The crowd went frantic. Caedius stood, clasping Mara’s hand as she looked around in confusion. I sat there, frozen, repeating Barrow’s last words in my head.

“Peace, my friends, peace,” he said. “No demon has invaded our city in centuries. They have been brought from the Frontier for this special purpose. Every warrior has been personally evaluated to make sure they are not in danger. The demons are oracles, unused to combat. Those who refuse to slay these abominations will face each other as usual. Let it be said that no one is forced to participate.”

Lisara spoke for the first time, her sharp voice cutting through the uproar. “They can’t do this. It’s sacrilege to bring demons into the city.”

Johan scratched his cheek. “They’re divine, aren’t they? Can they be sacrilegious towards themselves? Surely they must have the Archon’s approval.”

“I want to go,” said Mara. “Now.”

She ignored Caedius’ pleas and, assuring him that she did not expect him to come, joined the flood of citizens leaving the Amphitheatre. He watched her retreating form with a small frown.

Remaining in formation, the priests returned to the gates, leaving the Four Winds behind. Barrow kept silent, hands clasped behind his back, until the last of them dispersed.

I remained stuck to my seat, clenching my knees with terrified strength. I was afraid for Felix, not myself. All I could do is hope he was not foolish enough to agree to this.

Johan and Lisara stayed as well. I expected the young man to have fled at the first opportunity but instead he leaned forward, hand to his mouth, the very image of excitement. Lisara’s face was carefully blank. Caedius remained standing as if uncertain whether or not to follow Mara; eventually he sat back down.

Lost in thought, I barely paid attention to the rest of the ceremony. I mostly wondered if Jokul had captured the demon who had slain Lyra and wanted to make a public exhibition, but Barrow had claimed the demons were oracles, brought here for that specific purpose. What would possess someone to do that? The Archon wanted to spit in the face of the Goetia and terrify his own populace? I had never heard of any of the Great Cities doing something like this---maybe something similar was done centuries ago, lost in history for good reason.

The Four Winds chanted and danced for several minutes, their shadows grotesque in the torchlight. When the ritual ended the three hooded figures left through their respective gates, leaving Barrow behind.

“We begin,” he said, “with the conventional fights. There will be four bouts of single combat, followed by an interlude before the main event.”

He bowed to the crowd four times, turning smartly on his heels to face each direction. Silence followed him as he disappeared into the northern gate.

An announcer declared the combatants of the first match. I forgot their names the moment after he said them. Two scarred brutes emerged onto the sands, facing each other with weapons at the ready. They saluted each other by holding their weapons to their foreheads.

The announcer blew his horn and they charged. None of the careful circling of duelists or the finesse of the legato, just a roared challenge and a clash. The wielder of the short sword used a buckler, slapping the spear away and attempting to slip within the reach of his opponent’s weapon. The spear wielder respected his opponent’s defense after their first exchange and moved backwards with tight, careful steps to stymie his advance.

As they fought I realized how childish my own fight with Johan had been. The wisps of pride from my victory faded away. Either of these men would have made short work of me. Their styles lacked refinement but they were confident and disciplined..

People throughout the crowd held up their fingers and pointed at each other, shouting names and numbers. Caedius explained these were bets being formed throughout the stadium. The participants signaled odds and verdicts for others to challenge. How tempting.

The match lasted for several minutes until the swordsman won out on stamina. The spearholder missed a beat and was punished with a deep gash to his left forearm. After that it was a matter of clean up. The swordsman chipped away at his opponent until he wore down his defenses and sent his weapon flying.

Disarmed, the spearholder knelt in defeat. The victor tapped him on the shoulder with the flat of his blade, granting him mercy. An old tradition; the unwritten rules of most City Games expected the fighters not to act like bloodthirsty animals.

The next four matches followed the same pattern. Felix competed in none of them, though I held out hope that he had refused to participate altogether. A silly wish. He would never back down from something like this. The idea would have amused him or, depending on his mood, caused deep offense.

After the last bout Barrow emerged from the North Gate.

“The prima morte will now commence. Those who doubt our wisdom, this is your last chance to depart.” He turned on his heels slowly, his intense gaze washing over the arena. When he faced my way I clenched my hands in my lap. Barrow nodded. “Then, brave souls, I announce to you the first hero of the night: Onash!"

Onash was the second greatest fighter in Odena, though he was no real competition for Jokul. He was a brute of a man with a sword nearly as notched as himself. Between the plates of his half-armor I could see an assortment of scars from past battles. The cheers of the crowd, though subdued, energized him to lift his greatsword to the opponent's gate and roared.

Over a minute passed before the oracle made its appearance.. Golden robes adorned with full moons and withered trees trailed behind it in the sand. White skin stretched tight over an angular skull. Though the distance made it impossible to be certain, it appeared to have no facial features at all, like one of Volario Faske’s mannequins fitted in the costume of a play wizard.

Instead of walking, the oracle appeared to glide over the sand as it approached Onash in the middle. Taking its spot in the center of the arena, it slipped its hands out of its sleeves and bowed over them. Its fingernails were golden talons.

“Greetings, Tec Cithun.” No visible mouth moved. Its voice was a low buzz, like an insect speaking. It was not loud but its words penetrated deep.

Onash roared.

Creases appeared along the oracle’s skin; all at once dozens of eyes opened along its exposed body, frantic and disconcertingly human. The demon began to glide backwards but it was far too slow. Onash charged. His first swing was not a killing blow, merely taking off the hand of its upraised arm in a spray of blue ichor. The second opened the oracle up from shoulder to hip.

The demon attempted to push itself back together and for a moment I expected it to succeed. It fell to its knees, arms at its side, and the great wound gaped wider and wider until the oracle’s upper body collapsed into the sand. Its lower body remained upright. Organs the color of an old bruise glistened within its torso.

Onash took careful aim before removing its head in one chop. Heedless of the ichor staining his skin, the warrior lifted the demon's head to the ground, turning so all could witness his kill. The applause was hesitant.

Barrow emerged from the north gate. “For the first time in centuries, a demon had been killed in Avanchean territory. We have all been raised with myths and legends about the Goetia’s immortal servants. Here you see the truth for yourselves. They fear us. They bleed. They can be killed.”

He waved a hand and the oracle’s body floated away through the north gate. A flip of his wrist made the sand swirl until a fresh layer obscured the demon’s blood.

“Well,” said Johan, leaning back, chin propped up on his fist, “as tactless as it may be to say out loud, I believe most people understand the difference between an oracle and a warrior. This is no different than the demons throwing a pregnant woman into combat with their elite.”

“I think there is quite a difference,” said Caedius.

“Do you?” Lisara stood, still not bothering to glance at any of us. “I’m growing weary of this spectacle.”

“Let me walk you back,” said Johan.

“No, I am quite capable of walking myself. Stay here with your new friends.”

The big acolyte looked crestfallen as she walked away. He removed his spectacles, folded them, unfolded them, and slid them back onto his nose. “Lisara is sensitive. She doesn’t like large crowds.”

When no one responded the big man lapsed into silence. I tried to eavesdrop on the conversations around us but most people were smart enough to keep their voices hushed. After Onash departed through the Gate of Life a half of the remaining crowd dispersed, their bloodlust sated or the novelty of the situation usurped by common sense. I, of course, was not wise enough to leave. If anything occurred I had up to an hour warning to get my friends as far as possible. I couldn't stay much longer but I wanted to at least see if Felix was here.

“Next,” said Barrow, "The third-legato warrior Larosso will pit himself against our ancestral foes.”

Spear clenched at his side, Larosso jogged into the middle of the sand, waving at the crowd with his free hand as if unsure what to do. The few cheers and claps rang out awkwardly over the near total silence of the crowd. I worried what kind of people chose to remain here, watching this spectacle. It felt like a fatal curiosity.

The second oracle was identical to the first, and when it glided to the middle of the arena it also greeted its opponent as Tec Cithun. Perhaps they were all one great, interconnected mind, expressing itself through a multitude of oracles.

Larosso also had no interest in what the oracle had to say. The demon resigned itself to its fate, bowing over its hands as the spearman lunged forward. Even when the blade and haft of the spear skewered it through the heart, the oracle did not so much as flinch. No eyes appeared along its exposed skin. Perhaps each of them were different individuals after all. What kind of role did they play in the society of the Goetia? Were they monks or priests, being slaughtered for entertainment?

Barrow announced Felix next.

My friend looked very small and alone in that arena. He held his head straight, shoulders back, like a soldier ready for inspection. I knew he would have no trouble. His opponent would not even fight back. Still, I couldn't help but imagine how I would feel down there, a thousand faces watching, the hilt of my sword slick with sweat. My stomach felt queasy even as I told myself Felix wouldn’t care, that he lived for combat. But this was an execution. This wasn’t what he trained so hard for.

His oracle glided out to meet him. Unlike its predecessors this one tilted its head to the side as it faced him. A single eye opened in the center of its forehead. They faced each other for at least ten seconds, and though I could hear nothing, I was certain the demon was communicating with him.

Then Felix nodded sharply and drove his sword through the demon’s chest. The oracle looked down at the blossoming blue stain on its robes as if surprised. Felix’s next blow chopped halfway through its neck. The third finished the deed.

The demon’s head rolled in the sand. Its unblinking eye stared at the moon.

After my friend disappeared through the gate, I knew it was time to leave. If I used my power now I could still leave around the time the first matches between warriors began. Before I could ask the others if they wanted to leave, Barrow made his final appearance onto the sand.

"For those that have remained, a final display between a demon warrior and the greatest swordsman in Avanche: Champion Jokul."

What little remained of the initial crowd made enough noise to put the previous cheers to shame. Caedius shook my shoulder and whistled until he was red in the face. I smiled indulgently.

Jokul had remained undefeated for over a hundred bouts. Rumors told of superior swordsmen, reclusive monks with no name and quasi-divine beings who chose to remain in the shadows. But no one mattered more to enthusiasts of the Arena and the countless children who fought each other with wooden swords.

That night he wore only a pair of woolen trousers, his sharp cheekbones and the hard lines of his body limned in shadow. He held his green-ribboned sword at his side. After emerging from the Gate of Life he waited in the center of the arena, ignoring the crowd completely, focused on the opposite gate.

The woman in the dark robes nearly flew out, a single leap eating half the distance between her and the Champion. She tossed her robes away, revealing a parody of the human body---near skeletal, too many joints crammed together, smooth skin so translucent one could see the cords of muscle shifting beneath. Chitinous plating gleamed blackly along her arms and up the sides of her neck; the talons at her fingertips ended in wicked points.

My fingernails bit into my palms as I clenched my hands. This was the demon that had killed Lyra, or at least one with an identical face. And here, infront of everyone, I knew Jokul would win. If not, I would finish it myself, consequences be damned. This whole thing was stupid, but they could not be so foolish as to actually have their best warrior lose this fight for all to see.

Her next leap carried her into Jokul's waiting sword. Steel sparked against chitinous plating as she deflected with one of her arms. The force of their awkward impact thrust them in opposite directions, the Champion backpedaling to avoid falling backwards. He recovered an instant before she did, his stumbling transforming into fluid footwork as he went on the offensive.

I recognized part of what he was doing from manuals I had read about the legato. Diagrams could do no justice to watching the forms performed by a master. The Champion attacked in a series of strikes that flowed one into another, and though the demon turned aside all of them, his movements appeared so natural it seemed as if the demon's responses were all part of his dance.

They sped up as the clash continued, sand spraying about them. I understood why they called the bladeforms the legato, a musical term meaning a smooth, continuous sequence. Within them was every movement a fighter could make, and a true master could find the way each movement was connected, even if one note was from the first legato and another from the ninth. Jokul seemed to allow the momentum of their battle to increase his speed, even spinning once---something any blademaster would scold a student for.

The Champion drew first blood, a shallow laceration along her neck and clavicle. Despite all her agility and the unnatural movement granted her by her many-jointed body, she was finished at that moment. The whirlwind of the Champion only grew stronger, his blade chipping away at the plating on her arms, the tempo building until in her desperation the demon left her lower half completely exposed.

He ducked low and swept her legs out from underneath her. In the air there is only so much a body can do, bound as it was by the laws of gravity. Jokul spun once more and, using all of the force he had been accumulating since their first touch, chopped precisely through her neck before she hit the ground.

After the demon collapsed her head rolled away, making it a few feet before coming to a stop facing upwards. Ichor sprayed onto the sand from the demon's neck. The body twitched a few times before coming a standstill, the arterial gush of blue declining to a trickle.

Dead. The bastard who killed Lyra was dead. But still, the disconcerting expression on her face wiped away any pleasure I felt at the fact. She was smiling as she looked up at the moon.