When someone doesn’t understand something, they tend to cobble together a description from what they do understand. The queen understands swords, but not why (or how) one could possibly reject her. She sees them as tools, with mere sentimental value attaching one to a specific person for any length of time. If they die, another will pick it up, or it will be left to rot. Tools don’t have feelings.

Of course, a sword Energetically attuned to me and me alone throws that out the window.

The ground shifts like wet clay as she pushes me out of the stone prison, all the while fixing me with a bemused expression.

“You lack years of training. Endless exercises, combat experience, countless mentors… you have none. You will have none. This place was never designed to teach, only promote the growth of power. The young, that only learned to fight once arriving here, found that they quickly grew as talented as the best warriors were before we came here, but they understood nothing. Power is cheap, strength is unearned, and it evokes only weakness. But…” She stares at me, searching. For what, I can’t say, but my best guess is: she wants to know how I could stand against her. She’d probably be disappointed to learn it’s just Energy being excessively strong against those who don’t know it exists, or how it can be used.

“I… have been here too long. Zathis trapped me here so long ago that I can only remember the time before in fitful dreams that haunt what little rest I manage. This place… allows a solution. When the dungeon has been emptied, everything resets to how it was before, in the moment we were placed here as fixtures… mementos to a dead people.” Doesn’t this place reset after every round of contestants? But… if it didn’t, and Zathis hid this place from every species that followed… she could have been living here, unable to die or grow or anything for...

“You want me to kill you.” Our eyes lock, and no further words pass between us. Rationalizing killing her is too easy, but that isn’t the sticking point. “Then, you want me to come back and best you, after the system has reset you, at the height your ability?”

A twisted expression passes over her face, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s a smile from someone grossly out of practice. She raises herself up on her lengthy arms, standing a whole head above me, and says simply: “Yes.”

“I lost this time. How would that improve with you being even stronger? If I won, what help could you offer, trapped as your are?” Not that it matters, I sincerely doubt I’ll come back soon. This was more of an exercise to train us to fight as a team, not an endeavor to get involved in some ancient politics.

“True, you may die, but I think the version of me from back then will realize the same thing I have, and, perhaps, teach you.”

“You’re… serious? You’re here to kill people like me. Doesn’t the system give you some kind of reward? Some promise of power or happiness or freedom if you kill enough of us?”

The grimace of a smile disappears. At least she has the shame to acknowledge it.

“You think, when I have reset, that I will be so short sighted as to embrace the trivial promises of freedom?”

“I think you could convince yourself it was for your people. That you would shoulder any burden, commit any crime, if it meant a chance for them.”

“... You may well be correct. I suppose you will have to be very convincing, unless you plan on leaving me here.” The statement isn’t accusatory, but it does have a strong implication of violence behind it.

“I won't... leave you like this, but why do you care if I come back? Isn’t it enough for you to be spared from knowing how long you’ve been trapped here?”

She lowers her gaze, finally breaking away. Gently, she lowers herself back down so that her feet touch the ground.

“Perhaps it is meaningless, but, as you can see, the Dwarves failed this trial. Perhaps your people will succeed. I know not how many others have failed before you, but… a chance exists. If I must have this conversation with a million entities, I will, but where I have lost faith in my own ability to escape this prison, I believe… I have to believe that if a people succeeded in the trial, that they could… repay us for any aid we gave.” Her eyes turn back to me, holding a strangely human expression of hope.

Is that the answer? Offer freedom to all these imprisoned races and have them join me? What a laughable way to circumvent the intended method of killing everything and clawing your way to the top. If only I had the Energy to spare to form another bond… but I don’t, and a bond with her would be mostly useless to me. She can’t leave this place, and I sincerely doubt I could figure out a way to get her out. I could use the bond to keep her in line if I came back, but… I don’t think I’m going to. At the very least, not before I have a reason to. Perhaps she would be a useful resource for training me to weave magic into swordplay...

Slowly, I walk over and pick up my sword. “Cerberus, how’s Lauren?”

“She breathes.”

Nodding, I turn back to Syndarus.

Wordlessly, she takes her strange fighting stance, levelling her sword straight out behind her. At an unspoken cue, we burst towards each other, but this time, I’ve thrown conservation to the wayside in favor of raw speed and power. At the rate I’m burning Energy, I could probably fight for thirty seconds before my Will failed me.

Our first exchange shows how her wounds have impacted her, and how mine have long vanished. The clashes are deafening, and my advance continues unabated. With her will to fight greatly diminished, she can barely manage a fighting retreat. Her sword was damaged in our first fight, and the brutal blows she’s forced to absorb with it only worsen its condition. I smash her blade aside, only to have her try to use the force against me, expecting me to recoil from the sheer power in each strike, but I’m already advancing again, pushing her to turn her riposte into deflections just to avoid being eviscerated.

Energy isn’t like Stamina, where it’s an effort to keep a constant level of speed and strength. Instead, it burns at exactly the same rate, giving exactly the same power, until the combustion is stopped manually, or by lack of fuel. The difference is negligible at first, but the wounds, atrophy, and dwindling Stamina quickly spell the end for her frantic defence.

She’s too slow, her parry too awkward, the angle all wrong, and her blade shatters along with her forearm. The metal fragments rain around us as the hilt clatters to the ground, and her efforts to push herself into an upright position fail. She looks up at me, bleeding from the floor, defiance burning in her gaze. In that moment, staring down at her, I feel a heavy weight. I don’t want to kill her. I should, but I don’t… want to do it. I want to ask Lauren or Cerberus to do it.

And be just like Nate, making others do yo-

“DIE!” I scream the unbidden words, slicing cleanly through her neck, freezing the head and upper body solid in the process. My body heaves with each breath, a mix of shame, embarrassment, and a rush of pleasure from the massive influx of Power. I hate the mix. It’s wrong. This is wrong.

I flinch when someone touches my shoulder, almost ready to swing wildly at the perceived threat, but my sword falls from my hands.

“I…” But the words don’t come.

“What… was that at the end?” Lauren. Worried.

“I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to make you do it, and… I hated myself for thinking that was ok.”

A hug. Warmth, comfort, and some of the tension melts away. It’s so much harder when they’re not a monster.