AKI:

  What would you do, Merkus? I asked.

  The crack of dawn. Rays of rust bloomed from the east. I sat in my usual spot before the broken statue of Knite, deep in thought. Worries plagued my mind. None were for me. Arrogant? Perhaps. But even in the face of fact, the truth is arrogant.

  “Concerned or excited?” came a voice.

  I jerked to a stand, sensus brimming. Seeing my visitor, I eased back into my seat. Illora wore her uniform like a master swordsman holds his blade. The black ran down her form, creaseless, each seam exact, a picture of cold and calculated perfection. Her hair was pulled back, bound by crossing pins large enough to be considered weapons. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and though she did not exude even a flicker of hostility, it uneased me to find them out of view.

  “I did not know you could move so silently,” I said.

  “I can’t. I just made the world forget I can’t.”

  “It has been an age. How’ve you been?”

  “Better than you, it would seem. What’s got you so on edge?”

  “The tournament. What else?”

  “What about the tournament?”

  I looked up, saw the faintest hint of Illora’s playfulness spark in the faint cracks of her otherwise stony expression, and sighed once more. “I’m not in the mood for games. Best you leave me to my thoughts.”

  “You’re no fun when you’re brooding, Aki.” Illora brought her hands before her, pinched at the fingertips of her silken gloves, slid them off, and tucked them into her belt. A cluster of grapes materialized. She plucked one off its spur and pushed it past her puckered lips with a finger. Her Painting fooled even herself, though it would not last so long as to provide her body sustenance. “I heard you had a rather unpleasant encounter yesterday. Is that what has you so dour?”

  “No.”

  “Are you—”

  “Illora,” I growled. She stepped back. “I am not in the mood for games.”

  “I was not playing any. I’m… concerned, is all.”

  “For yourself and your mother? Do not be.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what?”

  Illora, the unwavering and aloof Auger, hesitated. Worse, she surprised me again by blushing. “I’ve never had cause to call someone a friend,” she said, “nor have I found cause for notions of family to hold any sense of the endearment they hold for some others. You are…” She shook her head as if to dislodge the rebellious confession out of her thoughts and into the world. “I hear friends share concerns on occasion.”

  I smiled despite myself, despite my lingering suspicions of her motives; I liked Illora, but she would always be Lira’s daughter. A member of House Lorail. And of House Merkusian, my thoughts said. Your niece. Your family. One of very few who might be worth knowing. Worth saving. In time, she might well be willing and able to help shoulder the mantle of Merkusian’s dream. Another part of my mind remembered her invasion of my soul. Her attack. Trust her at your peril, it said.

  “Where have your ears been wandering, Illora?” I said. “They must’ve ventured far beyond the borders of their usual haunts for them to bring back such exotic ideas.”

  “Closer than I’d have expected.” The red of Illora’s embarrassment softened to a more muted pink, and she smiled back at me. “They’re lessons I’ve inferred from keeping your company.”

  I waved for her to sit. She did, plopping down next to me. The lack of rigid fluidity in her movement, the absence of grace, was entirely unlike her. It was as if she’d taken off the callouses of her life, and what was left was the girl who’d hidden underneath the inflexible guise of nobility.

  “So,” she said. “The Principles?”

  “I don’t quite get your meaning.”

  “That’s what they're called—the eminent Leaves of each cycle. I take it they’ve announced their claims on you.”

  “Ah, I see. Principles, is it? That reminds me. I never did ask, but you are a Leaf, correct?”

  “I am.”

  “The most powerful Auger of your cycle, I assume?”

  “Modesty keeps me from claiming that title.”

  I laughed. Illora seemed both at ease and off-put by it. “Modesty cannot be invoked and claimed in the same breath,” I said. “I take it you are a Principle?”

  “I am.”

  “How much trouble will—”

  “Lamila be?”

  “You know her? Personally, I mean?”

  “Not by choice. My cousin had, for a time, pestered me with challenges.”

  “But no longer?”

  “Not since the one time I heeded her provocations. My family does not do well with defeat, particularly when they’re bred for victory.”

  I snorted. “Considering the nature of your Arts…”

  “Our Arts,” she corrected. “For that matter, our family.”

  “Revulsion keeps me from claiming either.”

  Illora giggled. The terminally aloof Illora actually giggled. “More often than not, what we want—or in this care, don’t want—has little to do with what is.”

  I leaned in to watch her closer, bemused. “That is altogether unsettling.”

  “What is?”

  “You. Giggling. It’s like touching a cold flame or seeing a barking cat.”

  Illora gave me a wan smile. “It’s tiring. Holding stiff.”

  “I know,” I said, my own smile a reflection of hers. And lonely, I thought.

  “So, you asked about Lamila. She’s… more than meets the eye. Do not be taken by her act—she’s far more cunning than her vulgarity suggests. Still, given your natural talents and the wealth of training and knowledge Fuller has by now imparted, I doubt she’ll have what it takes to defeat you directly. The others, however, I cannot say. Is that what has you worried.”

  I sighed. “No. The Principles have me curious, nothing more. It is Wiltos who has me concerned.”

  Discordant footsteps rang from inside the open doors of the dorms, loud and thumping. Edon waddled out into the courtyard, a bag of baked goods in hand. Whereas Illora’s mask was one of control, of quiet and confident power, of domineering elegance, Edon’s presented a bumbling buffoon wracked by foolhardy incompetence, of someone too oblivious and hedonistic to be a threat. Both wore their masks expertly.

  “Never understood how you did that,” Edon mumbled, his mouth half-full.

  “This”—I waved a hand over his unbalanced stance, crumb-stained cheeks, and disheveled uniform—“is a wasted effort. I assume your persona has been made redundant after the debacle with your house.”

  Edon eyed me sideways. He swallowed, brushed himself clean, and ripped the flaccidity from his comportment. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Interesting,” Illora said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought you a member of my House.”

  “Shall we speak?” Edon paid little heed to Illora’s comment. Or her presence.

  I indicated the space to my left. “Of course.”

  “In private. My room is suitable and close at hand.”

  I turned to Illora. “Thank you for your concern, but I must be on my way.”

  “If ever…”

  “I know. Same.”

  I got to my feet. Edon’s eyes traced my ascent.

  “Let’s hurry,” he said. “There’s much to cover, and I reckon you cannot afford to miss breakfast. Especially considering what awaits us in the Collosium this day.”

  I followed Edon into the dorms, up the stairs, and to his room—a room that was a stark reminder of how little I knew him. The bed was made. Tombs filled a large bookcase. Vases and pots filled with fragrant flowers decorated the windowsill, desk, and nightstand, their scents mingling into a delicate perfume. Music hummed from a cage where an evolved bird watching the sunrise sang like the strings of an instrument.

  I stood by the doorway, my mouth agape.

  “Close the door,” Edon said.

  “This…”

  Edon smirked. “And your mouth, if you please.”

  I went about inspecting his room more closely, starting with the musical bird. In a translucent cage, it sat by the open window, majestic, as if it were an avian ruler. The bird’s splendor was undiminished by its diminutive stature. Silver feathers tipped by near-invisible points hung untangled from its body. Its eyes were orbs of metal, its talons miniature scythes. Dim, dawn-tainted sunlight streamed in through the glass window and reflected off its luster to make a dance of rainbows flitter around it in harmony with the beautiful chimes trilling from its long beak. The metal bird did not deign to look my way. It watched the sunrise like a besotted man might watch his lover awaken from a night of passion.

  “What manner of creature is this?” I asked.

  “An expensive one.”

  A perusal of the bookcase gave me a sense of Edon’s reading material. Titles were embossed along their leather spines: The Treaty of Evergreen’s Houses, A Definitive Guide to Basic Aedificator Matrixes, Merkusian’s Perscriptions. Most were political in nature, some were related to the Arts or Evolved creatures, but a few, thin and hidden between heavier tombs, pertained to subjects I’d expected him to consider frivolous. No part of me would have predicted Edon’s interest in fictional stories of heroes, tragic loves, and other such saccharine concepts that were so popular in The Roots and Muds.

  “Nearly two cycles remain of our time in The Academy,” Edon said. “Time enough to peruse my modest library. For now, we have more important issues to attend to.”

  I turned to him. “I’d have hoped our friendship would last a lifetime.”

  “I’m neither so na?ve as to expect to live a long life nor so optimistic as to believe neither of us would sully the sanctity of our friendship in the unlikely event we survive our great and many tribulations.”

  “Yet here I stand, trusted, among a litany of evidence that suggests you are not nearly as pessimistic as you claim to be.”

  “To live is to be a balance of contradictions.”

  “What is it I do you never understand?” I asked.

  “I’d thought you ignored that question on purpose.”

  “I was waiting for you to answer without my having to ask. So, what is it?”

  “A great many things.”

  “Edon, you’re deflecting.”

  He sighed. “Apologies. Deflection has long since become a ready reaction.”

  “Evidently.”

  Edon smiled, and it was so unlike the sloppy grin I knew him for that it threw me. “You know, I only became your friend to annoy Leahne.”

  “So you knew she was an agent of House Lorail?”

  “Indeed. I’d seen her before, once. In The Branches. She was among a flock of Roots trailing behind Rowan, the chief of House Lorail’s outer guard.”

  “That’s quite a memory you have.”

  “I’m not nearly as dense as I’d have people believe.”

  “And you’d noticed Leahne’s Tunnels?”

  “They were hard not to.” Edon smiled a little of his old smile. “You did well with the Zephyr matrix. I laughed so hard I had trouble eating that night.”

  “You’re an Auger.” It was a statement, not a question. The realization hit me with heavy certainty.

  “I am.” Edon’s smile was gone. He watched me, saw me put together the threads, and assessed my expression with an intense stare. His breath was stuck. The veins on his temple throbbed. Fear glowed behind his new mask, a feeble mask of indifference.

  “Your father was born of House Lorail.” Another statement. I knew his mother raised him, and she was of House Bainan.

  “A Fiora,” he admitted. “Might’ve been a Leaf if they allowed such things.”

  “And your mother?”

  “A Fiora allied to the house of Muraad. She died. I was raised by Chaloste, one of Muraad’s daughters.”

  “You’re—”

  “An abomination,” he said, “if my kin are to be believed.”

  “Bainan loathes Lorail. Muraad is Bainan’s favorite son—why did he risk letting you be once he found out who your father was?”

  “At first, he wanted to mold me into a present, a weapon his father might use against Lorail. Once he discovered my middling talents in Duros Arts, he lost the fervor he once had for that idea. Thankfully, he has been off on campaigns for most of my life, and I was left discarded and forgotten.”

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  “And so had Chaloste. Is that why she hates you.”

  Edon winced, reminded of my intrusion into his soul. “She never had much talent. I was her road to glory, to becoming a heard voice. The less ground I paved for her ascent, the more she hated me for it.”

  “Flurin and Bujn?”

  “Of House Velusni. As was Spenten. I suspect Chaloste told them of my existence once Muraad had gone missing.”

  “No others know?”

  Edon shook his head. “They’ll tell Bainan once they have me, not before. And they’re no one else they’d care to tell.”

  “So we survive until we eliminate the threat.”

  “Kill Velusni?” Edon’s stare turned to a look of disbelief. “You speak as though he is not a Leaf. A house patriarch.”

  “Would it surprise you to know he is not the greatest of my enemies?”

  Edon pointed at me and shook his head. “Of the many things about you that mystify me, that right there is the greatest of them.”

  “That I have puissant foes?”

  “That you think you can win against them.”

  ***

  The air tasted of wet grass, yet there was none to be seen in the bleakness of the Colosseum. Winter gusts clung on past their lifespan. A distant sun hung overhead, unobstructed by clouds, its light dissipated by the dull browns of the arena. Immovable ropes of red drew five circles into the coarse sands of the arena. Five stages. Five fields of battle. Outside each stood two figures, one in the robes of a Fifth, ready to officiate the coming bouts, and the other decked in robes of white, prepared to heal whosoever survived the circles. The first ten contestants, Wiltos among them, stood within the boundaries in pairs, awaiting the start of the tournament. The rest of us—those of us who’d chosen to attend, which were a fair few—sat on the lowest tier of seats.

  My hands tightened into fists. Nails cut into palms. My jaw clenched. My heart thumped as though my body wanted to beat drums to the occasion. I did not much like its music.

  “He’ll be fine,” Sil said. I looked over at her. She was not talking to me. I was tense; Malorey was on the edge of terror, though she did well to hide it from those who did not know her well enough to see her dread.

  “For how long?” Malorey asked, a hitch in her voice that I’d never heard. “The stubborn bastard refuses to forfeit. He has done well enough. Any Root would be proud to have made it past the second cycle.”

  “The same was true a cycle ago,” Dako said. “And many might’ve counted his luck dry then, yet here he is, embarking on his third, still standing. Do not count him out.”

  “His decision has been made,” I said. “All there is to do is watch and wait.”

  Wiltos’ first bout nearly took his life.

  His almost killer, a Root, was an Aedificator specializing in Telum Arts. He stood a head taller, half again as thick, and carrying a two-handed claymore with an abnormally long grip. The fight was near even until the Root surprised Wiltos by dropping his sword, soaring over the wall of earth Wiltos had conjured before him, and somehow recalling his weapon to his hand as he descended. The oversized claymore took Wiltos by his shoulder, snapped his left collarbone, and, for a moment, looked to have reached his heart. Our breaths caught. Malorey was on her feet, gripping the railing. I forced myself to freeze. If I allowed myself to even so much as a twitch, I’d have leaped into the arena.

  Wiltos fell to his knees. The Root yanked his sword out of him. Blood flowed. Impotent, we waited for his death or salvation. As did the Aedificator. He watched our friend silently, waiting for blood loss to drain the life out of Wiltos.

  For a time, our friend did not move. He kneeled there, bleeding, staring into the sky with a blank expression. And he might’ve stayed that way, died there, lost to despair, but for Malorey.

  “Get up, you stubborn guttershite!” A sheen of tears covered her eyes, threatening to spill.

  Wiltos’ blank look shifted into focus. He gritted his death, winced, fell forward, and screamed in pain or defiance or both. Soaked by his own pool of blood, he began to drag himself up, dripping crimson.

  What followed was a miracle. Whatever recesses Wiltos delved to drag forth the very limits of his reserves remains a mystery, for he appeared spent to us. But delve he did, and, somehow, somewhere, he found what he needed.

  Wiltos got to his feet. The Root continued to watch him, indifferent, thinking Wiltos’ trifling feat had indubitably dried his hidden well of strength all by itself. I did not fault the boy for thinking so; Wiltos trembled, a chilling yet gentle breeze agitating his balance.

  Then came the miracle.

  With a battle cry and a speed his uninjured self could seldom achieve, Wiltos darted forward. He crashed into The Root. They fell into a heap, tangled limbs flailing for purchase, grunts of surprise intermingling with cries of pain and effort. Wiltos ended on top. The Root’s sword was out of play, too large to be of use. Wiltos’ more petite frame helped him squirm around the Root’s efforts to displace him, though it also promised danger if he failed to remain on top of the far heavier boy. The struggle continued long after anyone might’ve guessed. Then, as suddenly as Wiltos’ attack began, it ceased.

  The Root and Wiltos slumped. Both lay still. My friend remained on top, his head tucked under the Root’s chin. Tense moments passed in silence. Then Wiltos peeled his blood-covered face from the Root’s chest, rolled off the boy’s body, revealing the spike of stone he’d plunged under his opponent’s ribcage, and began to drag himself from the ring. Thankfully, they’d ended up relatively close to the boundary.

  The Surgeon, a Named with a plump face and thick brows, healed Wiltos as best as she could. Flesh knitted back in place. Color returned to his complexion. And though the treatment leeched the pain from his expression, his brush with death was not so soon forgotten, and the fear remained.

  “Forfeit the remaining matches!” Malorey called out.

  Wiltos looked over. He gritted his teeth, resolve fighting back the fear, and shook his head.

  His second duel brought hope. He faced one of only three students with a lower standing. She was, like many of Wiltos’ opponents, a Root.

  Wiltos took her in one well-coordinated attack; a small, sharp protrusion of earth faltered her step as she rushed at him behind a gale of force, a spray of sand blinded her, and an earth-covered fist slammed into her throat. She hit the ground, eyes wide in panic, gasping for breath. Wiltos snatched the scruff of her tunic and swung her out of the ring.

  It turned out that Wiltos’ first opponent was the strongest of them. He drew one against an evasive Painter and won the rest.

  The Painted mirror high in the stands spat out Lokos’ form, its surface rippling. The man landed without sound, the sands beneath his feet undisturbed.

  “You.” Lokos pointed at Wiltos. “Your fate will be decided tomorrow.” The groundskeeper—though I was coming to realize he was far more than his official role could contain—ran his gaze over the others. “The rest of you are dismissed. Vacate the premises at once. You have until nightfall to submit your marks and uniforms to your quartermasters and collect your belongings from your rooms.”

  We rushed at Wiltos, Malorey at the head of our pack.

  The day proceeded. Ten more took to the stages. None of the fights were as desperate as those in Wiltos’ group. Many forfeited at the first sign of defeat, some of whom saw the sign before the bouts even began. No more deaths occurred.

  All in all, the showings were underwhelming. Malorey won handily. She’d possessed counters for the first five of her opponents, powers stolen from beasts she’d purchased with her considerable funds or hunted herself in The Wilds, taking sight from a Painter, air from a Reaper, and so on. She forfeited the rest.

  “What use is a victory born of a primitive pride,” she said.

  Sil’s were more exciting if only because I never knew how much of her strength she’d bring to bear. She was the envoy of cruelty, nicking shallow cuts as she evaded their attacks like windswept pappus of dandelions, more often than not content with bleeding them til the match was called a draw.

  Events approached another crescendo when Dako stepped onto the field, at least from my perspective. My friend was too stubborn and competitive to allow easy victory for his opponents, two of whom were ranked above him. He breezed through the first four opponents with power, speed, and skill. The first was a Tunneller. She forfeited the moment her Tunnel came in contact with his gate. The second and third were Alchemists, neither of whom had it in them to weather Dako’s initial rush. The fourth was Dako’s first challenge, a Zephyr who slipped past his opening salvo. They clashed again and again, a flurry of attacks and counterattacks, wind against brawn, muscle against force, both of them wearing joyous grins. The match was called before a victory was claimed. It spoke well of the Zephyr, a slip of a girl with short-cropped hair, to see her goodnaturedly grasp Dako’s forearm after the match.

  Dako lost his last bout. Of the many House Bainan Leaves I’d seen, none mirrored Dako as closely.

  The two stepped over the red rope. Dako’s expression was unreadable.

  “You’ve returned,” his opponent said.

  “I have.” Dako was being far more terse than usual. Perhaps curt. They knew each other.

  “Like a Phoenix from the ashes. I’m impressed.”

  “You’d have to be, seeing as you think so much of yourself.”

  The man laughed. There was an age to him, a stoic and resolute tiredness to his eyes and tone that made him seem older, made his laughter sound like the kindhearted mockery of a father entertaining a child who’d thought himself grown enough to challenge him. “Yes, that is the Dako of old. You have certainly returned.”

  “And you are still the Drulikir of old.”

  “I had forever been Dru.” Drulikir’s cheer was crippled by the likeness of sadness, some echo of grief both like and unlike its source. “Why the change?”

  “It came when I realized Dru did not exist. He never did. I have doubts Drulikir does.”

  “Oh, that is hurtful, Dako. I thought us brothers. What’s a little matricide between brothers?”

  Dako growled and stepped forward, the veins on his neck and temples throbbing. “Do not speak of her.”

  Drulikir shrugged. “Or what? You’ve already marked me for death, little brother. This I know. Will you imagine a worse fate for me? Does calling upon our mother’s memory make you hunger for my soul? Will you strip me of the right to ascend the next plane? Can you?”

  Dako looked over at the Fifth. “Why the delay?”

  The Fifth nodded. “As you please. Begin!”

  By unspoken agreement, neither fought with much skill. It was a contest of raw strength. Dako and his brother stood at arm's length, musclebound legs planted like the roots of ancient trees, and swung at each other for all they were worth. It was a brutal affair. Skin split. Flesh yielded. Blood spilled. Dako grumbled through gritted teeth, each exhalation louder than the last, from grunt to growl to bark. Drulikir’s laughter grew in kind, from a titter to a chortle to a delirious cackle.

  Dako faltered first. As he came in with an arcing swing, he leaned into a hammer fist that clobbered him on the jaw. Dako fell to one knee. His brother did not stop or pause, mad with laughter and spittles of blood. Another blow cracked. Dako’s head whipped to the left. Another. To the right. Another. Left. Right. Left.

  Only my inability to knowingly harm Sil kept me from leaping onto the sand and tearing the man apart.

  Dako’s battered eyes were closed by bruises and fatigue. Blood, snot, tears, and spit dribbled from his lips and nose. His mouth was slack, his tongue limp, and his breaths heavy. His arms hung by his sides. Both knees were planted on the ground, his shoulders slumped.

  “Well done, little brother.” Drulikir was smiling, his teeth painted red. “You’ve never driven me this far. I had thought you were hiding from me because of cowardice. I understand now that you were biding your time. Our time apart has been good for you. Next time, let us be done with this childish form of combat. We will duel in truth and finally see how much stronger you have truly become. Next time, let us test if the faith and trust our mother gorged you on while I starved was justified.”

  Drulikir lay his hand on Dako’s shoulder and, with a gentle push, toppled him to the ground.

  The Fifth called the match, declaring Drulikir the winner. We rushed in, Sil close by my side—she had an inkling of the calamity I’d cause if she didn’t stay near to guard my actions. Heedless of witnesses, I added my efforts to the Surgeon’s, flooding Dako with aimless healing while the Bainan Tripler went about more precise work.

  Dako’s eyes soon fluttered open. “I lost.”

  “You did.” The healer, a Bainan, shared her House’s penchant for bluntness.

  “Fuck!” Dako spat the curse.

  “You yet live,” Sil said.

  I nodded. “Given the state you were in, I’d call that a win.”

  “Fuck!” Dako seemed unconcerned with survival.

  I looked up from where I knelt beside Dako, watching the broad back of his brother. “So, tell me more about this new enemy of mine.”

  “Mine,” Dako corrected, the growl in his tone pulling my gaze to his. “He is mine and mine alone.”

  I nodded; few understood those words as well as I did. “Well, how do you suppose I’ll be helping you train for your next bout?”

  Dako sighed. “Apologies, Aki. The man seems to bring out the worst in me.”

  “No need to explain.” Again, he was sharing a sentiment I understood more than I cared to.

  “We shall speak of this later,” Dako declared. He lumbered to his feet, healed but weary. “You have other matters to attend to for the moment.”

  My turn came in due time. A couple more ten-person tournaments played out, and the participants gradually but notably became more powerful. As the last match before my group was due to enter, Samiel took the empty seat to my right. Dako, who sat to my left, glared past me at his half-brother. Sil eyed him warily. Malorey did not care to award Samiel with her attention. Wiltos, who sat at the tail end of our group, was asleep, head resting on Malorey’s shoulder.

  “It has been a long time coming,” Samiel said.

  “I suppose it has,” I said.

  “I’ve been keeping a watchful eye on your progress. You’ve made impressive strides.”

  “As have you. One might suspect you’ve been holding back. If I were so audacious, I might accuse you of lying.”

  “Me?” Samiel planted a palm on his chest, a picture of umbrage, though his everpresent smirk ruined his act. “Lie? Banish the thought.”

  “There was a time you’d claimed to be on par with Vignil. He was ranked in the high fifties if I remember correctly.”

  “There was a time you would’ve been ranked among the lowest. And here you are, a Mud among Leaves, a mortal among gods.”

  “Extrinsic labels, Samiel. I cannot be blamed for assumptions made by others. You, however, must bear responsibility for your own utterances.”

  “Come now, Aki. I’ll claim or abandon whatever responsibilities I wish to just so long as I bear the consequences. Now, if you’d be so kind as to let me know what the consequences for lying to you are, then I might be inclined to adjust my behavior.” Samiel wagged his finger. “That is not to say I have lied, however.”

  “Of course not,” I said, amusement tugging at the corners of my lips. Samiel had this way about him, some amiable quality that made less of who and what he was.

  “Linus was a poor matchup.” Samiel’s exuberance dimmed as if to better stage his conveyance. “The fool was unprepared.”

  “Is that to say you expect me to do poorly?”

  Samiel shook his head. “That is to say, cheap tricks will no longer subsist.”

  “Cheap tricks?”

  “You’re at the risk of expressing a falsehood.”

  “I merely asked a question.”

  “No, you meant to divert my thoughts away from their destination. Did you not challenge the Principles?”

  “I did.”

  “And you think you’ll fulfill your promise while hiding behind illusions?”

  “I am an Auger. It seems fitting to me.”

  “We both know you are far more than an Auger.”

  “Extrinsic labels, Samiel.”

  “Truths,” he corrected, “unless my eyes deceive me.”

  “I say again—I am an Auger.”

  “Only Lorail herself might deceive me so thoroughly, and you, my dear enigma, are not Lorail.”

  “More assumptions.”

  Samiel threw his hands up. “Bah! I give up. Do what you will. But if you go at them—at me—wielding idle schemes, the ignominy you’ll suffer this day will be one of legend.”

  Samiel shot to his feet, took a pause as he stared down at me, some hint of irritation marring his merriment, then stalked off.

  “I fear he may be right,” Sil said.

  “I do not need to win,” I said, “merely survive.”

  “That alone may be too tall an order if you mean to hide your true strength,” Dako said. “You have not seen the Principles fight.”

  “Tell me why,” I said. “Ever since meeting Zalzii, I’ve endeavored to keep an eye and an ear out for her bouts. I’ve heard nor seen nary a whisper or glimpse.”

  “Because Zalzii and the other Principles want it that way, and so it is,” Sil said.

  Time to discuss the matter ran out. Lokos made an appearance, emerging and descending from a ripple in reality as he had at the conclusion of every series of bouts. He proclaimed the new standings, gave a chance for the head of the group to offer a challenge to the next group’s lowest-standing member, and called for the following ten students to enter.

  I stepped onto the railing and dropped down onto the arena. Nine others did the same: The Hilsa, wearing armor made of emerald twine, sank into the sand, heavy as a boulder despite her slight frame; one of the Kintalas, the prettier of the two, descended, vines blooming from her back to arrest her fall; Two Golodanians plummeted to the sands, one pale like most, the other bronze, a godling, a progeny of The Golden King; and five Leaves, Samiel among them, drifted into the arena. The non-Islanders were Leaves in but name, for they had no right to proceed on the path, only the empty promise of a mislabelled opportunity—they did not fight to be given power, only the right to better serve those who would claim it.

  The Fifths called us to our rings, revealing the initial brackets. Fate handed me Samiel. Something told me he’d whispered into her ear.

  “Have you made your decision?” he asked.

  “Losing does not cost me much.”

  Samiel looked up at the wall of a Painting that hid the members of the Institutes who’d come to appraise our worth. “Are you certain?”

  “I am.” I turned to the Fifth officiating our bout. “I forfeit.”

  Samiel approached me, head shaking in disappointment, and his roguish grin exchanged for a wry smirk. “You’re refusal to entertain me is verging on torture, Aki. Why do you do this to me?”

  “More for me than it is to you,” I said.

  “That’s oddly comforting.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Do you mean to tease me?”

  “I mean to amuse myself. That it is at your expense is a nugatory byproduct.”

  Samiel came to stand beside me, and we turned to watch the others. At a glance, I began to understand Dako’s meaning.

  The Hilsa fought the pretty Kintala. Vines anchored to the Kintala’s back danced as if they were alive and aware, reactive without their wielder’s input, blocking strikes and searching for openings. Beheaded limbs sweating with vitality grew back in moments. Sharp tips lashed into the sands with such force as to glow fiercely with heat. The Hilsa, who wore armor of a kind I’d never before seen, shot about within the confines of the ring, leaving fist-deep indents wherever her feet trod, compacting sand to stone. Beads of prophetic light wove about the fabric-like armor, coagulating and pulsing wherever the Kintala’s attacks headed. Meaning and sensus clashed in the air, sparks of energy visible to the naked eye.

  “That is what you face,” Samiel said, noticing my surprise. He nodded at the concoctions I’d hung from my belt. “Do you still think those would suffice? Not a single Herbalist counts themselves among the top fifty. Did you not ask yourself why?”

  A Golodanian godling faced an Archanist. The Alchemist had transformed into a giant, knotted veins tracing his thickened skin, purple and throbbing. The Golodanian was undeterred, his skin gleaming in the morning sun. Hands locked, fingers interlinked, feet dug, they leaned into each other, brute strength against brute strength. Every hairsbreadth of give and take boomed like thunder and lifted the sands of the arena.

  Two Leaves went head to head, House Baina against House Lorail. The Reaper fought for a win; the Painter played for a draw. Obstacles came and went, blocking the Reaper from his prize. He slammed into and through a wall of iron thicker than I was tall, clawed his way out of a ball of viscous water, excavated himself out of the ground after the Painter convinced the ground beneath him was incoherent long enough for him to be wholly buried, and a dozen more inventive and ludicrous deterrents before the match ended and the Painter achieved her aim.

  I forfeited every match; I was neither ready to reveal the full scope of my abilities nor willing to chance an attempt without them. Instead, I watched, and I learned the top twenty of our cycle were unlike the rest.

  Samiel was the fastest thing I’d ever seen. Each of his matches ended in one strike, where he blurred to deal the blow so swiftly as to almost perfectly coincide with the Fifth’s call to commence. He won every match, marking him the winner.

  Murmurs followed me back to my seat, whispers of ridicule. Their words slid off me. I sat down without a word, deep in thought.

  The last tournament of the day was an exercise in formalities. Each bout was forfeited so as to allow every member to retain their position in the rankings. It’s just as well that nothing of note occurred. My mind was on other matters; I’d have to bridge the gulf of Meaning between me and the Principles. With what? I did not know, but one way or another, I’d shatter their tyranny and, with it, this little imitation of present-day Evergreen they’d created.

  It’d be good practice.