Chapter 28: The Contest of Guilds, Day 2

Heath barely slept, and what sleep he did muster was restless and troubled. He rose early, exhausted and emotionally drained. He sat on the edge of his bed, the crush of emotions from the previous day nearly paralyzing him. His anger had retreated, coiling deep until it was little more than a simmering coal. There was a heat lingering deep in his chest, no longer a burning fury or hatred. Just a cold flame, waiting to be kindled. 
Heath dressed without thinking, gathering his things with practiced precision, but drained of all emotion. He descended to the tavern below, leveling his gaze across the bar as Mo set a platter of food in front of him.
“Rough night,” Mo commented without inflection. The tavern keeper shook his head as he regarded Heath. “Don’t know how long ye can keep on like this.”
“I’ll keep on as long as I need to,” Heath snapped, immediately wincing at his own tone. He lowered his head and sighed. “Has Jalael been by?”
“Why?” Mo’s voice grew low, suddenly bordering on dangerous.
“I need a kick.”
Mo placed his hands on the bar and leaned forward, eyes studying Heath carefully. “Y’go ahead and repeat that, lad?”
Heath met his gaze. “I know what I’m doing. Have you got it?”
Mo’s jaw worked as the old sailor glared at Heath. Disapproval palpable through the air, he broke eye contact, reaching beneath the bar counter. “I thought the days of you needing this had passed.”
Heath bit back a response, not sure if it was shame or frustration he felt stronger. Mo placed a mug of steaming coffee on the counter. He gave a final look at Heath, lifted a small metal vial, and emptied a stream of off-white powder into the mug. 
“Just enough to get through this,” Heath muttered, knowing how pathetic the excuse was. He swirled the mug, the powder dissolving quickly. In one motion, he tipped it up and downed the drink. Water would have been better, but the coffee was supposed to mask the taste. It never did.
The sharp, almost sweet citrus bite of the kick almost caused Heath to gag. His skin crawled as goose pimples covered his arms, and a buzz spread from the back of his head. Dots danced at the edges of his vision as he swallowed, the light filtering in through the tavern door suddenly blinding, then settling. Heath could all of a sudden acutely feel his body, where he was fatigued, in tune with the slowing beat of his heart. 
His fatigue faded, and a restlessness gathered at his fingertips. Heath let out a slow, shaky breath. This was necessary, he needed to be more than functional. He sat, letting the prickling spread across his skin and momentarily allowing himself to enjoy the sensation. Without a word, he walked through the door with renewed vigor in his step and a determination carrying him.  
Heath met the others on the way to the colosseum, waiting in the shaded cover of an alley. He saw them moving together through the crowds, the excitement of the previous day visibly muted. He waited until they drew closer, then wordlessly fell into step beside Victra. She shot him a look, slowing her stride as the others were all preoccupied with their own conversations.
“Where have you been?” Victra whispered. “Nambu and Kriv are furious. You just vanished without a word. There was an attempt on the High Arbiter’s life yesterday while you were gone, if you didn’t know. Don’t worry, we handled it.” Heath glared at her. She ignored him. “Assassins made their attack while he was being escorted to his overlook in the arena. No attempt at subtlety. Several of the Lawmaster’s guards lost their lives, but fortunately enough of us were there to handle it and Sangrinh survived.”
Heath kept walking, eyes forward as he took her admonishment. 
“And those anarchists? Remember the ones the door kickers tried to round up?” Victra muttered, her tone still dangerous. “They got into the catacombs. Tried to release the monsters gathered for the Games. Almost got away with it too. Another group of us made sure that it was shut down, but apparently it was messy.”
Heath sneered bitterly. “Maybe if this guild stopped stepping in every time something in this city went wrong, everyone else might be forced to show the barest amount of competence.” He met Victra’s glare, the scorn in his voice barely contained. “Sooner or later they won’t be able to swoop in, and they’ll get the blame anyway. Sometimes they need to learn it’s better to just do the job you were paid for, nothing more.”
He pushed forward, not apologizing for his absence, and unable or unwilling to meet Victra’s eyes. Pushing all thoughts from his head, Heath kept his eyes trained on the looming maw of the colosseum before them. 
Entering the subterranean passageways beneath the arena, the guild found themselves in the gladiatorial staging room once more. With the final day ahead of them, everyone fell to their preparations with more focus and less jovial optimism than the day before. The guild heads reminded everyone of their events and assignments, but beyond a cold stare from Kriv, Heath received no additional reproach. 
Throughout the morning, Heath stalked multiple paths through the colosseum and the outer fairgrounds. He made certain he routed the inner rooms and passageways, and that Kriv made note of his presence. He walked the halls, wound through the stalls and carts of the market, waited and watched the festivities, but never once ventured into the stadium stands. He spoke to no one, offering only clipped responses whenever he was directly addressed. Even Victra quickly gave up trying to draw him into conversation, resorting to watching him with a caring eye. 
By late morning, Heath’s agitation had grown. His constant movement had quickly turned from alert scouting to restless pacing. As the summer heat washed over the city, Heath retreated to the shade of the colosseum, watching the crowds from an elevated arch.
He stepped towards the edge of his perch, looking down over the gathered crowds. His fingered twitched rhythmically, tapping the side of his leg. His eyes swept across the faces of people from all across the kingdom and beyond. He froze, his fingers held motionless. 
He exhaled slowly, sinking back into the shade of the archway, one hand unconsciously straying to the blade at his side. His eyes were locked on the crowd gathered by the contestants’ entrance to the colosseum, standing behind an iron chain. 
She stood there, with the same dark hair and olive skin as the day before. Her dress was grey and less daring than the red one which had drawn every eye. She stood almost expectantly, her hands clasped in front of her. She looked from side to side, surveying the stream of faces that streamed around her. Somehow she looked younger. Where she had looked regal and daring the day before, there was something in the tilt of her head that almost looked anxious. It was nearly enough to feel familiar.
Heath saw one guard standing at her shoulder, but the finely dressed man who had been with her in the stadium was nowhere to be seen. Heath instinctively wanted to search for the man, but his eyes were locked on Murmur. 
She watched there for a time, while Heath waited cowled in the shadow of the archway. Eventually, her guard leaned forward and spoke in her ear. She nodded and turned to follow him, walking away after a last, fleeting glance behind her. 
As she disappeared into the crowd, Heath exhaled and dropped down to the entrance. The sound of drums from the arena heralded the upcoming events. He ducked into the darkened hallway, the lingering feeling in his chest flickering and stubbornly refusing to die. 

Heath stood at Victra’s shoulder, Mars and Cael mirroring them to their left in the dim tunnel. Victra was quietly relaying bits and pieces from the others about what they could expect from the Monster Hunt. Nambu had explained the rules, and some of the others had caught glimpses of the monsters during the previous day. Heath wasn’t listening.
It wouldn’t matter. He knew the moment first blood was spilled, any sort of plan would vanish. While the other swayed with anticipation, he was rooted in place. He flexed his hand, squeezing the haft of his longbow. His other hand twitched, fingers grasping for an invisible bowstring. 
The gate in front of them opened with a grinding of metal. They all shared a look and strode into the arena, thunderous applause greeting them. Heath blocked it all out, narrowing his eyes against the glare as he looked around. Stone pillars set in the sand were scattered around the otherwise bare arena, several cracked and fallen.
Not much cover to make use of, Heath thought ruefully. 
Lying in the sand, a hundred yards away from them, was a great spiked cudgel nearly as long as Heath was tall. 
This just gets better.
On the far side of the arena a massive gate shifted and rose upward. Stumbling into the light was the hulking shape of a giant, its arms wrapped in chains and a hood over its head. Additional chains pulled it forward, its grunting drowned out by the crowds’ jeers. From the side, Heath could hear Mars’s excitement. Somewhere a series of pins were pulled, and the chains released. The restraints dropped from the giant’s arms and the hood was pulled back.
The giant roared, and its mutated, disfigured form became evident. Its back was twisted, but broad, with thick arms as it pulled on a great length of chain. Its skin was grey and leathery, hairless, and one of its eyes was engorged, massive and bloodshot, nearly three times the size of the other. As its gaze swept around, it quickly honed in on the group of small figures before it. It bellowed, lumbering forward. It grabbed for the spiked cudgel, and with a surprising burst of speed, it charged them.
“Scatter!” Victra shouted, the group bursting into movement. “It’s mutated, watch for that eye!”
Mars lowered his head and charged headlong at the giant. At the last moment, he pulled to the creature’s side with the club, trying to stay out of the reach of the swing of the chain. Victra loosed two shots from her longbow, then dashed forward. Drawing her swords, she swung opposite Mars.
Heath saw Cael brace forward against a pillar, making use of the limited cover and steadying his artificer’s contraption for his opening shot. In a split second decision, Heath split even further, sprinting in a wide arc in the opposite direction. Giants had the reach and strength to bludgeon any one of them with a lucky blow, and despite fighting better together, Heath knew it was not a risk they could take.
Like a thunderclap, the challengers met the giant. Mars struck a heavy blow with his maul, while the furious strikes from Victra’s blades painted the sand red. The deafening retorts from Cael’s firearm resulted in a spray of blood from the giant’s chest. Heath dropped to a knee and sent his first arrow into the giant’s shoulder, trying to judge the thickness of its hide. The monster barely reacted. Heath grimaced. 
The giant swung its head, fixing its massive, mutated eye on Mars. Heath’s blood ran cold as the big man froze in place, stalling in the middle of his strike. A backswing of the barbed club drove Mars back, blood dripping from a streak of lacerations. A wide sweep of the chain caught Victra at the height of her leap, dropping her to the sand. The giant turned, looming over her still body.
Heath swore. He reached back for an arrow, and taking careful aim, sent a broadhead into the back of the giant’s shoulder. The arrow found its mark, and the arm holding the chain went slack for a moment. Heath sent another arrow in the same spot, willing the razor tipped blades to wedge deeper into the shoulder. In the sand, Mars and Victra stirred, reaching for their weapons.
The others rallied to their feet in those precious moments. Heath spotted Cael reloading out of the corner of his eye, while Victra and Mars cautiously circled the giant as it shook its arm in frustration. 
Mars charged forward with a roar, and Heath sent an arrow into the giant’s thick neck. It raised its head to roar in pain, and Mars used the opening to smash its knee with his maul. Victra darted in from the side, and Heath put another arrow next to the first. 
The giant twisted its head, trying to keep track of the blur of shadow that was Victra, the broadheads lodged in its neck sawing through muscle. Gouts of blood covered the sand. 
Mars continued to relentlessly hammer the giant’s side, and even at a distance Heath heard bones crack. Cael fired another series of shots, and the giant’s left arm dropped, fully slack as the chain fell from useless fingers. Victra’s twin blades were dripping crimson, a storm of fury moving too fast to track.
As the giant dropped to the sand, ribs shattered, one leg ruined, an arm limp, and blood pouring from a dozen wounds that would have been lethal to any other creature, it made a desperate last swing with its club. The deadly arc drove Victra back, but the giant took the split second to level its twisted eye on Mars. The gladiator froze, his maul dropping from paralyzed fingers, as the giant grinned its broken-toothed smile. Overhead, the spiked cudgel began its wicked backswing.
Heath exhaled, and the arrow he had been holding sung as it carved through the air. It punched through the bulbous, strained eye, blood and viscera rushing from the ruined orb. The giant stared stupidly ahead, the club dropping harmlessly to the sand next to Mars. It groaned, confused, then toppled to the ground, unmoving. 
The roar from the stadium was deafening. Mars recovered from his stupor as he joined Victra in raising their hands in victory. Even Cael cracked a smile from beneath the wide brim of his hat. 
Heath lowered his bow, staring at the dead form in the sand, blood slowly spreading. The others rushed to him, clapping him on the shoulder. He gave a small nod, unable to muster anything more, and followed them back into the tunnel as the cheers and shouts of the stadium followed them. 
As the others recovered in the staging room, Heath waved away a healer who had come by to check on him. She was a young woman, her copper hair tied into a tight tail that watched him with a look of tender concern, even when he said he wasn’t injured. 
Instead he grabbed a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water from a page. One thing the kick always did was give him an appetite. Heath watched other healers administer restorative spells to Victra and Mars, their wounds beginning to close and heal. Next to them, Cael sat quietly cleaning his device and casting the occasional look around the room. Wolfing down the bread, Heath grabbed a bundle of arrows from his pack, replenishing those he had left in the mutant giant. 
Victra walked over to him, her smile undamped by the purpling bruise on her collarbone. “Good work out there. That shot was inspired, and some of the others weren’t too bad either.” She winked at him.
“More than that!” Mars roared, lowering a mug of ale. “That was the best shot I’ve ever seen! And it saved my thick skull!” Others echoed Mars’s praises and Heath could only offer a small nod in return. He sat back against the wall, his fingers tapping out a restless rhythm against his leg.
Before long, drums sounded as another guild stumbled back through the tunnel, battered and bloodied. Two of their four had to be carried. Heath stoically fell in step with Victra, lining up for their next challenge. 
Stepping into the arena, Heath caught that the stage had shifted. The sand and sparse structures remained, though more of the pillars had been broken. To their left, nearly half of the arena was gently sloped and water filled the recessed portion. They all took their spots and  stood ready, waiting to see their challenge. Heath’s hand twitched, eager to move. 
The ground ahead of them split, a wide opening appearing as a platform from beneath the arena cranked upward. As it came into view, a great reptilian form, larger than a carriage, writhed on the platform surrounded by tall iron bars. A long, serpentine head lashed back and forth roaring. Then another scaled head rose, gnashing its teeth. Then another, and another until five heads arched high in the air.
“Hydra,” Heath muttered grimly.
The platform came to a grinding halt, the hydra letting out a great echoing call. Then the bars dropped. The hydra burst forward in a rush, closing the distance between it and the group, far faster than its bulk would have suggested. Faster than Heath would have liked. 
Victra already had her blades out, and she rushed forward to meet the monster with Mars. Cael scrambled, clambering up one of the remaining pillars.
Clever, Heath thought as he sprinted to the right.
Mars reached the hydra first, swinging with his maul as one head snapped towards him. Victra was quickly forced away, another head battering into her as a claw scored deep gloves into her armor. Moments later, Cael reached the top of his pillar, steadying his shots as one head kept its attention locked on him.
No use trying to divide its focus, Heath swore to himself as he fired arrows into its scaled, flexible hide. They sank deep, but the long, flexible limbs showed no signs of slowing.
Mars and Victra rushed in again, both taking blows as they reached the body of the hydra. Mars’s maul cracked into the base of one of the sinewy necks seconds before Victra’s blades carved down together. Blood arced, spraying over the elven warrior, painting her grim smile in a horrific hue. They both danced back as the hydra roiled in pain, the severed head lying in the dust. Both fighters held wounds, but their expressions were confident.
Those smiles faded as the hydra’s body flexed amidst its agonizing throes, then turned to despair when from the bleeding wound, twin scaled heads pushed through. With a spray of blood, two new heads erupted where the severed stump was, the hydra’s cries echoing of pain and rage. 
The hydra roared, its heads furiously snapping with razor sharp teeth, its claws raking through the air. As it spun, its heavy tail swung like a club into a pillar, forcing Cael to steady himself. The party disengaged, circling the growling beast at a distance, blood and frustration intermixing.
“We can’t keep fighting it like this!” Mars called.
“We need fire!” Victra shouted. “But it seems to be in short supply between us!”
“Then we get creative,” Cael said, dropping down from his perch. Mars grunted his assent.
Heath didn’t reply. A cold sensation drifted over him, and in an instant he knew what he needed to do. Seeing the others taking a moment to rally, he ran towards the hydra. The others shouted, but the hydra’s attention shifted to him, lowering its heads at his charge. Heath cut sharply to the side, two of the heads continuing to track him. He moved on instinct, reacting as easily as breathing.
Heath slid to his knees, rapidly sending two shots through the air. The arrows carved past the heads watching him, faster than they could react, each sinking into the eye of a head not watching him. 
The hydra roared in pain, all the heads spinning to fixate on him, only to have two more arrows strike at their eyes. Heath was already moving, the hydra screeching and stomping as it tried to follow him. Heath slammed into a pillar, his momentum halted, and sent an arrow back into the open mouth snapping towards him. The hydra’s head twisted back, its cry one of frustration more than pain.
Heath ran as he continued his arc, sweeping widely as the monster crashed after him, its blood frenzy roiling. Two more arrows found their targets, another eye bloodied and one wedged in a jaw. Heath slid under a furious claw, sand spraying in his wake.
He stole a brief glance at the body of the creature, seeing Mars and Victra hacking at the hydra’s necks, blades wielded alongside blazing torches. Cael stood behind them, a single shot from his firearm blowing one of the hydra’s heads into shreds of meat. However the hydra’s frenzy was focused entirely.
Heath rolled to his feet, churning sand underfoot as teeth snapped behind him. He dashed in a line, diving at the last moment as another head bit down on air, crashing into a pillar. As shards of stone tumbled around him, Heath was already running again, not sparing a look.
The thick, muscular tail slammed into the ground a hairsbreadth behind him. Heath scrambled to his feet as claws flashed through the air above him. Frantically reaching to his side and gasping for air, Heath plunged his knife into one as it lifted him into the air, driving it deep between the knuckles. The hydra erupted in fury, slamming downward, but Heath was moving again.
Breath heaving, he sprinted forward, sliding in the sand, his arrow flying before he even stopped. It took the hydra in the soft flesh beneath one of its remaining jaws, the second arrow following with a spurt of blood. Heath saw Mars leap onto the hydra’s back again, cleaving down with blade and flame. Scorched and burned stumps oozed blood, but no additional heads emerged.
Heath ducked as the tail swung on a wide, desperate arc and with a final burst of energy, ran with everything he had. Sweat sheeting off into his eyes, he ran heedless of the obstacles. He dove, rolling roughly before impacting against the side of a shattered pillar. Scrambling, he cuffed sweat from his eyes, drew an arrow, sighted down the shaft…
Before he realized he was looking at his companions standing triumphant over the smoking, unmoving corpse of the hydra. Unbelieving, Heath slowly relaxed his draw, lowering his bow as the thrum in his head receded and the sound of the arena returned. He looked down at his hand, and saw that it was slick with blood. His vision suddenly blurred. Heath blinked, wiping his face, and his hand came back bloodier.
A shadow fell over him, and Heath looked up as Victra ran over, extended a hand and helped him to his feet. She spoke to him, something about not seeing anything like that in a long time, but Heath couldn’t focus on her words. She took his arm and helped him back towards the others. He suddenly felt lightheaded.
As he looked back, Heath saw the corpse of the hydra. It was peppered with arrows. He looked down, his quiver was empty and the last bloody arrow was held limp in his grip. Heath breathed out, allowing himself to be led away and recognized the small seed burning in his chest that should have been pride. But it wasn’t. It was simply more fuel tossed on the ember of cold anger, gently feeding it.
Back in the chamber beneath the stadium, Heath sat dutifully while the pretty young healer extended her hands, tracing them through the air over a ragged wound in his side. He hadn’t felt it during the fight, but the numbness of the kick could only dull the pain for so long. As his adrenaline faded, pain flooded his body.
The woman smiled as the wound slowly closed and knit itself together. It itched, but Heath grunted in thanks. She meticulously went over the rest of his wound, a deep laceration above his eye, a series of punctures in his thigh, and a dozen bruises and scrapes. Eventually she sighed, wiping the last of the blood from Heath’s side with a smile of contentment.
Heath muttered his thanks, shrugging on his tunic and picking up his equipment. She had taken them gently from him, removing the bloodied armor and setting his bow on the ground. It was all stained with blood and coated in sand. He grimaced as he limped back to the group. 
As he approached, Daen strode over to him, the towering man blocking his path. Heath looked up, Daen’s stony features set behind a black beard looking down at him. Heath had rarely interacted with the often quiet, reserved man. He had a reputation for being furious in combat, and standing before him, Heath could sense the power contained within his massive frame. 
Daen spoke, his voice deep and quiet, but carrying an air of command. “That was something worth seeing out there. Not many like you who I’d expect to be the one to take the fury of a beast like that.” 
Heath held his gaze, not sure how to respond.
“It was a gamble and it worked,” Daen continued, his golden eyes boring into Heath. “That might be the only reason they all made it out.” 
He raised his left hand, the palm nearly the size of Heath’s head. Heath noticed it was the hand Daen always kept covered by a glove and a gauntlet. Daen arrayed his fingers, tracing a pattern through the air and speaking softly. A golden shimmer passed through the air, then washed over Heath. Heath looked down as the sand and dried blood shook free from his gear, scattering to the ground.
Looking up, Daen gave him a nod before turning to rejoin the others. Heath stood, absorbing the seemingly small gesture, but suspecting it meant much more coming from the man. 

After the sun hit midday, Heath joined Victra for their final round of the Forest Hunt. They didn’t speak about what had happened the day before, both quietly waiting for the event to begin. Their loss had dropped them down, but they had an opportunity to fight for third place. It was a small consolation, but Victra had insisted they still took it seriously.
As the bell sounded, Heath and Victra drove relentlessly forward, effortlessly moving into the trees. They didn’t even need to share a look, they knew what they needed to do, and both seemed to have something to prove. They split almost immediately, sprinting in different directions and the distance between began to stretch. 
Heath stalked through forest, staying low while his eyes remained locked on his prey. He was a towering half-elf with a longbow, clothed in green with a thickly braided beard and long brown hair framing his slightly pointed ears. Heath’s first shot sailed behind him, a distraction, causing the elf to spin. His second arrow struck him directly between the shoulder blades. A dull red flash announced the hit.
Heath melted back into the brush, tracing a wide arc as the man tried to hide, desperately searching the forest. Heath shot again, nearly directly in front of the archer, the arrow striking his chest. Once again, Heath was nearly invisible to his sight as another red flare marked the air.
He sent two more arrows, one carving past the half-elf’s face, the second just underneath his raised bow arm. The archer frantically broke from cover, diving between trees in a final attempt to hide. 
Heath waited, eyes narrowed as he watched his prey. Minutes passed and he slowly moved through the trees, tracking almost a full circle around where the archer retreated. Moving through the brush, he stopped no more than ten paces from the half-elf where he crouched between two curving tree trunks. Heath silently drew an arrow, breathlessly pulling the bowstring to his cheek.
At the last moment, he exhaled, flexed his hand, and let the fully drawn longbow creak ever so faintly. The archer stiffened and spun in the span of a heartbeat, just as Heath released. The arrow struck right under the man’s arm, where a real arrow would pierce between the ribs all the way through to his heart. A third red flash appeared over the archer’s head, and the deep bass of the drum announced the end of the contest.

Heath sat in his alcove, unable to enjoy the respite from the dry heat of the summer outside. The final round of the Gladiatorial Melee was about to get underway. The vicious few who had progressed from the previous day’s series were gathered in the arena. 
Iden stood like an unbreakable tower in his suit of armor, axes at his sides. Opposite him was Mars, gleaming with sweat and oil. Other warriors rounded out the circle of combatants, bristling with blades and spears, polearms and axes. 
Heath watched the melee commence, a flurry of blood and steel. Battlecries raised quickly turned to screams of pain. His cold anger unsated, Heath settled back into his alcove, the clash of war presented on a stage slowly feeding that flame as the shadows beckoned him.

The Contest of Guild concluded with the main event, the Guild Battle. Through drive, luck, and some convincing arguments against disqualification, the guild was facing down the resplendent array of the Heroes for Hire for the championship event. Heath saw the tension fill the arena as both groups walked out, and how it only invigorated the crowds. The bad blood was no secret, and the promise of an unrelenting finale was everything the bloodthirsty masses wanted. 
Nambu and Svrcina led the guild standing tall, the towering forms of Mars and Daen at their shoulders. Across from them, Heath saw the mountain of a man the group had met weeks earlier, Gerard, known as the Tower, his massive shield set beside him. At Gerard’s side, Harbek Ironfist spun twin axes in his hands, and behind them a tall, slender man with the tanned skin of the southern coasts holding a rapier paced lazily back and forth. An elegant elven woman in mage’s robes stood at Gerard’s opposite side, her blonde hair bound in a twist of braids. 
The caller announced the contenders, their respective guilds, and the arena roared in anticipation. With the ringing peal of the bell, the crowd swelled and the battle began. 
Heath turned at the sound of the first clash, bitterness in his heart as he walked away.

The sun dipped past the height of the colosseum as the final ceremonies for the Contest of Guilds began. All the competitors had assembled, and Victra had found Heath to drag him back for the crowning ceremonies. Guild representatives gathered in the arena where senior members and standout performances would be rewarded. All other contestants waited either in the stadium stands or in the various staging chambers beneath the colosseum. Nambu, Orsic, and Kriv stood for the guild as the senior members, and the others watched with pride.
Arbiter Sangrinh took the center of the arena, hands raised to the cheering crowds. A towering dragonborn with silvery scales, he was magnificent in his silver and blue armor. When he spoke, his voice echoed powerfully, amplified through the arena by magic.
“Fellow Alerians! This is a most auspicious and glorious day! Today we remember and celebrate the majesty of our great kingdom, the perseverance of our people, and the unrelenting spirit of our champions! Five years ago, a terrible and bloody war was waged against us. We fought valiantly, courageously defending ourselves from attacks against both our honor and our lives! Through struggle and sacrifice, we prevailed! And these games are just one way we honor and remember our past victories!”
Cheers rose from the crowds, chants and shouts seeming to shake the very earth. Heath clenched his jaw, staring forward as he tried to drown out the noises. His dagger spinning absentmindedly in one hand, Heath itched to move, to fight, to run away. To be anywhere else. 
Sangrinh continued, speaking about the might of Aleria, the endurance of the city, its people, and the kingdom at large. Heath closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, forcing himself to settle into a fragile calmness. Moments passed.
His eyes jerked open as Victra elbowed him, jerking him pack to the present. 
“…and before we come to the crowning of our champions,” Sangrinh continued, waving the crowd to silence, “we have to observe a special excellence on this day!” He looked to the side, and motioned the guild representatives.
Nambu bowed his head, taking a step forward. The others followed suit, hands clasped behind them. Heath had never seen Kriv stand so tall.
Sangrinh spun to face the crowds again. “In recent days, one of our intrepid investigative guilds has gone beyond the line of duty and has distinguished themselves in ways we could never have asked! This guild, still young, through their actions, saved my life from a cowardly assassination attempt. In a moment of peril, they stood where others could not, and they shattered the silence! Foes slain, and the goodness of this great city exemplified in their actions! During these very games, no less! They have earned my thanks for their vigilance in maintaining the safety of all during such an important festival, as well as their own participation in the events themselves with all fairness and virtue. They have received a great distinction, and the affirmation of their peers, the citizenry of Aleria, and from their Arbiter.” The crowds cheered, exuberance filling the stadium. 
The High Arbiter smiled as he regarded the three representatives. “And it is my honor to take this moment to recognize them, formally and for the first time, under their new moniker: Shattered Silence!” The cheers rose again, even louder. Around him, Heath heard the emotion in the cheers of his companions, and saw the smiles. But it broke over him, like water over a river stone. 
The High Arbiter moved to the crowning ceremony, awarding prizes to event champions and finally to the champion guilds. Heroes for Hire were dominant through all their performances, and received golden laurels and the Mark of Aleria as champions of the Contest. The newly named Shattered Silence were awarded silver laurels in their runner up finish.
If Heath had paid attention, he might have seen that the cheer for Shattered Silence was twice that of the Heroes. He might have noticed that while the reigning champions were expected to win, the underdogs had fought valiantly enough to win the hearts of the crowd, and that coming in second as the new favorites might have meant more to the battered, fledgling guild. 
As the representatives returned from the arena, the guild gathered together in their corner before everyone was dismissed. They were all jubilant, and their eagerness to scatter to celebrate was palpable. Nambu addressed the group, his own joy barely contained.
“I’ll keep this brief,” the big bugbear began, his furry face split with a grin. “What you all did these last few days was really incredible. We had high hopes, but it seems you all exceeded them. So I will simply say thank you for everything you’ve done, and everything we’ve accomplished together. Well done, and here’s to an even better showing next year!”
“Here, here!” Mars shouted, his cry taken up by many of the others.
Kriv stepped forward, raising a hand to quell the cheers. “And as a part of that, we’ve got something for each of you. Something to show how much this has meant to the guild, to us. Something each of you have earned.” He motioned to a table behind him. A stack of pouches were piled high. One by one, he took them and dispersed them amongst the group. “Each of your purses for your own performances, and your portion for the guild’s winnings.”
Heath took his wordlessly. It easily felt like the largest bounty he had ever collected, maybe more. It was a great amount of coin, and everyone gathered received their share. 
Orsic stepped up next. “We have something more,” the dwarf rumbled. “We all know the world runs on gold, but we use tools. So perhaps these might serve ye all just as well.” The blacksmith waved to a pair of assistants who wheeled in a covered cart. Orsic removed the tarpaulin.
He walked up to each member of Shattered Silence, handing them a piece of exquisite and personal equipment. Adrie received a great, beautifully wrought longbow. A heavy manica armguard was gifted to Mars. A longsword with a cruel-looking edge was handed to a grinning Victra. One by one, Orsic went around the circle with amulets, weapons, and armor for everyone. 
When he reached Heath, Orsic reached to his side and held out a simple long knife in a leather sheath. The blade was long and thick, edged on one side in the seax style of the warriors of Northshore. Heath saw the Orsic’s hammer symbol stamped into the pommel. He met the dwarf’s eyes as he took it.
“I thought ye could make more use of a tool, than a trinket.” Orsic’s voice was solemn, but Heath knew there was pride there.
The ranger knew it meant a lot, and that the moment was special for everyone gathered there. His fingers involuntarily twitched, silently tapping out a tattoo against his leg. He offered his thanks, knowing it fell short. In his mind, all he wanted to do was stretch, reach, to push and press again. Heath knew he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t be done. He needed more. He still felt the vibrations, and knew he needed to let the kick run its full course through him.
The newly christened Shattered Silence took a final toast together, cheers joyously lifted together. He joined in, his effort lackluster but the fullest he could muster. As drinks were drained and congratulations bandied, the party dispersed for their evening of celebration.

Aleria was alight. The rosy horizon painted the west in the colors of the sunset, and the rumble to the east made the storms over the plains seem distant. Torches and bonfires burned in the streets as drinking and revelry spilled from taverns and pubs. Though the Contest of Guilds had ended, the city’s festivities had only just begun.
At the Black Crow Tavern down by the Docks, tables had been pulled outside, music performers played from rooftops and balconies as dancing and celebration filled the streets. Mo’s face was flushed as a dozen barmaids and bartenders ran drinks and food through the raucous crowds. It had been hours, and if anything the numbers had grown. Heath perched on a stack of barrels outside the tavern, one leg lazily dangling as he drank. He watched as men and women had gathered for a wrestling match out front, while games of cards and dice saw coins changing hands rapidly inside. 
Heath had spotted a group from the guild, Shattered Silence; he had to remind himself again. They had arrived an hour earlier, celebrating late into the night. He wondered if the others had finished early, since they had likely started on the nicer side of the city. Kriv, Svrcina, and Victra were drinking and laughing together, and it hadn’t taken them long to be pulled into a short-lived game of dice. It ended with the hustler they played smiling and Kriv stomping out into the street.
Shouting in the street indicated that the wrestling was about to get underway. Heath watched as Kvaern, one of Mo’s bouncers, cleared the crowd back and marked out a ring in the dirt. Men began stepping forward as bookies seemed to appear from nowhere to make rounds and begin taking bets from the watchers. 
Heath saw thickset dockworkers, swarthy farmers, a mercenary, even the blacksmith’s apprentice from down the lane all line up to try their strength. More joined as the shouting rose in volume. A thickly muscled sailor shouldered forward, alongside a wiry elf with half his face heavily scarred. To Heath’s surprise, he watched as Kriv stepped forward, Victra enthusiastically cheering him on. Kvaern gave a loud shout for any other contenders and looked around. Heath caught his eye, giving the smallest nod which the bouncer returned before calling the first match. 
The first bouts were nothing special, little more than large, sweaty men rolling around in the dust. Heath sat back and dove into his drink, finishing it as the tingling of the morning’s kick continued to reverberate through his body. He looked up in time to see Kriv standing over his first opponent, his scaled body flexing in the torchlight, bared to the waist. The dragonborn turned, the light catched the pale markings of a tattoo against the black of his scales. Heath cocked his head, making out a dragon’s head set in a ring. Not what he had expected from the dragonborn. 
A barrel chested dock worker stepped into the ring next, and Heath leapt from his perch. Kvaern shouted for the crowd to clear a path, motioning Heath forward. Heath pulled his tunic over his head, the cool evening air kissing his skin. He rolled his shoulder, fixing the man in front of him with a cold stare. The thickset man faced him with raised fists, standing in a classic boxing stance. He was easily a hand taller than Heath and several stone heavier. 
The bigger man swung first, a quick jab down towards Heath’s head. 
Heath stepped quickly inside, rolling with the jab and struck towards the man’s ribs. Impact. The air rushed from his chest, and he swung wildly. Heath slipped back, striking out and connecting with the opposite side of the man’s face. 
Roaring like a bull, the man charged Heath, grabbing him around the waist and driving him into the dirt. Heath slammed into the street, grinning as he drove an elbow down into his attacker’s collarbone. A grunt of pain rewarded him, and the grip around him loosened. Staying on his back, Heath kicked, the man’s legs splaying out as he delivered a forearm to the nose. Heath pushed, rolled out from underneath the staggered man and raised his hand high, ready to deliver a strike to the back of the stunned dockworker’s head. He held there a moment, the man lying still in the dust.
Cheers rose up. Heath pulled himself to his feet, wiping blood from his face and spitting sand to the side. As he stepped away, he saw Kriv watching him, Svrcina and Victra still at his shoulder. He met their gaze, but made no move to join them. 
More matches got underway, and before long Heath submitted his second opponent, dropping him with a strike to the chest that caused the man to collapse, his breath coming in great, heaving gasps. Heath cursed silently, the remnant of the kick still driving him to restlessness. 
Kriv stepped into the ring for his next bout. Facing him was the black-haired sailor, a northman with a tapestry of tattoos across his pale skin. Kriv was fast, but the northman matched his speed, and his body was corded with thick, heavy muscle. They moved in a wide circle, both feeling out the other, searching for an opening.
That sailor is far from home, Heath thought as he watched. And far from the sea.
The crowd surged as the northman grabbed Kriv, reversed his grip to counter Kriv’s escape. Kriv struck out, writhing, but unable to break the hold. The northman gave a great heave, and with a massive arm around the dragonborn, drove him to the ground with a wrench of his entire body. The man raised his hands in victory, then grasped Kriv’s arm and gave him a wide smile.
They exchanged nods, and retreated to their corners. Heath smiled coldly. They were the last two. He stepped forward, grabbing the arm of a passing barmaid. He pressed two coins into her hand as he grabbed two tankards of ale. He walked over to the ring, crossing through the open and holding out a mug to the northman. His bright blue eyes shone as he took it, recognition as he regarded Heath. The two raised a toast, downed their full contents in a single draught, and nodded to each other.
Kvaern gave them both a count, a short reprieve. The crowds pressed forward, cheers and shouts rising as wagers were levied and collected. Heath held the northman’s gaze, the other man grinning as he wiped dust from his hands. He took him in unconsciously, the variety of tattoos, the youthful vigor matched by the seasoned body of a raider. The crisscross of scars on his body told a story, and his pale skin despite the late summer months told more still. 
Kvaern called again, motioning for the two to stand and approach. 
Heath allowed his grin to turn into a sneer. The northman stood, his features predatory. They rushed each other, neither giving time to test the other. The northman lashed out, his longer reach delivering him the first blow, a slanting strike across Heath’s forehead. 
Heath carried forward with his momentum, hammering his ribs with twin punches. An elbow slammed into Heath’s back, then he was grabbed under both arms. Heath kicked out, but then he was airborne, then white flashed across his vision as he slammed into the ground. 
Disoriented, he still made it back to his feet, his sight clearing as he faced his opponent again. The northman’s eyes flashed, and he began circling him slowly. Like a predator, stalking its prey. Like a wolf.
Forcing himself to breathe, Heath laughed. “Come on,” Heath taunted. “Don’t hold back.” He tasted blood in his mouth. He resisted the urge to spit it out.
A low growl broke through the man’s lips, and he rushed in with a flurry, blows raining down on Heath. Punches towards his head. He raised his hands to protect himself. A blow to his ribs, then his stomach, doubling him over. A knee to the face, snapping his head back as he felt his nose break.
Heath stumbled back, blood streaming from his nose as he faced the northman with a bloody grin. 
“That’s more like it,” Heath muttered, the adrenaline singing in his veins. 
Heath slipped outside the lightning fast punch, driving his fist into the northman’s shoulder, then hammering his ribs. It was like punching coiled rope, the sailor’s body had long since been stripped of any fat or softness. 
A double-handed strike to Heath’s chest forced the breath from his lungs and he staggered back. The northman grabbed him again, and with a mighty roar lifted him overhead and slammed him into the street. 
Heath lay there, the man glaring down at him with a hand raised, fingers curled like claws with fire in his eyes. A broken laugh came through Heath’s lips, and as he rested his head back in the dust, his body limp, the last trace of the kick extinguished. It had driven him to the edge, and left him utterly spent. 
The crowd cheered, and as quickly as it had appeared, the rage vanished from the young northman’s eyes. The bright shine came back once more, he smiled and stood tall, his arms spread wide in victory. Heath struggled to his feet, spitting blood and breathing heavily. He nodded to the northman, who inclined his head in salute before returning to celebrating with his fellows. 
Heath pushed his way through the crowd, holding his tunic to keep blood from it. His eyes caught a lone figure at the back of the crowd, almost invisible standing in the darkness of the alley. Rodrigo lingered, alone, watching from a distance. Heath blinked as he recognized him, and then he was gone. Heath sighed.
Heath wound his way into the tavern and up the stairs, his feet heavy as he ascended to his room. He carefully washed the blood from his face, and gritting his teeth, reset his broken nose with a crack and a muffled curse. His eyes watered and fresh blood coursed from his nose. Heath sat with slumped shoulders until the flow stopped. He mopped up the fresh blood, tossing his bloodied rags to the ground. 
When the bleeding stopped, he forced himself to sit and methodically recount the events of the last few days in his journal. He wrote entries detailing what he had seen of Murmur, her brother, reliving as much as he could before he fell back onto his bed. Like a wave the exhaustion hit him, delayed no longer and overwhelming as sleep took him.

Heath woke. It was late, the deepest part of the night. Through the open window, the cool night air drifted into his small room. He was suddenly aware of someone in the room with him, a presence in the dark. His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger tucked into the folds of the mattress.
He burst from his bed, throwing his dagger without even thinking, acting on feel. The haze in his mind evaporated as he reacted instinctively. His panic rose, not knowing how long the presence had been there. The stranger moved to mirror him, shrouded in darkness.
Heath’s bare feet hit the floor, his hands a blur as he struck out. Movement and the barest whisper in the darkness was all the stranger offered in reply. Heath’s fighting was instinctive, reactionary as he grappled for his adversary. It was like fighting smoke, incorporeal and then solid from moment to moment.
Heath twisted and spun, his body acting without thought as he parried, spun, kicked, and pirouetted in the darkness. Neither landed a blow on the other, the lethal dance of theirs driven on feel and instinct. They fought in near total darkness, but both moved as though they welcomed the lightless room as their arena. His body moving faster than he could have willed it, Heath lost track of time. Every time one of them seemed on the verge of gaining the upper hand or landing a blow, the other was ready. Bodies moving almost in pattern, like smoke and shadow under a blanket of stars, they twisted and turned and fought.
Through the smallest sliver of moonlight, Heath saw his adversary spin, the light of the moon illuminating a lock of hair the color of brushed copper. As their bodies twisted within a hair’s breadth of each other, he saw their form was slender, lithe, before returning to the shadows. And suddenly they were gone.
Heath’s breath came ragged and heavy as he realized he was alone. A wave crashed over him. He looked at his hands in the moonlight, stretched his senses into the darkness. He realized how easy it had been to revert back, how much he had allowed himself to be drawn out over the past weeks. How he had held it back, and now it kept returning.
And worse, how natural and powerful it felt, even after so many years. Heath held his head in his hands, alone in his room as the distant sound of thunder rumbled across the horizon.
And in the darkness, the faintest scent of crushed pine needles drifted on the breeze through the open window.