Chapter 27: The Contest of Guilds, Day 1

Heath woke before dawn, the hint of the sunrise peeking over the distant rooftops. He grunted, pulling himself upright and rubbing sleep from his face. He frowned, then stood and made his way to the stairs.
The tavern downstairs was empty, the last patron having been escorted out hours before. Mo looked up from behind the bar as he was putting away a handful of clean mugs. He raised an eyebrow as he regarded Heath, bedraggled and in nothing more than his trousers. 
“Can I get a basin? And some hot water,” Heath asked, muffling a yawn. “And maybe something strong to drink in a bit.”
“Sure,” Mo answered, placing a kettle on the stove before retrieving a basin. “Bit o’ hair o’ the dog this early?”
“No,” Heath grumbled. “Not alcohol. Just something to wake me up.”
With the basin and steaming kettle in hand, Heath retreated back up to his room. Closing the door, he set the basin on a scratched table and filled it with water. Digging into the drawer, he pulled out a small, chipped mirror. Holding it gently, he looked into the reflection and saw the stranger there. The strong features were familiar, the line of the jaw, the color of the eyes. But the deep lines that told a tale, the hardness in the gaze, the severeness of their bearing… Those were not the features he had once been accustomed to seeing in the mirror. Heath sighed. He hung the mirror from a nail on the wall, drew a razor-edged dagger from his bag, and began to shave.
As the ruddy glow of the sunrise stretched across Aleria, Heath walked through the streets of Turen, freshly shaven, his boots scrubbed, and his clothes clean. He had his equipment stowed in a pack, and walked with a full belly and the fading taste of lemon and honey tea in his mouth. Mo had said Lia had left it, hoping he would enjoy it despite his aversion to tea. The full guild was assembled outside the hall’s gates as Heath walked up, everyone looking the most clean and presentable he had ever seen them collectively. Some, like Cassian and Svrcina, looked to be in their very best with their armor shining, while others, like Victra and Iden, looked to be dressed as they always were, just recently bathed. And then starkly different was Mars, grinning from ear to ear, his muscles rippling and bald crown shining. Everyone looked to be in various states of anticipation and excitement, though it was clear who was most eager to begin.
Victra smiled as Heath walked up, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “You made it on time,” she teased goodnaturedly. “And you cleaned up! Can’t remember the last time I saw your face that smooth.” She winked, pulling him towards the group.
Heath begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled, silently wondering why he couldn’t have just joined them all at the tourney grounds.
“I got you into two events,” Victra said under her breath as the others greeted Heath. “You and I are doing something called the ‘Forest Hunt,’ which sounded like our wheelhouse.”
“Glad I’ll be out there with you at least,” Heath replied, pushing her arm from his shoulder. “And the other?”
“Monster Hunt. They bring in big nasties, usually from the Deepwood. Groups of four go in and try not to die.”
“From the Deepwood?”
“Yeah, the Wyldestalkers used to be the ones to bring them in. They paid well for the worst we could find, so expect some fun in that one.”
Heath glared at her as Nambu shouted for everyone to grab their things and get on their way. Walking through Turen towards the center of the city, the streets became increasingly busy despite the early hour. Crowds were already congregating and as the group reached the massive fairgrounds, the air was buzzing. 
The streets were lined with banners, and rows upon rows of market stalls, booths, benches, wagons, and carts were arranged in an impromptu market square. Looming over it all, the massive stone colosseum dominated the western half of the grounds, its arches and canopies reaching high above.
Nambu led the group to the base of the arena, past the wide archways where spectators were already gathered, to a side gate with wrought iron bars. Members of the Alerian Guard stood at attention, flanking a pair of men in uniform sitting at a table. 
“Director of the Games,” Mars said to the group as Nambu and Kriv stepped forward. “And his clerk.”
Nambu presented a stack of parchment, bound and weighed with seals, to the clerk. A moment passed as he looked them over, carefully studying the documents before motioning the others forward by name. Eventually, Heath was the only one remaining.
“Heath…” the clerk announced, creasing his brow. “… Longsight? No family name?”
“Folks died when I was young,” Heath said as he stepped up. “No other name left for me. Just use that one when someone needs a second thing to call me.”
“Mm,” the clerk muttered, looking over the parchment. “Not an officially signed member of the guild, eh? Says you’re on contract, why’s that?”
Heath shrugged. “Makes it safer for them.” The clerk frowned. Heath grinned humorlessly. “It’s conditional so long as I don’t act out. Still ongoing since I haven’t killed the wrong person yet.”
Taken aback at the bluntness, the clerk blinked. He looked over the papers one last time, nodded, and waved Heath along. After a final conversation with Kriv and Nambu, the clerk looked the group over and motioned them through the gate. One by one, they filed through into a darkened antechamber where another Alerian Guard and a mage from the arcane academy would conduct a full inspection. When Heath stepped up, he held out his weapons, the guard glancing over them with a practiced eye. The mage traced a pattern in the air, the thrum of magic resonating ever so faintly. The mage’s eyes glanced up, frowning as they looked at the metal armring on Heath’s forearm. They raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Old family heirloom,” Heath said, reaching for the iron band dismissively. “Nothing interesting.”
The mage held his gaze, then shrugged and motioned him through. 
The group filed down deeper beneath the arena to a network of passageways and tunnels that snaked through the foundations of the colosseum. They reached the waiting area for the competitors, a massive and wide chamber. Tables and benches filled the space, an assortment of refreshments and staging areas. Pages and assistants stood at the many doorways that led out of the chamber, with others scurrying on errands and other tasks. In all, it was far more relaxed and comfortable than Heath had expected.
It’s certainly a far cry from the iron cages and fighting pits of Jahskara, Heath thought to himself as the others immediately moved to stake their claim.
Other guilds and clusters of competitors had already arrived, with more filtering in. Heath recognized several markers of other mercenary companies and guilds, as well as a few familiar and disreputable faces. He noted the tension as his companions spotted the white and gold of the Heroes for Hire, diverting to the opposite side of the room. Heath allowed himself only a nod of respect towards Harbeck Ironfist, the study dwarf mirroring it though neither of them crossed the chamber. 
They chose a spot near one of the narrow windows that sat recessed from the colosseum floor. Dust and sand filled the massive oval arena, and their window had a view nearly level with the ground. Already the stadium was filling, and the low hum of conversation and excitement was growing. 
Heath moved next to Victra, dropping his equipment in a shaded alcove with a view of the room and as many entryways as he could. Victra slumped back into a pile of cushions, lounging as Nambu raised his voice and began reviewing the events of the day, listing who was competing and when. 
Heath and Victra shared a look, and catching Kriv’s eye, Heath motioned to the side with a subtle jerk of his head. The dragonborn stepped away and Heath lowered his voice.
“I’ve got time,” Heath whispered. “I’m going to take a walk, make sure I’ve got the measure of this place. Check on the outer grounds as well.”
Raised voices pulled their attention for a second, a group of flexing gladiators taunting other competitors. Kriv sneered, then nodded his assent. “Good, I’ll take a pass through the stands and the passageways. This place is a maze, and if things go wrong, I don’t want us all getting lost down here.”
Heath nodded and Kriv walked away in a swish of his cloak. He looked back to Victra, the barest question on his face. She was still lounging with a drink in her hand as she shook her head in response. Heath shrugged and moved towards the hallway as a shouting match between Mars and another group of gladiators began to rise in volume.

Stepping out from the shade of the tunnels, Heath’s vision slowly adjusted to the brightness of the morning sun. The dry heat was evident even early, it was going to be oppressive later.
He paced through the assembled displays as his gaze traced over the festivities around the fairgrounds. Booths and benches, pavilions and carts were arranged to make an imitation of city streets, paths twisting and winding through performers, artisans, and merchants alike. Bright colors dominated the scene, while ropes and streamers adorned in the white and blue of Aleria fluttered overhead. 
Heath watched as the crowds continued to grow, funneling through the massive entryways of the stadium. Great staircases set beneath archways guided the masses into the stands, from the rough workers of the river docks to the pristinely groomed nobility. Heath sneered as they all sectioned themselves off, with the unspoken castes of Aleria dividing themselves in the seating. As Heath’s cynical gaze wandered across the mass of faces, a single movement, smooth and graceful in the middle of the swarming multitudes, caused his heart to seize in his chest. 
A tall, olive skinned woman with long black hair strode through the crowd, her deep red dress carving through the muted tones around her. She was flanked by two tall, dark men with the handles of swords peeking over their shoulders. Guards in Algeria were far from rare, but the two men stood out like an assassin’s stilettos set next to fine silverware to Heath’s keen eyes. And despite that, it was the woman that drew every part of his attention. She moved with an effortless ease, always fully aware of where she was and how she drew every eye, and as her head turned, Heath caught the confident gleam in her eye. She was glamoured, he knew it, but the posture, the hint of a smile, and those eyes were all familiar to him. Even the prickling sensation that she knew he was there, that she was watching him, screamed of that special familiarity. 
Heath forced himself to breathe as he watched her enter the colosseum, blinking as he mentally noted where she would be in the stadium. He swore under his breath and with shaky steps, headed back to the side entrance, dread forming in his stomach. 

Rejoining the group beneath the arena, Heath could hear from the roar above that the tournament had begun. Groups of the competitors were gathered to eagerly watch the early events, while others continued to prepare in their own ways. Heath ducked his head, making his way to the shaded alcove and settled in. To his side, Victra lounged with a relaxed air about her, but Heath could tell she was watching everyone entering and exiting the chamber. 
The assembled guilds and competitors had all found their places as the tournament was underway, and small camps had been established. The occasional few would mingle, but most kept their distance. A small number had continued their bluster and posturing, to which Heath was amused to see that Mars was still berating them by doing the same. The sounds of the arena above were met with the steady, familiar sounds of whetstones being drawn across blades and the creak of flexing armor.
His interest in the other competitors waning, Heath turned his attention to the arena, casting his eyes into the stands. It was a mass of faces, a collision of cultures and ethnicities. Folks of all cultures and creeds, persuasions and personalities had gathered for the spectacle. Heath’s eyes were moving between the sections of the Alerian citizenry and the nobility when the woman in red wrenched his attention.
Murmur, dressed in the glamour, sat high among the Alerian nobility with her knowing smile and eyes intent upon the scene in the sand below. Heath’s chest tightened as he watched her. She was sitting alongside a handsome noble as her two escorts lingered at their shoulders. Heath narrowed his eyes, focusing on the man. His features were sharp, with a dark beard and long, swept-back hair, noticeably more Alerian in both appearance and style. He sat familiarly close to the woman, occasionally leaning close to speak into her ear. It all spoke to a greater relationship than a casual acquaintance. Heath allowed his eyes to follow their eyes, seeing the towering figures of Cassian and Iden in the arena below. They were in the early rounds of a pitched melee with a dozen other competitors. Heath wrenched his gaze back to the pair. His stomach plummeted further as he saw a hunched figure in a dark cloak weaving through the crowded stands towards the pair.
Unable to scream, unable to flee, or fight, or change anything, Heath’s hands tightened into fists and his jaw clenched helplessly. His breathing sped up, threatening to overwhelm him. His dread grew to bursting as he desperately hoped that Kriv was doing anything else, that the man could be anyone other than Murmur’s brother. 
He watched unmoving from across the width of the arena as Kriv made his way straight towards them, drawing short only as the two guards stood to block his path. Words were exchanged as the man and the woman regarded him, and just as quickly seemed to dismiss him with the man returning his attention to the arena below. Conversation continued between Kriv and the woman, too far for Heath to make out their words or glean any sense of what might be happening.
After what seemed like an eternity, Kriv gave a polite bow before turning and leaving. Heath let out a breath, not realizing he had been holding it. The towering retainers watched him leave, and though it was at a distance, Heath was sure Murmur kept her head tilted enough to watch him leave through the corner of her eye.
Heath suppressed a groan as she returned her full focus to the arena, both her and her male companion continuing to intently watch the dominant forms of Cassian and Iden in the midst of their first event.

Heath sat with his back pressed into the wall of the alcove with his hood up, drawing back into his own shadows while trying to shut the rest of the world out. For a time, there was only the steady sound of his barely controlled breathing clashing with the thrum of his heart in his chest. 
Breathe in, breathe out. 
Thump. Thump. Thump. 
Breathe in, breathe out.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Breathe in, breathe – a kick to his leg shook him from his withdrawal. Heath blinked, unsure of how much time had passed as the sounds of the colosseum crashing around him again. He raised his head as Victra motioned him up.
“Come on,” she said, a rare tinge of excitement to her voice. “The others are walking out for the Guild Battle, we don’t want to miss this.” 
She smiled wanly as he joined her at the window, looking out across the sandy expanse of the arena floor. He saw two groups facing each other, and aside from a dozen stone pillars rising tall, the rest of the arena was clear. Nambu and Svrcina stood proudly, flanked by the towering forms of Mars and Daen swinging their weapons in wide, sweeping circles. Opposite them, four figures clothed in grey and gold watched them stoically. Two held shields and spears, another a longer polearm, while their fourth was clothed in a lighter tunic carrying a quarterstaff. Their mage. 
“Their first matchup was so fast, it was barely worth watching,” Victra said under her breath, both of them keeping their eyes on the arena. The Knight Marshall in the blue and white of Aleria shouted the competing guilds to the roar of the crowd. “I don’t think anyone other than Mars broke a sweat, and he did that just to put on a show. Let’s see how these spearmen match up.”
With the echoing peal of a gong, the contest began in a flurry of movement. Mars and Daen charged forward, curving to the flanks as Nambu moved slower, the air around him shimmering with a gathering of magic. The other four advanced more slowly, lowering shields and spears as they positioned themselves together. 
Smart, Heath thought. If only it were a normal fight, standing between Mars and Daen would put them between a hammer and the anvil. Just as the twin strikes were about to converge on the waiting cluster, Svrcina moved for the first time. 
With her staff lowered at her side, she raised her hand. Shadow wreathed her arm, shifting to light, before the wave of magic pulsed through the air. The readied shield wall flexed in anticipation, but the magic dispersed across all four figures like the ripples across a lake. They shivered, and as expressions of confusion, then pain, flashed across their faces. All four figures froze, the magic taking hold and locking them all in place.
As recognition and a dreaded realization immediately hit him, Heath watched as Svrcina smiled with confidence. He recoiled, horror blossoming in his chest as magic flashed from Nambu, and the unrelenting strikes from Mars and Daen rained down upon their helpless foes. 
Heath knew that magic, it was far too familiar for him to ever forget it. He watched as his companions’ gathered adversaries were rendered helpless in an instant, despite all their preparation and prowess that brought them to that moment. It made his blood run cold.
A sensation rushed through him, the feeling of dominance being the one wielding that terrible power. He remembered the rush of looking down at someone helpless before him. And he remembered how it had taken years for him to be disgusted by it. Oh, how intoxicating it could be, to be the one to feel powerful, to look another in the eye, and know they were completely and totally at his mercy.
A memory dominated his vision, visceral as only those emotionally breaking memories could be. He remembered the stone chamber, quiet and lit by pale white flame. He remembered as fear flooded his senses as his body refused to move, refusing to fight back as it felt like fire coursing through his muscles. He remembered being forced to his knees, alone, and looking around for help while not a single of his brethren moved. He looked up to the bench where the old man looked down at him with pity and disappointment. He looked to the side as Rodrigo, who would be named the Messenger, clenched his fists, but wouldn’t meet his gaze. He saw as Sulvic, who would be named the Whisper, smirked and his sister Syrene, who would be named the Murmur, watched with concern and tears in her eyes. But none of them moved. He felt the pain wrack his body, holding him in place, his scream held only in his mind. He felt his punishment, meted out for the moment he decided to push back, the moment he dared to question.
Heath was drawn back as shouts filled the arena, dominating the cheers as the guild members stood down. Horns were blown as the combat came to an abrupt end, officiants rushing down and the spearmen raising their arms in outrage as Svrcina’s magic released them. They were battered and bloody, and an argument broke out, challenging and combative.
Heath felt sick watching his allies, people he might have actually called friends, who had been so powerful and capable. He saw them prepared, willing even, to wield that magic ruthlessly, and for the entertainment of others. Heath turned and stalked from the room, unable to stomach the rawness of his memories and the look on the faces of his friends. 

Amidst the bustle of the crowd, Heath felt himself pulled along like a leaf in a river. Outside the walls of the colosseum, he stumbled aimlessly just to get away from the fervor. He forced himself to slow his breathing, forced himself to unclench his fists. Emotion threatened to overwhelm him, and he forced it back. His breath began to quicken as he gritted his teeth.
You aren’t this weak, he growled at himself. 
Yes you are, the voice whispered back. That’s why you ran away. That’s what brought you here. That’s why you’ll run away again.
Leave me! Heath pushed his eyes shut, forcing the voice from his mind. Mercifully, it didn’t answer.
His eyes opened as the crowd pushed him forward, shifting and jostling. He turned a corner through the maze of carts and stalls, freezing. There, no more than ten paces in front of him, standing with that small, knowing smile was Murmur.
Like a blow to the chest, Heath was immobilized as recognition flashed across both of their eyes. Behind the red dress, the tanned skin, and regal features, it was her. Her smile returned, confident and immediately in control, as though she had always expected to see him there. It was as though everything else faded away in that moment, and it was the two of them standing in a stone courtyard high in the mountains. Heath had been sixteen, and that smile had been one of the few anchors he had after losing so much. And in an instant, it all crashed back around him, standing there in the middle of that stinking city.
Heath felt like they stood there for an eternity. In those heartbeats, he felt that small piece of himself that might have held onto hope that it wasn’t her, it couldn’t be her, that anything else was happening, die. In that instant, with the look in her eyes, he could see every awful thing he had feared she had become. More than her indifference at the Warden, her standing before him was her own, and there was no mistaking her part in it. She knew that he knew, and it didn’t matter to her. And it broke him.
Heath stumbled back, words dying in his mouth as he turned back to the crowd. Turned to run away. As he did, he knew she watched him.
And the voice laughed.

When Heath found himself back in the tunnels beneath the colosseum, it was approaching midday. The tournament had gained momentum, and the lower regions now saw a steady ebb and flow of competitors moving to and from their various preparation chambers. The steely gazes of anticipatory fighters passed by those that marked victors or their fallen by looks of triumph or all the shades of despair. 
None of it mattered to Heath. He looked across the room, frantically searching for Victra. She was nowhere to be found. When he needed any small thread of a tether, he was alone. The rapid beating of his heart threatening to overwhelm him, he found his shaded alcove and set his back to the stone. His breath ragged, he pulled on his cloak despite the summer heat, drawing the hood low over his face. 
In time, his breathing gradually began to slow as the tightness in his chest lessened. The pounding in his ears faded as the buzz of the stadium above returned. Raising his head, Heath forced himself to stand. He grabbed a nearby page, snatching a pitcher from his startled hands. After quickly checking its contents, he raised it to his lips and gulped greedily. Cold water flowed around his mouth, Heath too panicked to trust himself with wine. Gasping deeply, he splashed the last of the water on his face, trying to master himself. 
He waved the page away, stumbling back towards the alcove. As he felt himself steady, a rough hand grabbed him, shaking him. He spun, hands halfway to his blades when he saw Kriv looking at him with a worried expression etched across his scaled features. 
“Where have you been?” The dragonborn hissed, glancing around suspiciously. “I tried to find you, you weren’t back all morning! Ah, no matter… I went to the marketplace myself to look for Westro. Thought we could use his eyes out there, but I couldn’t find him.”
Heath blinked. It wasn’t making sense, why was Kriv so worked up about it? The thought struck him, their other tasks. The other attacks. Watching, waiting. Everyone spread across the arena. Heath was spinning, it was too much to hold onto.
Kriv continued, almost rambling to himself. “We haven’t heard from him in weeks, but another vendor said he knew Westro and told me his plans for a cart at the Contest. I got to his spot, but it was empty. No sign. Nothing.” Kriv growled, almost a low hiss. “With everything else going on, everything we’re watching in here, I can’t handle this too. Keep an eye out, ask around while you’re out, and let me know if you find him. And don’t disappear for so long!”
Heath nodded wordlessly, shaken from the vortex that seemed to surround him. A call from across the room pulled his attention to Victra, waving vigorously at him. It was time for their event. Swallowing, Heath silently reached for his gear, any thought of asking Kriv about confronting Murmur evaporating. 

Walking through the narrow tunnel, the brightness of the arena seemed to repel Heath. Matching pace with Victra, he forced one foot in front of the other until the sunlight washed over them both. Victra had quietly explained the rules of the event as they walked. Pairs of archers would start on opposite sides of the arena, each carrying enchanted arrows. Blunted ends wouldn’t even wound, but instead would mark those they struck. Being struck by three arrows was an elimination, and whichever pair was eliminated first lost. Winning teams progressed until only one remained. 
Standing in the sand with the massive, tiered stands towering up around them, Heath blotted it all out. The roar of the crowds slowly muted, the amplified sounds of the announcer became a low droning. Heath flexed his bow, testing the weight of an arrow.
The air above them shimmered, then shaded as an opaque barrier stretched across the arena. The sound of the colosseum blocked out as they were separated from the crowds. The arena itself shimmered as magic conjured trees and shrubs and undergrowth, creating a forest with a thick canopy high above their heads. The arena floor was no longer sand, but a dense underbrush over dirt. It was wild and untamed, but to Heath’s eyes it was completely unnatural. It was too random. Even the most accomplished and powerful mages in Aleria couldn’t make something as beautiful and authentic as nature. The artificial mockery, as beautiful as it was, set Heath even more on edge. 
Beside him, Victra crouched low with a predator’s grin on her face. A single peal of a bell sounds through the wood, and Heath realized he hadn’t even spared a glance at their opponents. Victra became a blur of shadow next to him, and he rushed to follow. 
They darted through the tightly packed trees, almost uniform in size. Unspoken, they split and arced away from one another before settling deep into the brush. Heath crouched low, and from the corner of his eye he saw a ragged edge of shadow nestled in the branches of a tree. Victra’s skills had continued to grow. Heath knew his had not.
They remained there, unmoving as the forest around them swelled, silently breathing. Heath’s eyes caught the barest movement and he pounced. A pale man with a dark shroud stalked through the trees, eyes rhythmically scanning back and forth. A northerner. Heath waited one heartbeat, then two. No sign of the northman’s partner. But he trusted Victra would have him in her sights.
Heath matched the sway of the trees, smoothly drawing an arrow. It was the most familiar thing in the world for him, and like a sigh, the arrow sprung from his bowstring. It sang through the air, catching the archer in the chest. He stepped back, looking back and forth as a red light flashed above his head. Heath already had a second arrow drawn as Victra’s arrow struck, far from the man’s right. Before he had a moment to move for cover, Heath’s second shot hammered his shoulder. Two more red flashes, and the man cursed as he withdrew into the trees. 
Heath dashed forward, crashing through the brush without caution.
The forest shifted behind where the northman had been, and Heath dove behind a tree as an arrow cut the air where he had been a second before. The thrum of Victra’s bowstring sounded, as two shots carved into the tangle of foliage. A cry of surprise followed a single flash of red. Heath rolled, coming to one knee and loosed arrows of his own. Within only a few heartbeats, the rapid shots from Heath and Victra were rewarded with the final two flashes of red.
A drum sounded and the forest around them shimmered, becoming partially transparent as Heath and Victra were guided towards a tunnel. Victra was beaming when she danced next to him, exuberant but not entertaining the roar of the crowds above them.
“That was almost too fast,” she joked, flexing her arms. “Next time we should drag it out, make them chase us to make it fair. We could really put on a show for these crowds.” She clapped him on the shoulder, racing ahead to grab refreshments while the next contestants were announced. 
Heath stayed quiet. From the first bell, he had felt Murmur’s amused attention on him from the crowd. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew it. His focus was shattered, frayed and held by the barest threads of desperate strength. He hated himself. Hated that he had run. Hated that he was there. And above all, hated himself for going out there to perform while he knew Murmur wasn’t only out there, but that she was watching him. And then the feeling that blossomed in his chest wasn’t anger. It was a deep, wretched shame. 
He slumped back into a seat, trying to block everything out. Too quickly, Victra shook him. He grimaced, then smothered it and pulled himself up. Victra’s earlier excitement had been replaced by a sarcastic annoyance. 
“We’re up against Adrie and Cael,” she said as she helped him to his feet. “They sailed through their round and the tourney placed them against us. Crowns to bits, this bracket is rigged. We cleared without a single point lost, they only took one. All the other teams that advanced took at least three. We should each have a shot at making the finals.”
Heath remained silent, feigning indifference as he continued to hold his emotions in check. They walked through the same stone tunnel, the light of the arena ahead. Heath controlled his breathing, holding his rising shame somewhere deep, somewhere it wouldn’t threaten to overwhelm him. In the arena, he stood next to Victra as the disembodied voice announced the competitors. He kept his eyes down as the forest sprung to life and the dome enclosed them. He spared a single glance at Victra. Her joy was not as evident, though the gleam in her eye never left.
The bell sounded.
Victra leapt forward, her path cutting off Heath’s as she guided them both to the right. They ran fast, unspoken in their abandonment of stealth before pulling to a stop. A quick look between them, an unspoken understanding, and Victra melted into the shadows. As she melded into the brush, Heath scrambled into the boughs of a tree. Moving away from the squat trunk, he clung to where the thick branches intersected with its neighbor. They wove together to make a lattice which held the heavy canopy. Heath breathed, flexing his hand, his eyes searching. 
The forest, which had seemed to breathe earlier, now held its breath. Heath could imagine the crowd outside holding theirs. He imagined Murmur watching, her mouth turned up in a smirk. He gritted his teeth, banishing the thought. 
Moments passed, the distant sounds of movement the only indication of where their allies- no, their targets would be. The sounds quieted, and the forest was still. Heath measured his breathing, trusting his straining senses. He knew he was the better tracker. He knew Victra’s instincts were the sharpest he had ever seen. No one in the guild could match his talent with a bow. Cael was new, but talented. And saying Adrie was gifted was an understatement. Heath trusted himself. Get through the hunt. Stop thinking, and be ready to end it.
The barest shift from behind him pulled Heath’s attention. His head spun, careful to avoid shifting the foliage around him. His ten enchanted arrows were hanging in the air, then falling to the forest floor below. Barely visible, the shifting shape of a magical hand hung suspended in the air, open from where it had dropped his arrows. A strangled cry burst from his lips.
His limbs numb, he dropped from his perch, falling to the ground after the arrows. He barely acknowledged Adrie stepping out from the brush, the arcane hand returning to her side as she sent an arrow slamming into Heath’s chest.
Seething as another arrow sprang from the darkness behind him, slamming into his shoulder, Heath stumbled. When he looked up, Adrie had a smug look of success on her face. Heath saw red. He growled, hands grasping at the arrows scattered on the ground. He flung one through the air at Adrie as his entire body felt like it was on fire.
“I hope this is enough for you!” He snarled, fury laced through every word.
He spun, stalking his way through the trees as the final arrow slammed into his back. He couldn’t even feel it. It was a cold, burning rage that seethed through him in a way he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.
The thrum of bowstrings behind him grew distant as Victra’s shouts rose in protest. He should have felt something at his outburst, should have done better for his partner. He was already in the tunnel when the distant voice announced the victors. 
Heath was unhinged, pacing through the passages as a torrent of dark emotions drove him like a storm. His hands shaking, he felt a black hatred rear its ugly head inside him. He passed groups of gathered gladiators preparing for their events, but at a single look, they all drew back from him. Barely having the thought to grab his things, Heath stalked back through the tunnels, through the great archway, and away from the arena. 

Heath stood behind the Black Crow as the colors of the sunset painted Aleria red like blood. The bustle of the tavern was a dull sound behind the closed doors. The narrow alley was blocked off at both ends, the crumbling remnants of many generations of construction giving him a moment of protected, tortured solitude. 
On a broken crate beside him rested the remnants of what had been a full bottle of bitter firewine. Heath had hoped it would have been strong enough to drown out the memories. Instead, it merely gave them a painful edge, serving only to distract him enough to wallow in his fury. The edges of his vision were blurry, and he had been there for hours. 
He drew his arm back, sending another arrow through the air. It slammed into the straw target at the far side of the alley, adding to the forest of arrows peppering the still form. A twinge of pain came from his fingers, blistered and red. His breath ragged, Heath drew again. 
The sound of a door opening behind him didn’t even cause him to turn. He released, sending the arrow on its deadly course. Drawing another arrow, he looked back. Mo knew better, knew to give him space when his dark moods took him. And this was worse than any the old tavern keeper had seen.
The hunched form of Kriv stood in the doorway, just looking at him. He stepped forward, shutting the door, his eyes studying Heath. He knew how he must look. Heath looked away, biting back the cruel words that sprung to his lips. He drew back the air, releasing it into the evening air.
He didn’t need Kriv’s pity, and he didn’t deserve an apology. It didn’t matter what he wanted from all of them and their performing. Not when she was out there. Not when she saw what he had become. Not when…
A shimmer in the air. A shift, marking where a spectral hand reached through the air towards the target and his arrows. 
Heath snarled, snatching an arrow and sending it buzzing through the air. It scattered the hand, splintering on the stone wall behind it. He spun, eyes flashing as he met Kriv’s eyes, his chest heaving. 
Is he mocking me? After everything?
Kriv looked at him with shocked surprise, then stepped back as realization flashed across his face. 
Heath waved his hand, snatching his half-filled quiver and shouldering past the black scaled dragonborn. “It’s not the night,” his voice was low, the edges of his words barely slurred. Without meeting his gaze, he stalked towards the tavern. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there in the morning.” He didn’t hide the contempt from his voice. He no longer had the will, and he didn’t care. 
Without waiting for a response, Heath walked into the tavern, treading the familiar path up to his room. Locking the door, he drank deeply from the bottle, draining the last of the fire wine. He collapsed back onto the bed, his throat burning as exhaustion overwhelmed him. As he stared up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, the last thing in Heath’s mind was a memory.
It was spring. High in the mountains, the only marker of the change of the seasons was the spots of green which heralded the mountain blooms. Beneath the snow capped peaks, a protected courtyard of stone sat in the sun. That courtyard which had been a piece of home for many years. The sun was shining, and the smell of crushed pine needles danced on the wind.
Heath stood in the courtyard, but it was a time when he had still been named Asher. He faced another teenager, a girl. Syrene. He smiled. It had been a time when he had still felt joy. Floating through the air was a magical, spectral hand holding three arrows it had pulled from a target. They had been there practicing all morning. Heath had- no. Asher had smiled as he took the proffered arrows while Syrene twisted her hand, directing the magical one towards him. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, the tip of her tongue protruding from her mouth.
“It works!” Asher had exclaimed as he held the arrows up. “You never told me you’re able to make it do that! You did it!”
Syrene’s smile widened, her joy radiating around her. 
In Aleria, grief and shame mixing, Heath closed his eyes. If he had any tears left to cry, he would have wept as he was pulled into slumber.