The cries of the audience outside had completely dissipated, yet the city master’s viewing box possessed a commanding view of the battle occurring below. With the reason for the silence amongst the crowd easily discernible, the fight had reached a climactic point, would the champion find a way out of this predicament?

He had shown exceptional senses and instincts until this point, but what was of even more surprise was the youth’s peak physical capabilities paired with that innate command sense. His ability to analyze the battlefield, deduce multiple variables, and both decide and act upon a decision. It was unlikely the young man even realized his actions; they had been so ingrained as to be as natural as eating or breathing. It spoke volumes as to the natural talents he had, as well as the intense training and effort that he went through, an effect of the singularly focused lifestyle of a battle slave.

There were moments where he should have died or been seriously injured throughout the fight, yet it was those instincts, the natural footwork and combat senses that came into play. A slight tilt of the head to avoid an incoming thrust, jumping into an attack to cancel its forward momentum, or using the enemies own strike to create distance. It may have been difficult to notice during the action, but when the leopard struck out at the youth, he had purposefully jumped into the air. Rather than having his stance broken and opening himself up to a follow-up attack, he was instead thrown away from danger, thus creating distance between the two and providing time to analyze the surroundings.

Although the Scholar was concerned with the ongoing actions within the arena below, at the moment his current focus was the figure laying within the reclining sofa at the edge of the viewing platform. Dozens of scantily clad men and women were attending to the corpulent mass, massaging the folds of his sagging flesh, while others lowered into his gaping maw the sizzling strips of meat and fish from his plate. Scattered along the mud brick walls were clay pots, many empty, their contents staining the oversized toga he had draped over his lying form.

Lord Xeander Batrakhos of Myrmien, some of the more prominent within the aristocracy called him “the toad” behind his back, some openly. However, the one thing to know about Xeander was that he held grudges, never forgot, and never forgave, even if he appears to be cordial on the surface. Some of the upper class forget the origins of Xeander, reputation among merchants is life, and that is true of nobles, which one of the previous consuls learned personally.

Following the rise of the Mercan League and the destruction of the old order, the loss of the former consul’s territory and protections left himself and his family exposed. Xeander offered his hand to a drowning man, offering safety and escape upon one of his merchant vessels. That man had forgotten his many slights, had forgotten his disregard for the lowly, ugly, merchant bastard. That man and his family were delivered to the Archon, piece by piece… as a gift for his ascension, which is how “the toad” gained his position and his reputation, one which has others tiptoe around the issue, remaining amiable with the poisonous little man.

“What brings the illustrious ‘Grand Scholar’ to my humble city. Are you not usually extremely busy this time of year? I seem to recall that the advent of winter was the reason you had given to refuse to attend last year’s winter ball. As neighbors I do find it very disappointing that our relations are so strained.” Xeander continued to observe the action occurring below, making a point to treat his guest with the lack of respect one might to an individual lower within the hierarchy, as opposed to an equal.

“Lord Batrakhos, I know that you are already aware of my views on such frivolous waste of funds. After all, was it not the council who had me removed from my position on the council? For what purpose would I desire to spend days interacting with the very individuals who relegated to the proverbial backwater… Has something changed in the last decade that the members of the aristocracy have suddenly taken such interest in the southern frontier?” It was Xeander and others like him who had originally had the former honorary noble cast from the capital, relegating him to the destroyed frontier town of Temrenos.

It was well known throughout the lands what the border town of Temrenos had once been, more than forty years ago it had been a thriving trade corridor with the Althai Federation cities to the south, Hegesistra in particular. All of that changed with the encroachment, believed to be due to the anger of the spirits of nature and darkness, angered by the continuing destruction of the forests at their hands. The forest grew outwards, engulfing the lands, starving the earth, and leaving once fertile lands barren and worthless. Temrenos being on the border of that region saw its roads uprooted by aggressive vegetation, starvation on a mass scale, and the eventual loss of most of the population.

This forsaken land was where the aristocracy sent those who threatened their powers, exile in all but name. A place for those targeted to wither away and die or flee from their responsibilities… and die. Strange seasonal storms, and ever-increasing beast attacks whittled down the already paltry population. The existing walls and structures having fallen into complete disrepair after almost half a century had left nothing but a devastated, destitute land.

However, in ten years’ time the Scholar had turned the province around. Increasing trade with the South, developing new industries, and reinvigorating the region. Immigration was strongly promoted, not just natives, and Lyrians from other cities, but also foreigners from across Erdenia. Leveraging the skills of craftsmen and outcasts from across the known world, offering citizenship, and safety from the often-xenophobic oppression seen elsewhere.

Countless aristocrats had sought to exploit these differences, to learn the secrets of this miraculous revival, or to acquire the lands for themselves. At one point the Lord of House Amyntas had been a pariah, isolated from his peers as both a half-blood, and a low-born noble, one who lacked the true noble lineage. Many forgetting the blood that had been spilled to create the conglomeration of unified city-states that was the Mercan League. The blood Cadeyrn had spilt, the many followers he had lost, all to assist the Archon in gaining power… the same Archon their families fought against, who they now bent the knee to.

“My apologies Cadeyrn… oh, sorry again. I realize that is rude, after all you have proper noble line now… how proper is debatable, but it is noble, nonetheless. So, allow me to begin again… Patriarch Amyntas, I remember now that my messenger never returned, eventually I got word that he was last seen held captive by a band of brigands operating somewhere along the forest path to your territory. Balkir’s Mutts is what they call themselves, truly a horrific band of cutthroats… they have managed to elude my patrols numerous times. I can only apologize for the shortcomings of my men. Perhaps a joint operation could rid us of these rats, of course we can decide upon the compensation Myrmien would be entitled to for mobilizing its forces.” Cadeyrn could not believe the shamelessness with which “the toad” made his request. His knuckles were white from clenching, as the Scholar quickly regained control, his breathing slowing and his focus switching to the standoff below.

The Scholar’s eyes remained focused on the young champion as he continued to stare down the drugged beast, slowly backing away as it continued pacing left to right looking for an opening. He made it seem as if he was contemplating “the toad’s” request, yet his eyes never left the youth below. After analyzing the situation his eyes focused in on one area, the blood-soaked ground where the slinger had met his demise. The champion’s slow, methodical retreat was leading him closer to the wall, but also closer to his original weapon.

It was clear to both Maatilani and the Scholar, that if they made the decision to confront Xeander, if they angered him here, the chance to acquire the champion would decrease considerably. He would not appease the man, instead he would remain as neutral as possible, his focus entirely upon keeping the youth alive.

“That will not be necessary friend… but thank you for the offer. I guess you will be happy to know that Balkir and his mutts are very much dead. I made especially certain of that, so there is no longer a need to worry. It is my hope that you will allow the trade and travel along the forest path to continue, consider it a favor for ridding your domain of such a crass group of thieves.” Xeander had been listening up until the point he learned of the bandit’s demise, the cup of sweet-smelling liquid stopped halfway from his lips.

“Oh… if that is true then I must thank you for your assistance in this matter. Did you learn anything from them… what of their treasures?” There was a slight but noticeable pause in his reply, specifically when concerning the information, his grip tightening slightly upon the silver cup. Possibly noticing the suspicious nature of such a question, he quickly added the end about treasure as a means of obscuring the primary purpose.

“No, we were unable to catch any of them alive. My soldiers eliminated the ones that ambushed us, some may have escaped but I believe we killed all of them. Sadly, they refused to surrender and forced my hand…. As for the treasure and goods discovered, that has been liberated for our use, as it was my forces who took such a risk.” Although there was a barely perceptible glint in “the toad’s” eye when the topic of treasure was raised. It was the clear loosening of tensions and release of breath after hearing the lie regarding the bandits, that proved his main fears.

“Well, you are definitely entitled to your spoils… most certainly. However, enough with such pleasantries. I am sure that you have some business with me, otherwise I doubt you would have come to me on your own. So, let us get down to business, shall we?” The previous slovenly expressions were gone, replaced by the predatory gaze of a conniving merchant. Both sides had no intention of backing down, the battlefield would be one of words, not blades.