulking man ignored her, instead reaching out and pulling her hand up and forcing something into the palm. Visrah examined it. A roughly carved wooden bear rested in her hand. She assumed it was a bear. It stood on four stumps with a hunched back and small head. Despite being sanded down, tiny splinters poked her skin as she rolled it over. The craftsmanship was novice at best.

Hibeck hung his head, shuffling his feet. "Hibeck knows he's no good at carving. Not like Talon. Hibeck can still feel each individual feather of the crane Talon made, despite years of rubbing it like a stone. It's calming. Before a fight, Visrah knows?"

She gazed down at the bear. Hibeck peeked at her. He scratched the stubble on his head. " 'Why?' Talon showed Hibeck kindness. Can Visrah count the number of times someone's been kind to Visrah?"

Hibeck looked up, not hearing an answer from her, as Mistress Araelia ordered him to her side. Hibeck made a hasty bow to Visrah. "Please, make sure Talon gets it."

Going to his mistress's side, Araelia smacked Hibeck's cheek with her fan, scolding him for daring to mingle with other slaves in spite of her orders. Hibeck lowered himself to his hands and knees, begging for forgiveness. Ranggard looked on with a pleasant smile. Ignoring them all, Visrah stared at the gift in her hand.

"Useless," she muttered, then slipped it under her shirt.

 

[Peregrine]

Unlike every other slave in this space, Declan was dressed to impress. It had been his idea, in part, but Aeron had been supportive of the idea the moment it had been raised. It had frustrated Aeron to learn that, among all the other things his lack of mortality caused, it was impossible for Declan's hair to be cut or styled, as it simply returned back to the plain, slightly wavy cut he had sported when the universal essence had been imbued in him. It had been slicked back with copious quantities of gel, but still didn't quite look like the latest noble fashion.

What his hair lacked his clothes made up. They were the perfect blend of practical enough to allow for the demonstration, while still being tasteful enough that Declan would be able to mingle with the noble guests without looking out of place. It was a decision that many of the noble ladies were quite pleased with. Among the copious offers Aeron had received for purchasing Declan, there had been a few requests from ladies who had wanted to spend and evening with a slave that could refuse no offer, but was remarkably easy on the eye. Aeron had politely declined on Declan's behalf, hiding his impotency from the rest of society. There may still be a time in the future where a fake offer to spend the evening with a lady could still prove useful to their plans.

It was a good thing that all the other nobles were too busy talking and trying to persuade Aeron of the benefits of selling Declan to them to notice how uncomfortable both of the men seemed to be with the setting. Despite the fact that they had both worked extremely hard to get here, and were planning to put on a show the King and Queen would not soon forget, this was not the kind of territory where either of them thrived. For Declan, it was a simple matter of lack of familiarity. Before he had met Aeron, Declan had never spent any significant length of time around people of noble birth, or even those who expected others to follow the rigid rules of the social language. Now every misstep earned a titter from the ladies and a scoff from the men. It was the perfect reminder that he was still nothing but a slave, playing at a game he didn't truly understand.

With Lord Rydell, though, the discomfort was much harder to notice, and much harder to properly place. Most of the time he seemed perfectly at ease, exchanging words with the best of them, transitioning seamlessly from compliment to joke to boast. It was as though he was made for these parties. But every now and again, when an extravagant ring was artfully flashed under his nose, or a thoughtless statement from one of his fellows casually demeaned everyone who wasn't in this room with them, or a simpering phrase flattered the beauty of the queen and the strength of the king, something would flash briefly across his face before being concealed once more. No one would have noticed it if they weren't looking for it. Even familiar with Aeron's brief moments of dissatisfaction he still missed most of them. If there was one thing all this time in the lower echelons of noble society had taught Aeron, it was how to act. Yet still, it was fascinating to watch for those things that would trigger a silent reaction. In many ways, it taught Declan more about his Lord than the weeks under his service had. It certainly began to illuminate why exactly Declan was his slave.

"Can I stab him?"

The innocent question shattered through Declan's contemplative reverie, and he found himself staring into the wide blue eyes of a lady dressed in cornflower silk, with forgetmenot gloves and a shawl, and a massive sapphire necklace strung around his neck. "I heard that he heals within a few moments, and all the blood vanishes as soon as he does. Just like it never even happened." She tittered faintly, eyes darting away to glance flirtatiously at Lord Rydell. "I've seen it done so many times in the arena, but I'd be fascinated to try it myself." Declan's jaw clenched, but other than that he kept his utter disgust carefully disguised. He didn't glance at Aeron, but the man seemed to mimic his disapproval of the request. It was disgusting. If she wanted to stab someone, she should go down into the arena herself. There it was real and gruesome and violent. All she wanted was the game, the pretend. That's why she was so fascinated with the fact that all evidence of her abuse would vanish within a few moments.

"Now, Alara," Aeron said, cajoling. "I spent a pretty penny on that outfit, and I certainly don't have any intention of buying him another one. I can't have a knife hole in it, now can I?"

"Then have him strip," Alara replied, short and crisp. The flirtatious look left her eyes, and she pinned Declan with a cold gaze. "I want to stab him." It was clear that she was a woman who was used to having nothing refused her.

Aeron's back straightened somewhat, and he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of his green doublet. "I really can't allow..."

"Honestly," Alara said, shortly. A dinner knife had appeared in her hand, and Declan had no idea when it had gotten there. "I'll buy you another outfit for him later." She took a step forward, lifting her hand to plunge the knife into his chest. Declan tensed, almost reacting, before freezing. A hard look entered his eyes as well, but for a completely different reason. There was nothing he could do. If a slave dared to lift his hand against a noble lady, there would be far worse punishment than a stab in the chest. Normally the price would be his life, but the royal executioners would have to get creative with Declan. Even if he did manage to avoid punishment somehow, they would undoubtedly be thrown out of this feast, which would mean no chance to perform his form in front of the King and Queen. He had no choice but to stand still and take it. In that moment he swore to himself that he wouldn't even flinch. It might have been a futile promise, but he would try.

They were saved by an unexpected source: Alara's husband, Lord Daric Rhodan. His hand caught his wife's wrist, just before the dagger hit it's mark. "Alara," her husband scolded. "It is bad manners to go stabbing other people's slaves, even if they will heal from it. In fact," he glanced pointedly in the direction of the king. "It could very well be seen as sabotage. Everyone needs an honest chance to compete."

"It isn't like it would affect him," Alara complained, although some of the simpering subservience had returned to her voice now that her husband was there. "How many times has he died in the arena in the past few weeks?" All the same, she dropped the hand holding the knife, before setting it back down on the table. Over the top of her head, Lord Rhodan met eyes with Aeron. Aeron was quick to oblige.

"I'd be glad to have you over at a later date, Lady Rhodan," Aeron said smoothly. "I'm sure we can accommodate your... desire then."

Alara brightened immediately. "Truly? I will hold you to that, then!"

Declan shot Aeron a dirty look. The older man looked away, almost guiltily.

 

[SilentxChaos]

Visrah was suffocating. Outwardly, she wore her wintry mask, not daring to let her enemies catch a moment of weakness. They surrounded her- familiar scarred faces and bustling robes that brought the stings of a whip to mind. Their voices whispered the ways they planned to torture her. Visrah suddenly remembered why she'd rather bear 10 lashes for refusing an order rather than attend the parties of haunting ghosts.

A high pitched voice caught the edge of her awareness, reeling her back to the present state. "-That's Declan Hyrell? For a glorified savage he is indeed easy on the eyes."

Mistress Araelia pointed, and Visrah followed her finger until she saw him. The immortal newblood. She recalled their fight in a snapped moment. Staring at Declan, she felt the tension in her neck ease and she released a silent breath. There were no calmer times in her life than when she faced an opponent in the arena.

Visrah listened to Araelia's latest gossip on Declan. Ranggard listened with pleasant interest. At some point outside the festivities, the petite mistress decided Ranggard would be her escort of the night. He courteously accepted. However, Visrah noticed the way his eyes tended trail from time to time and he still wore that pleasant smile. Hibeck lingered with Visrah at their masters' backs. He cast worried glances at her, but after Araelia's scolding, he didn't dare ensue further interactions.

Araelia placed a hand on Ranggard's forearm. "Come, Saffen. I would like to meet this Immortal champion."

The lord nearly frowned- the corners of his mouth twitched down. He quickly regained his sociable composure and allowed Araelia to drag him towards Aeron Rydell and his party. Their slaves followed like wary shadows. They approached in time to hear Lady Alara Rhodian whine to her husband. Visrah thought she saw Declan's shoulders relax with relief before he threw a glare at his master. Her curiosity peeked.

Carmine mouth curling in a smirk, Mistress Araelia spoke disdainfully as they came behind Lord Rydell, "Now, now Alara. You mustn't exhibit such a bloodthirsty behavior. You almost sound like one of them."

 

[Peregrine]

"That's quite rich, coming from you Katleen," Apparently Lady Rhodan was not particularly fond of hearing her first name come from the mouth of the woman who was approaching. The party mask of polite complacency never faltered, but the eyes revealed a lot more than the rest of the face. Her eyes were cold and hard as she stared at the woman. "After all, you are the one who always starts cheering like a drunk farmer who bet his last cent whenever your champion draws first blood."

Mistress Araelia apparently decided that wasn't wroth a response, as she ignored Alara and turned her attention towards Aeron. The man greeted her with a polite smile, showing no sign of the relief he must have felt as Lord Rhodan gently pulled his wife away from the group, to save himself any more public embarrassment. Despite the impressively honest smile that crossed Aeron's face, his eyes were as cold and dark as the offended lady's while he surveyed Araelia. His eyes lingered on her ring laden fingers, flicked briefly to the massive necklace at her throat, before finally forcibly settling on her face. "You have always had remarkable timing, my lady," Aeron said smoothly. "You have once more plucked me from the jaws of another uncomfortable conversation."

Declan stepped back smoothly as Araelia approached, making sure that she would not have to move even an inch from her decided path due to his presence. It grated on his nerves, but he dropped his eyes to the floor, thinking about the color green and suffering the humiliation in stony-faced silence. When he finally looked back up, it was only to find himself staring right into the depths of Visrah's dark eyes. They were as black as the water she had used to kill him, and no more friendly. Apparently, even outside the arena, she viewed him as an enemy.

It didn't matter to him. He flashed her a surprisingly courtly grin, before offering her a subtle bow from the waist.

 

[SilentxChaos]

Visrah blinked at Declan, her head tilted, and Hibeck quickly covered his mouth to hide a smile as if he heard something that amused him. Visrah's gaze flickered towards him. Hibeck immediately resumed his somber state, fidgeting and refusing to look at Visrah.

This silent exchange occurred behind Araelia's pitched chuckle- a sound similar to the squeaks of a rat. "Dear Aeron, what would you do without me?"

She didn't wait for his reply but turned her attention to Declan. "Truly, I wanted to see this specimen you have recently acquired. The attention he has won in the arenas! It's a wonder no one's tried to take him from you- wait a moment," Araelia flicked open her fan and held it to her face. Her large doe eyes peered innocently above the fan's lace at Ranggard. "Were you not one of the first people lining up at Aeron's door? In hopes that your money would be worth more to him than his prized little trophy?"

Ranggard's hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He maintained a noble's face- courteous smile and pleasant persona- yet a certain quality changed. His body straightened and his feet shuffled to stand the breadth of his shoulders. Visrah, attuned to the change, inched closer to her master as he gazed down at Araelia.

"Is there some implication to your words, Mistress Araelia?" asked Ranggard.

The young lady fanned herself and tilted towards Aeron. Her eyes glimmered with amusement. "Only that everyone knows about your collection, Saffen. Ever since the King retired you, you've simply been obsessed with the arena and obtaining the best slaves. Isn't that the only reason you put up with this ilk?" Araelia waved a dismissive hand in Visrah's direction, "I've heard you're the first master who's kept her for more than two years. I just have to muse," Araelia looked at Aeron, changing her attention to him, "how far did Saffen bend over backwards in his attempts win the immortal from you, Aeron?"

 

[Peregrine]

Declan bore Araelia's surveillance with silent stoicism, his emotions, and frustrations, with this situation once more concealed behind a mask of neutrality. He would have found it humorous, had he been paying attention, to note the way that Aeron's mask slipped briefly, allowing a flicker of utter disgust to cross his features, right as Declan put up his own civil facade, almost as though the room could only hold so much pretense at any one moment. Instead, Declan's eyes were on Araelia. Or, rather, they were focused just to the left of her ear, where it was just possible to catch a glimpse of the impossibly fine garments of the king and queen. That was why he was here. It didn't matter what these disgusting people who called themselves "nobles" did.

"No further than you yourself did, Araelia." Aeron replied, rather blandly. "Although, as I recall, you were looking for something a little more la..." He adjusted his words promptly as her eyes went suddenly from enjoying Ranggard's discomfort to promising discomfort for Aeron if he went any further in that particular line of conversation. "Different."

Declan didn't know what Aeron gained out antagonizing the lady. Ranggard certainly didn't seem to be grateful for Rydell's attempt to redirect the conversation, even though it was indeed redirected. Araelia gave a delicate, and probably highly practiced huff, before turning away to survey the rest of the crowd, and especially the slaves that lingered at the fringes of the peacock gathering. "Honestly," she huffed. "A disappointing turnout this year. I was expecting a grand performance this year, but it looks as though the rumors that Turvic lost his top bitch in a fight about a month ago proved to be true. I don't see his oversized ears anywhere. Must have known better than to show up with any of his other ill-bred stock."

She turned to look at Aeron as well, the glimmer of cold amusement returning. "How ever are you going to show off when the most impressive thing your champion can do is die? I don't think the King and Queen would appreciate a splatter of blood in the middle of their party."

Aeron smiled, and there was only the faintest hint of arrogant vindictiveness hidden in the smirk. "You shall simply have to wait and see, my Lady. The performances should begin soon."

 

[SilentxChaos]

Araelia's brow crinkled with suspicion. Before she could voice them, Aeron's words became prophetic as the small orchestra suddenly ceased and pulled all conversation into its silence. The room immediately towards the royal thrones and found a small, hunched standing before their Majesties. He simpered at the crowd through thin lips, his body hunched under heavy yet luxurious robes. It was embroidered by a thick golden thread symbolizing him as a court alchemist. He was also the Majesties' herald.

Lifting a skeletal hand, the hall's ambiance suddenly dimmed. Bright candles in the chandeliers diminished to flickering buds and a roaring hearth at one end of the hall was reduced to a mere campfire. Hushed whispers of grudging respect swept through the nobles as, when the light grew weaker, the herald's skin glowed a soft yellow, until he became a dim light source of his own. He coughed then surveyed the crowd with watery brown eyes.

"My lords and ladies," he began, his voice thin and whiny, "by decrees of the arena, you are here tonight, as champions of spectacular battles- some reigning, some new- but nonetheless known as the elite class for your wealth, power, and might of your noble blood are on display once you've submitted yourself to the arena."

The herald paused to take a raspy breath. His audience remained mute, courtly, yet their pride piqued by the praise he sang as if it came from the King's own lips. Ranggard huffed quietly. "Might. What does anyone in this room know of the word apart from their Majesties?"

"Hush, Saffen! You forget yourself," Araelia hissed, taken aback from his sudden change of behavior.

"Don't act so surprised. There's only so much cordialness one can exhibit around you," growled the elderly lord. As a noble, one was expected to maintain a certain amount civility around their peers, no matter if friend or highly detested acquaintance. As a former general, Ranggard fell into the practice of a plastered smile, but his civility was fragile at best.

The herald cleared his throat, his body glowing slightly brighter, the ambiance dimmer. Araelia quieted with an enraged sputter.

"Yes, as the elite of elite, the best your blood has to offer, their Majesties King Alistair Tharisen II and Queen Xaria, welcome you to the Festival of Red Sand!"

 

[Peregrine]

The Festival of Red Sand. The name was poignant, as well as being to the point, and was well known the world over. The history of the festival was taught in every classroom, whether the students believed in the glory of the coliseum or not. Declan had learned it too, and even now he could imagine the voice of his teacher, and a young boy perched on the edge of his seat as he listened, wide eyed with excitement and awe.

The first festival had taken place well over 80 years ago, when the bloody tournaments that would come to make this country famous had become commonplace, peasants had become rich off of bets, and the nobles had learned to fight for influence within the pits. At that time the Festival of Red Sand had truly been a fight, a bloody battle royale between the best the nobles could offer. The sand of the arena had been specifically replaced with a rare variety, volcanic red in color, so that it was impossible to tell exactly how much carnage was taking place on the field. However, as fighting slaves had grown more valuable, and fewer and fewer of the nobles were willing to risk their prized captives for a chance to impress the king and queen, the festival had been adapted. It had gone from a public affair to a private one, and the real battles had been replaced by mock battles, before transitioning into the carefully choreographed performances of modern day. The significance of the name hadn't been lost, though, and even now a "red sand fight" was a common term for a battle that ended in a particularly vicious or bloody manner.

He had thought it exciting then, as a young boy who didn't truly understand the reality. His teacher had tried to disillusion not only him, but every boy under her care. The lesson was lost until the first time they all witnessed the slavers coming through, taking anyone unable to resist, and dragging them away to lands unknown, never to be seen or heard from again. Now here he was, a participant. A performer. He glanced over at Aeron, who's face was a careful mask of politeness. At least he wasn't one of the nobles, who built their wealth and influence off of these fights.

Once the herald finished speaking, everyone, the King and Queen among them, began to carefully make their way through the large doors that waited at the far end of the hall, to a smaller version of the same arena Declan fought in every day. This place was not designed for full fights, though, but was rather carefully sized to allow all of the nobles prime seating around the edge, and room for one individual to perform in the middle. Soon enough, Declan would be there, working his way through the form that had been drummed into his brain over the past couple weeks.

For now, though, he stood rigidly behind Aeron, who ended up seated almost exactly opposite the king and queen. It was far from prime seating, the most well respected nobles conducting silent bidding wars and threat throwing to take the seats right next to their majesties, but for Declan it was ideal. It would allow him to study the king, while looking as though he was simply watching the performances. Every other slave would be intently studying the forms, as each slave would be pulling out their best moves so that their lords and ladies could impress the king. Every move they could memorize was another advantage, should any individual in here ever end up in competition against another out in the arena. No one would ever suspect that Declan was studying something quite different.

Indeed, no one so much as glanced in his direction through the entirety of the first and second form. The nobles were too busy hanging off the edge of their seats, gasping in admiration as the magically induced abilities of the various fighters was put on display in the most spectacular of fashions. Declan had to work to keep his face blank of emotion when he caught a glimpse of the court alchemist perched behind their majesties, studiously scribbling on several sheets of bound paper. For every individual who survived the process of having universal essence imbued into them, three more gave up their lives as the price for magic they would never be able to use. All so that people with more greed than heart could put them on display like animals in a zoo, and watch them fight to the death.

His disgust was not mollified by seeing the same expression briefly flit across Lord Rydell's face. That was, after all, why they were both here.

 

[SilentxChaos]

"These shows disgust me."

Visrah glanced down at her master, who grumbled into a tankard and glowered at the performances. His manner disintegrated once they separated from the Mistress Araelia and Lord Rydell. The fact he was capable of maintaining a courtly face that long mildly surprised her. She understood, however, the Ranggard and Araelia families were forced to place nice to each other due to their trading dependencies. Ranggards were entirely known for military strength, in the King's army and other avenues. Militias. Mercenaries. Bodyguards. Arena slaves. Araelias held multiple contracts with them for a cheaper price than other noble families, due to their willingness to trade silk threads necessary for stitching wounds. The Araelias were excellent weavers and silk was their pride crop. In other words, they desired cheaper protection and Ranggard needed their product for wounded fighters. This much Visrah knew from servants privy to conversations between Lord Saffen Ranggard and an Araelia noble. She herself had been present for one or two of these talks, when her master insisted on holding them during arena events and demanded her presence in place of a servant's. Often he liked to do this while one of his own brood fought below- a show of strength, in his opinion. All other details went over Visrah's head. Politics of noble masters bored her and complexed her, especially when they fussed over the most minuet details, such as her master playing sweet with one, slightly low born, Araelia daughter just so their families' business-ship didn't deteriorate to shambles.

"Visrah! You better not be acting deaf to my words," Ranggard growled.

Visrah blinked then bowed. "Apologies."

"Hmmph. Apologies my ass."

A strained hush hissed behind them. "Language, Lord Ranggard! Lest the King hears you!"

Ranggard retorted such a foul comment several surprised chokes emanated around them. Visrah ignored them, but couldn't help a swift glance towards the royal seats. Her and her master were seated five seats from the King's left, in the front row. It was a position paradoxically prestiguos and inconsequential. Ranggard had the money to obtain the spot, but there was no royal favor behind it. Visrah recalled when she first entered Ranggard's service, years ago, when during Red Sand he sat only two seats away from the King. One year, he was invited to sit at the Queen's side.

Now they were here. How the mighty fall.

Returning her attention to her master, he gulped down mead from a tankard. Drink soured his attitude. "Bah, look at that one," he swung his cup toward the arena, indicating a young slave focusing all his attention to the palm of his hand. Nothing was happening and murmurs of boredom ensued. "I recognize him as a new blood from that Chalabond clan. Supposedly he has quite the powerful gift, something about creating explosions with his mind or other, but the boy has no control over using it. He couldn't even produce a spark when facing death in the arenas! And they think, a little weeks' worth of training and sticking him in this jester of entertainment will win back favor- are you listening, soldier?"

"Yes."

Ranggard grunted. He watched the boy, his face falling into thoughtfulness.

"Tell me," Ranggard prompted, "has your opinion of Declan Hyrell changed at all?"

Sudden excitement rippled through the audience. A spattering of claps awarded the slave boy as a sputtering light popped into existence above his hand. He stared at it, his lips forming a perfect "o" of astonishment.

Despite their arousal, Visrah sensed her master's gaze steadily rested on her. She met his eyes squarely. "Why does a master care of his slave's opinion?" she asked in a stoic tone.

He ignored what other nobles would have taken as a blatant challenge from their slave and answered, "After your battle against him, you said to me, 'He fights with a certain conviction'. Does that still hold true?"

Their eyes swept to the opposite side of the small arena, where Lord Aeron Rydell and Declan Hyrell were seated. The moment the Immortal slave had defeated Black Water, he unwittingly became a source of obsession to Saffen Ranggard. If only Declan knew how often his name was uttered behind Ranggard's locked doors then perhaps his gaze wouldn't be solidly fixed elsewhere. Visrah averted her eyes, not wanting to be caught staring by him or Rydell, instead shifting to the boy. He and his ball of sparking light had gained the nobles' amusement. He expanded and shrunk its size, even split it in two, and released one half into the air. It disappeared with a clap! The audience gasped then laughed. Seeing him, Visrah understood then he hadn't created a ball of light; rather, he created a small explosion but froze it mid-blast. That's why, when he released part of it into the air, a mini-explosion occurred. He'd simply unfroze it. The technique took enormous control and precision, judging by the amount of sweat dripping from his face and the shake of his hands. Visrah also noticed the unfinished explosion in his palms wavering and sputtering with instability.

"Visrah!" snapped Ranggard.

She turned to him. His almond colored eyes had darkened, warning her of his rising impatience. She gave him the short answer. "I don't know, my lord."

He slammed the tankard against the arm of his chair. "Show no insolence, mutt! You listen here, if I'm to risk my best assets on this plan-"

"Not here ser," Visrah hissed back.

Ranggard growled and snatched at her wrist just as she returned to the boy in the arena. She glanced him increasing the light's size- it now hissing dangerously- then jerked back at the graze of Ranggard's fingertips- her attention divided-

Bang!

Multiple screams filled the room, but none louder than the slave boy's. He rolled on the ground with bloody and incinerated hands clutching at his face. He'd finally lost control. Dividing and growing the freezed explosion escalated it to an unstable level. It had been fighting the boy the moment he created it; only a matter of time before it backfired.

Everyone froze with their attention fixed on the writhing boy. No one in that room, to their knowledge, remembered the last time such a horrendous fumble happened at the Red Sand Festival. It was a commonality in the arena battles, of course, but not at a gathering among elite. Here, an inept display reflected badly upon the noble family. Very badly.

 

[Peregrine]

It only took a few moments for the room to devolve into utter chaos. Nobles seated close to the edge of the arena flung themselves backwards, away from the blood and the risk of injury that came whenever one of the little glowing orbs sparked or flared. Those in the back were forced to press themselves against the walls, or risk being trampled by their fellows. Screams echoed through the narrow space, mingled with the young man in the middle of the arena's bellows.

There were very few people in the room who didn't panic. A few of the nobles remained seated, looking unconcerned. Aeron, surprisingly, was one of them. Declan, with his eyes trained on the King instead of the young man performing in the arena, was in a unique position to glimpse another unexpected reaction. This reaction didn't come from the boy in the arena, or the various fainting or screaming nobles who swooned further when another blast went off near the boy and a chunk of his chest was suddenly flung away, accompanied by a splatter of blood. This reaction came from the king. Or, perhaps more accurately, the queen.

After all, the king did nothing. When the first explosion went off, the grey-haired man went rigid in his seat, eyes widening slightly in an expression that almost seemed reminiscent of a wounded deer. He didn't make a sound, but when the third explosion went off, sending another shower of blood up into the stands and at his feet, he flinched away from the substance as though it was acidic, or was somehow going to do him harm. It was the queen who jumped to her feet, turning away from the arena to face a back corner.

"Ridek!" she shouted. A few moments later, a man bolted into the arena, vaulting over the wall and dropping into the sand with a smooth roll. Only an instant later, he was back on his feet, bolting his way across the arena. "Hecten," came the next command, this time directed towards the alchemist. He pulled a glowing silver bottle out from inside his coat, and held it ready. When the next blast went off he broke the bottle at his feet. A rush of air exploded outwards, shunting the explosion away from the man bolting across the arena.

And then, as suddenly as that, it was over. A knife appeared in the hands of the man crossing the arena, and an instant later it was slashing across the young man's throat. Briefly his eyes went wide with surprise, before the power around him flickered, and simply vanished. By the time Declan looked back at the queen, she was sitting again.

"Someone is going to be losing their patronage for this..." Aeron murmured. He sounded almost pleased about the fact. For one moment his eyes lingered in the arena, on the bloody corpse of the young man, before he looked away again, unable to contain the expression of utter disgust that briefly flickered across his face. Luckily for the man, many other nobles were wearing similar expressions, even if the reason behind Aeron's look was fundamentally different. They were glancing at the smears of blood that had entered their seating, or even letting out words of indignation if some of the scarlet drops had marred their fine outfits. In the back of the room, two nobles with faces frozen in a mask of terror were quickly being escorted out of the room by a small retinue of palace guards.

Declan noticed little of this. His eyes were locked, with almost rigid intensity, on the face of the queen. She had swooned backwards into her throne, and a couple of her handmaidens had raced forward to fan her face and wipe her brow. The motion of fans and rags and skirts nearly blocked the sudden, intense look that the woman cast at her husband, but Declan didn't miss it. Nor did he miss the fact that, a second later, the King rose to his feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, in a loud, clear voice. The nobles began to settle properly, whispers of fear and concern gradually transitioning into irate murmurs over the state of the show. "It has been a long time since this festival, the grandest in the world, has been cursed with such a display of foolishness and negligence. I offer my humblest apologies for not having had better sense in my selection of attendees, and I am absolutely certain that the Mackel family will be more than willing to reimburse you for any... inconveniences you may have suffered."

"They are going to end up in the poor houses for that statement," Aeron added, just loud enough that Declan was able to hear the words. When he looked out over the furious faces of the gathered nobles, Declan had no doubt that those words spoke the truth.

"Should you wish it," the king continued, "The servers will be opening the doors back to the gathering hall, where food and drink will be waiting. Those who remain are free to continue the flawless performances that the Festival of Red Sands is known for the world wide."

No one moved towards the doors. To do so would be to sacrifice their chance to compete in the event they had all spent the last months training their slaves to win. The king nodded his pleasure, sat down, and clapped his hands twice to signify the resumption of the match. While he had been speaking, a couple of guards had moved quietly out into the arena to drag the young man's body away. The assassin had already vanished utterly. Shortly after the king's clap, the slave that had been waiting in the wings stepped out into the red sand. She was trying to smile, but there was a fearful cant to her lips that gave away her true feelings.

"You must be perfect," Aeron commanded, turning away from the arena to look pointedly at Declan as the woman started her performance. "There is no longer room for even the smallest of mistakes. Understood?"

Declan barely heard this comment, but had the sense to nod quietly, even if his attention was elsewhere. He was once more focused on the queen. Watching. Wondering.

 

[SilentxChaos]

Hours later, the doors of the banquet hall creaked open.

With the entertainment at an end, the monarchs would now choose the victor, a favorite who'd be blessed as a chosen gladiator of the crown and a boon granted to the family owner. Nobles shuffled out in small groups, their heads pressed together, like a procession of ordained monks. Except prayer was replaced by gossip and the air thick with tension. Practiced formalities were discarded as everyone gathered into groups of allies and trustees, dismissing property to the fringes of the hall, out of earshot, even though everyone knew what existed in their hushed discussions and thoughts. Only a few stayed at their masters' side and they guarded the nobles' backs with wary eyes. Ever vigilante, ever close.

Visrah was banished to the fringe. Her fingers played with Hibeck's wooden figurine as she watched the room. A wide berth had been given to her by the other slaves, even though they too clustered as close as they dared, their own talk little more than the skittering of rats behind walls. It was one of few opportunities the slaves had to socialize with each other unhindered. Even during slave fights, good guards were watchful, and most were too fixated on their pending doom to think of chatting to any potential opponent. But to Visrah it was a reminder of how alone she was in the world; it was not a terrible thought. Isolation was only another shield, another wall, to surround and protect herself with. It ensured that no one could get close enough to slip a knife between her ribs.

As she survey the hall with cool detachment, she spotted Ranggard near a long table laden with drink and fresh fruit no one bothered to touch. He laughed boisterously with another old lord- a retired army spymaster, if memory served correct- who was a friend. After the grisly Mackel- family blunder, Ranggard's mood lifted almost immediately. The sudden chaos and carnage had wiped their conversation of Visrah's thoughts towards Declan Hyrell from his mind. He watched the scene with growing amusement and calm. Reminds me of the good old days, he said to her some time later, always loved surprised attacks. Hellish when they happen but keeps you on your toes. Not until Declan himself claimed the small stage did Ranggard speak of him again.

"One week," he had rumbled, his eyes alight with desire, "In one week, you will deliver my prize... you were right, mutt. I don't care of your opinion at all."

 

[Peregrine]

Declan knew he had performed well. He knew it from the murmurs of appreciation that had swept the hall after his "act" was complete, and he knew it from the glow of pride that had entered Aeron's eyes as Declan had bowed and left the blood-dirtied sand pit. It was not until three performances later that Declan knew he had not performed well enough to win. He was, at that moment, the only person in the hall who had the beginnings of an inclination about the decision that the royal family would reach. This knowledge was not due to any sudden ability to see in the future, but was rather realized simply from knowing the correct place to look. That place was the eyes of the Queen. She maintained an impassive image, spending as much time casually chatting with the ladies that sat to her side and below her as she did actually watching the competition, but those few looks, Declan soon realized, had a great deal of significance to them. When he saw the way her eyes lit up when her gaze passed across a heavily-muscled, good looking man who had the ability to move fabric according to his will, Declan suddenly made a hypothesis. The Festival of Red Sand was not a promotion for the coliseum, even if that was a side-effect, nor was it a way to reward a family that had worked hard in service of the throne, as everyone here would have had to do thus to receive an invitation. This entire competition, and everything that went along with it, was simply a way for the Queen to find a pet for the year.

Of course, there was no way for Declan to prove his theory until the winner was announced, and by that time it would be far too late to revise his assessment. But if he was right, it would only serve to confirm the unexpected idea that had been building in the back of his mind since the Mackel's performer had so cataclysmically failed in his showing. If he was right... Declan was going to have to revise everything he had planned, everything he had thought, and everything Aeron had told him. It would change everything.

All of the slaves were pushed to the edges of the banquet hall when the performances were over, separated from their respective nobles, who all resumed the seemingly casual chatter that had filled the space before. But even an inexperienced observer would be able to tell that this time there was notably more of a purpose to the talk than last time. While the King and Queen deliberated, the nobles would be making deals. Of course, the most important deals would have been made far before the Festival, and many of those deals would not come to anything because they were made on the condition of victory on the Red Sands, but smaller deals, trades of all sort, would be taking place. As Declan leaned against a wall, his eyes would occasionally flick to Lord Rydell, as the man struggled to fend off the advances of the nobles who were still trying to purchase Declan from him. It hardly mattered that Aeron had made it abundantly clear on several occasions that he would not be selling Declan to anyone, for any price. Everyone wanted an immortal slave, for one reason or another.

Declan was relieved that he wouldn't have to listen to the deals this time, wouldn't have to struggle to keep his disgust at the whole affair bottled up inside him while he smiled at the harlots who had built their wealth off the suffering of others. The other slaves had enough sense to leave him and several others a bubble of space, seeming to realize the dangers that might come from bothering the wrong people. This left Declan an unobstructed view of the main room, and the various nobles who moved from place to place. He watched them attentively, picking up a gesture here, a snatch of conversation there, maintaining an air of unconcerned distance while still waiting attentively for any valuable pieces of information contained among the gossip. There were very few occasions for him to observe the nobles, and he intended to take full advantage of it.

For that reason, Declan was one of the last among the slaves to notice when the doors that would admit the King and Queen back into the room swung open. It wasn't until the nobles all across the room suddenly hushed that Declan's gaze snapped around, once more locking onto the queen. He felt something tighten in his chest even as his heart rate sped up. He had his hypothesis for what was going to happen. Now all he had to do was wait and see if he was right.

The King and Queen looked as reserved and composed as ever, but it was possible to see from the way a herald promptly called the attention of the nobles and declared that the King was ready to choose the victor of the Festival of Red Sands that he, or someone, was ready for the festival to be over, and all the nobles to be out of the palace. The King stood promptly once the room had fallen into silence, and began his speech. Of course, it was still filled with phrases no one cared about, such as "many excellent contenders" and "hard choices", but in the end it all came down to one family name. That was all anyone cared about.

"But," said the King. "In the end, there can only be one victor. After a great deal of deliberation, Xaria and I have finally reached our decision. The winner of this year's Festival of Red Sand is Zethel, owned by the Farthers."

There was a small burst of commotion, as several people turned to congratulate a thin man with ramrod straight shoulders, and the slightly plump woman with waves of luxurious blonde hair that stood next to him. Declan felt his heart leap when the two turned to the surrounding slaves and snapped their fingers, and the handsome, dark haired, muscular man that Declan had picked out in the sand pit stepped out from among the various slaves. His hands balled into fists at his side as he forced himself to repress his excitement.

He had been right.