“Siora Vallen.”

  Siora didn’t respond. Instead, she continued observing the rain that fell through the open dome in the arena. It trickled down old stone work, clung to ivy and moss, and eventually, as the forces of nature proved too strong, it would let go of its grip and fall to the ground. Then it was no more. Just another part of the whole—a true drop in the bucket.

  “Siora Vallen.” The voice was growing impatient.

  Slowly, she leveled her head against the horizon. Empty seats, dark corners, and extinguished lamps cluttered the periphery, but not her world. Her world was much smaller. It was the dirt that would loosen her grip as she ran. It was the wooden barriers that would try to hold her. It was the air that would never be enough to fill her lungs. And it was the rain that she would dance between as she moved.

  “Siora—"

  She stepped forward from the side of the arena.

  The voice sighed, and finished, “Vallen.”

  “Here,” she said, and turned.

  Behind her, toward the voice, were the only two occupants of the arena. The first, the loud one, was a Spirare, one of the machine species, though it was different, even for one of their kind. This one was a host—a pod—for the true master of the form, a Miasmaris. For all the metal and glass that made the body, the genuine horror was the gaseous form contained within, a sentient poison vapor, capable of dissolving flesh like sugar in water. For all of that terror, though, he was still only the second most powerful person in the room.

  The other one—the one that sat silently beside the Spirare—that was the one that gave her the chills. Golden hair, blue eyes, chiseled features, murderous intent. Even from this distance, he was a man to be wary of. He was everything that anyone could ever want to be. Attractive. Strong. Charismatic. Powerful. He was all of those things and more.

  Siora knew the names of both of them. The Spirare was Yyne, the advisor. The other man was the King.

  King Michael Belmont Graham.

  “Please state your full name, primary stat, archetype, and subversion.” The Spirare’s voice was uncannily human, despite having none of the physical qualities that would make it so.

  Siora looked between the two of them and spoke her answer over the falling rain. “Siora Vallen. Wisdom. Mage. Wind Rider.”

  The king leaned over and whispered something to the Spirare. If she’d have been able to see his lips, she would have heard the words, but strands of flaxen hair obscured her vision. Instead, the magical trinket that hung from her ear only returned the sounds of rain that trickled down around her.

  Another moment, and the two looked back to the arena.

  “Lrang Hiulmor.”

  When the man named Lrang stepped out from the hall on the other side of the arena, it was obvious distance wasn’t the only thing that separated him from Siora. His robes were clean and new, hers were frayed, torn, stained by earth and blood. His knotted staff looked like it was more glass than wood, while the ringed chakrams on her arms were dull and dinged. The beads around his neck practically sang with Aether, and the beaten plate attached to her armor was barely more than cast iron. The man turned his hood up as he walked into the arena. Siora wasn’t sure if it was to shield from the rain, or to intimidate her. She smirked. If it was the latter, he would have to try harder.

  Yyne spoke. “State your full name, primary stat, archetype, and subversion.”

  “Lrang Hiulmor. Willpower. Summoner. Artillerist.” The confidence of the voice matched the casualness of his stride.

  Siora smirked. Summoners were nothing to write off, but she’d never backed down from a fight. ‘Artillerist’ told her he was using Dexterity as his secondary stat like she was, which was good. As tank-y as a Summoner was, he wasn’t a wall.

  Yyne called from the stands, his voice now smarmy and aloof. “The rules of the battle are simple. First to land three strikes is the victor. Killing blows are not permitted. You are being graded on your performance. Even in victory, mistakes will cost you. Honor your King and then begin.”

  Lrang snapped both hands across his chest and bowed low.

  Siora turned and bowed slightly. As she raised her head, she smelled the Aether on the rain.

  From behind, a fist of magical essence sailed towards her turned back. Her rival, it seems, only had honor for show.

  She turned, raised her forearm to guard, and the blow glanced off—the magic sizzling as it faded beside her. She felt her heart quicken, and blood warmed the damp cold that had set in her limbs.

  The next blow was just as fast as the first, but Siora was more than ready for it this time. The best defense is avoiding the attack all together, which is exactly what she did. A third Aethereal punch sailed wide as she stepped in, sliding across the mud until she was face to face with the object of her assault. The small cloud of manifested magic.

  She looked at it and smiled. It was little more than a malformed spirit, or a lifeless puff of smoke. If Lrang had taken his time casting it, maybe primed some of his Aether and summoned a more powerful ally, it might have been a threat. Instead, he’d bet it all on a sneak attack.

  In close quarters with the summon, it would have been no issue to take it down. The long range specialty was no match for a blade at its form, but Siora knew that’s what Lrang wanted. It was a distraction, a target to draw her in while he stored power for another attack. She wouldn’t give him the time.

  The wisps of Aether wafted as she moved past them, closing the distance between herself and Lrang in two strides. The Summoner wasn’t ready for a direct confrontation.

  He panicked and struck out with his staff, but it was quickly out-stepped. He struck again and caught nothing but air.

  Siora danced around him, moving her feet in tighter and tighter circles as she approached, drawing a spiral of mud on the surrounding ground. She watched him—studied him—while he struck out wildly. He was no fighter. He was guild-made. Too specialized to be good on his own. She knew his primary stat was Willpower, and secondary was Dexterity, but she wondered if he was even Tier 1 in any other stat.

  She tested the waters and lashed out with a lazy punch. The rival mage jumped like a startled cat, and she laughed. There was no need to rush this. After all, she was being graded on her performance.

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  She continued her moves around him, but now with a purpose more than dodging the blows. She watched his new robes twist in the air. His staff kicked mud onto them as he stumbled with each swing. Even his boots were new, and they struggled to hold the wet earth. Each strike at her was an attack against himself, as the cloak, staff, and boots worked against their master. She dodged another round of volleys from the misguided summon and then stopped suddenly behind Lrang. He twisted towards her, poised to strike again, but as he raised his staff, it fought him, twisted in his own robe. He tried to jerk it free, but the muddy ground betrayed him, and he fell onto his back.

  Siora chuckled as she bent over him. She reached out to his forehead with her right hand and flicked him three times right between the eyes.

  “Siora is the victor.” The voice of the King’s assistant almost sounded amused.

  She stood back up and walked away, but then turned back to the man on the ground. She looked at him, caked in mud and fuming, and couldn’t help herself. “Your clothes are all dirty. You’re gonna need some new ones.” She gave him a wink, and then turned back to the King, giving a repeat of her stiff bow from earlier.

  The King stood, and she almost fell.

  When he’d been sitting, she hadn’t been able to see what he’d been wearing, but now it was in clear view. Full plate as dark as natural Aether, trimmed with silver accents, and jeweled embellishments. Draped down his back was a long, flowing cloak in the deep blue of his kingdom’s colors. Across his hips was a fine leather belt that held a single rapier that gleamed in the small light that filtered into the arena from above. The same light that trickled from his golden crown. It was otherworldly.

  The King and his assistant walked down the stairs towards her, but a man rushed in the door behind them. He was young and gangly, but dressed well in the clean, deep blue robes of a royal mage.

  The man stepped quickly to Yyne and handed him a small missive. Yyne nodded to the man, and he was just as quickly dismissed, gone back through the door he’d entered.

  Yyne unrolled the parchment and scanned it quickly. The pink vaporous mass in the glass enclosure roiled and twisted as it read the words. The King turned towards him and stepped closer. This time there was no hair to block the view of his mouth as he spoke the words, and Siora tapped into the Aether in her earring to listen to what was said.

  “We’ve gotten word from one of the smaller islands to the south. He’s there.” Yyne’s voice was smooth, but there was a sense of trepidation in the words.

  “Are we sure? Who sent word?” The King’s voice, on the other hand, seemed to just hold back some unseen rage.

  “A guild mage from Tolport sent word. Someone from a Mythra Guild, another mage, says there is a man claiming to be the King, and that he has killed several Guild Hunters. He says he saw the man kill a half dozen of your soldiers as well when they were sent to investigate the claims of a strange man on the island.”

  The King was silent.

  “It all lines up, Your Majesty. He would have arrived exactly when the Aurorium representative said he would.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  The gaseous, pink visage of Yyne rolled in its glass orb. “Only that he has a familiar. A snake.”

  Siora saw the King’s fist tighten before he spoke. “Just like the description from Aurorium.”

  “Indeed, Your Highness.”

  “Thirty years of rule, all to be undone by some outsider. I won’t let it happen. There is too much at stake.”

  Yyne nodded.

  The King looked at the Spirare. “ have too much at stake.”

  The King’s demeanor changed instantly as he turned back to Siora, who did her best impression of someone who wasn’t intently listening in to something that would get her killed. He smiled as he walked towards her and clapped his velvet-gloved hands as he descended the stairs like a regal phantom.

  “An excellent showing. You didn’t even draw a weapon.” There was something about the words and the way he said them that weakened Siora, and she felt like some helpless barmaid in a back alley tavern. His aura was overpowering, and it only increased as he stepped towards her. Now, within a few feet, he was a monolith.

  Handsome would have been the word she used before, but now, looking him directly in the eyes, it was so much more. He was electric. He was dazzling. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Siora didn’t even really like men that much, but this one…

  She caught herself and wondered how long it had been since he’d paid her the compliment. She quickly stammered a ‘thank you’, and when she bowed this time, it was genuine. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice screamed out against the feelings invading her thoughts, but it was silenced as quickly as it came.

  The King turned to Yyne. “Do we have any other prospects today? Perhaps one with a familiar?”

  Yyne’s form twisted and then settled. “Yes, we do. Shall I call her?”

  The King gave a curt nod and then looked out over the arena in expectation.

  “Grin Julippine,” Yyne called.

  A woman—no, a child—stepped out from another hallway. As she approached, Siora had to wonder just how old she was. Child might have been too far in the other direction, but this girl was barely into adulthood. She was dressed plainly, but armored well, and despite her age, she carried herself like someone who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. Siora actually felt a little excited that she might have the opportunity to spar with her.

  “Grin Julippine. Dexterity. Scout. Witch Hunter.”

  She’d been watching, and she knew the rules. Yyne didn’t even have to ask. Siora admired the girl’s confidence.

  “And your familiar?” Yyne asked.

  Grin put two fingers to her lips and whistled. There was a rustle from the stonework above, and Siora looked up as a large black cat lept down and landed lightly beside its master. Grin let a hand slip down to her side and scratched the cat behind the ears.

  “Languish. Dexterity. No Archetype.” Again, Grin’s confidence was impressive.

  The King nodded. “I see. Impressive animal. I’m not entirely familiar with the relationship between bonded entities. Can you explain your connection?”

  Grin smiled. Not the schoolgirl smile Siora was afraid she might have had towards the King just moments ago, but a smile of pride.

  “We are bonded through Aether. Our stats are shared in so much that whichever of us has the higher stat, both of us benefit as though it were our own. In that way, having a bonded partner is a boon. However, all Aether is shared between the two, so the time to advance is doubled or more.”

  The King furrowed his brow. “Ahh. I had thought as much, but bonds are quite rare, so I’ve never had the pleasure of speaking with someone who enjoys one. Are there any other downsides? Any weaknesses?”

  Siora felt her stomach twist. knew the other downside.

  Grin’s confidence faltered just slightly. “Yes. There is another. If one of us dies, our tiers are subtracted from the survivor. If the survivor’s tiers do not drop below zero, they only get very sick. It’s called Aether Sickness. But, if their any of their stat tiers drop below zero, then they die, too.”

  The words hung heavy in the air. The explanation—the true downside to bonding—was exactly why there were so few. It was just too dangerous. Everyone knew it, and so everyone, with any sense, avoided it.

  The King looked between Siora, Grin, and Languish, and then back to Siora.

  “Kill it.”

  The words were delivered so bluntly, but struck so sharply at the same time. He stared at Siora, waiting.

  Grin cried out.

  The King’s gaze didn’t budge. His blue eyes drilled into Siora’s. She felt utterly compelled to follow his command. Without realizing it, she felt her hand slide up her arm towards one of the Chakrams that rested there, but she stopped herself.

  The King’s eyes narrowed, but they never broke. They stayed locked on, even as he drew the rapier from his side. With a flick and thrust of his right hand, the blade of the sword shot out. Siora followed it, and watched the needle point pierce the forehead of the great black cat, and then withdraw.

  The cat didn’t react. It stood, frozen, until drops of silvery tears fell from its yellow eyes. Grin screamed, but was suddenly silenced. Siora looked at her and understood why.

  Thick yellow-green foam erupted from her mouth and nose as she coughed and sputtered. Her eyes turned blood red as the capillaries burst from the pressure in her head. The mucousy foam began to pour from her ears, and she fell to the ground, convulsing, her cries muted in the sickly froth. After a few horrifying seconds, she was dead. Yyne took two steps back, slowly.

  Siora looked back to the cat, still standing exactly as it had been, but now the metal tears had hardened, and a single drop of the same metal had formed at the hole where the rapier had pierced its head.

  She moved. She didn’t know if she would be fast enough, but she only had one thing on her mind. Escape.

  Up the wall, towards a pillar. Her hands found purchase in the uneven stonework and timeworn carvings until she was at the top of the open dome of the arena. She pushed off the stone and grabbed the edge, the rain-slick moss threatening to break her grip, but she held on. She had to hold on. One leg up, and then the other, and as she turned, she saw the King looking back up at her. His expression hadn’t changed.

  Had she been too fast? Had he let her go? The questions rattled around in her brain like ball bearings, but she ignored them. It didn’t matter. She had to run. She had to escape.

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