Galier was shocked to see Jormand enter the arena for the melee. No other noble had entered and the other contestants were all soldiers, most indentured from what he had heard and no quarter was to be given. It was a shock to everyone, judging by the gasps and pointed fingers.

Galier quickly became worried watching his friend, who was wearing considerably less armor than his adversaries and looked to be just as confused as Galier himself, fend off attacker after attacker. By the time there were only three men left, Galier felt he had sweated through his shirt and jacket from worry. Jormand was clearly not in a good situation. Two men were closing in on him and he kept backing up until he was nearly against the wall. Was he injured? Galier could not tell but he had rarely seen his friend look so cornered in a fight before.

Galier kept looking to lord Ealhold to do something but the man only watched from his balcony, impassively observing the combat below, his stoney features remained schooled to absolute stillness in contrast to his gathered horde of spectators. The crowd cheered as loudly when it looked like Jormand had no escape as they did when he took his opponents down brutally. Galier knew his friend wasn’t well liked but it still shocked him to see so many cheering for his death. The only others he saw who seemed uneasy with it were the pair of ladies sat across from him in the stands who only whispered to each other as the melee progressed, never changing despite the combat below them.

As the sand slowly transitioned from dull beige to scarlet, Galier found himself inching to the edge of the bench on which he sat. He had left his cushion behind him long before the bout ended but he did not care whether his trousers were damaged by the rough stone. Down below he could see Jormand’s strength and will flagging. He had watched the man fight before on many occasions, in Galier’s own defense at least once, and the constant retreating and hesitation did not have him feeling well. He remembered Jormand charging across surging decks to tackle armed enemies or leaping over heaped bodies to deliver a sundering blow but never the cautious testing and pacing he saw now.

Even now that he faced only a single foe, Galier worried for Jormand’s chances. His motions had become sluggish and even though he moved confidently, Galier could see that his strength was failing. When Jormand finally rushed towards his opponent, Galier winced and turned away, unwilling to watch. He heard the crash of bronze shields and the vicious cry of the audience but they quieted soon. The bout must still be going. Galier hesitantly looked back to the stage floor. Jormand’s sword dripped blood and his opponent bore no shield now, instead he held an axe in a one handed grip. Even as Galier relaxed back into his seat, confident in his friend’s abilities, the two men clashed and in what seemed like a single heartbeat, Jormand stood over the lifeless body of the other fighter. Jormand raised his arms to the cheering crowd and Galier slumped forward, head in his hands as he willed his body to stop shuddering. As much as the nobles cheered for him now, Galier knew that Jormand had come very near losing, dying, and they would have cheered the same. Around Jormand, all that was left were corpses. He had come very close to joining them. The prospect of these games was suddenly significantly less appealing to Galier.

After a while of the crowd cheering and Jormand looking up to them with sweat matted hair and haggard expression, he was tugged back through the door he came from by a woman in a white dress. A medic, Galier hoped. The audience all trooped out of their seats and back to the stairs in a rush of vibrant color that Galier let pass by, heedless to the flow of the crowd breaking around him. They would be returning to the patio to chat while they waited for the next event but Galier did not join them, he doubted if he could talk about the fight in a courtly manner at all so he stayed in place. He stared towards the stage floor as burly servants dragged away the corpses and stripped them of their equipment. Galier doubted it would be used again tonight, it would be bad form and frankly less appealing to watch. He could not take his eyes from the patches of red on the sand.

Galier shuddered, his skin felt clammy, the fight was over but he could not get it out of his head. He closed his eyes and heard the sounds again, the clashing metal and nauseating blunt impacts of weapons on exposed flesh. Defiant, he forced his eyes wide and looked away from the stage, to the empty seats across from him.

It was slow, painfully slow. His eyes were well past stinging and his jaw clenched so hard he feared his teeth would crack. But he waited, and he breathed and he waited.

His mood began to improve as he sat. The first event was certainly the most dangerous, he had known that from the start. The other two were only duels. Jormand excelled at duels. He would do well in duels and Galier would think about that. Duels were something he was familiar with, intimately so.

Galier was ashamed to admit that still bothered him, that Jormand far surpassed his own skill in combat. Even after finding his place among the upper echelons of society, it still bothered Galier that his childhood friend held the upper hand so securely. They had grown up together, had the same instructors, had the same experiences but Jormand had always been better, always that hair faster and that much stronger. Back then, it had not interested Galier so much, he did not care greatly but now he saw that prowess for what it was: another way to cement one’s place in society and an outland lord could use all of those chances he could get.

Galier was still watching the stage floor and idly twisting his soulstone ring when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. When he turned he was surprised to find the lady Adelphine standing behind him expectantly. Like many southern houses of the old blood, she was olive skinned and had dark eyes, so dark the dashes of forest green seemed bright by comparison. Her elaborately styled hair was dark too, nearly black and tonight woven into a long pair of braids held with gold cuffs. Of course they matched her crimson dress and evocative makeup.

She did not frown but neither did she smile as she took the seat next to him without, invitation. She too looked out onto the arena but did not speak. Content to not provoke her, Galier did not either. Instead he gazed intently at the bloodstained sand below, he could look now without panic taking hold, so he did, he had to. It had begun to shift colors from red to brown as it mixed with the sand and dried. It was impure blood, perhaps diseased, certainly below his notice. It should not have bothered Galier so. He continued to twirl his ring around one finger, then another. It should not have bothered him.

“Is it yours?”

Galier was surprised by the question. He looked to Adelphine, confused. “What?” He asked bluntly.

“Your ring. The stone. Is it… yours?” She indicated the small stone set in his otherwise plain gold ring. It glowed faintly in the dim light.

“Oh. Yes, it is mine.” He firmly set it back onto the third finger of his left hand, consciously moving his fidgeting fingers away.

“I’ve heard northmen do that. Wear their own soulstones.” She wrinkled her nose, a very strange look with her makeup smoothed features. “It seems strange, like carrying your own tombstone around.”

He frowned at her, feeling slightly offended by the comment but from her expression, it seemed she had no ill will so he simply shrugged, letting the frown slip away. “I never really thought about it,” He said, partially mumbling to himself. “It's just what people do, like wearing shoes or shirts…” He trailed off, still looking down towards the drying blood.

“Well not everyone wears shirts,” She stated, not letting up. “I’ve seen the sailors down in the harbor district, they don’t always wear shoes either.” She said it with such enthusiasm, as if what she’d said really had any meaning. Galier shook his head. For all their political acumen, many Maerinen nobles he had met knew very little else. Or seemed to.

“I suppose they don't at that.” He responded, hoping that would be the end of it but it seemed Adelphine had other plans.

“How do you know?”

That question caught him off guard. Again, all he could muster was a dull “What?”

“How do you know it's yours?” Again she pointed to his ring.

“I…” He stammered, taken aback by the question. It wasn’t something talked about often. It was personal. Your soulstone was yours the same way your skin was yours or your eyes were yours. It felt like someone had stripped him of his clothes and asked him to dance a jig.

“I don’t really know. I can just know it.” He placed a finger on the faintly glowing stone. He could almost feel it moving, the way the stone appeared to be filled with mist. It made his skin tingle just slightly.

Adelphine shook her head as if what he said was entirely unreasonable but appeared to be content with letting the topic go. She did not move to leave though and after his initial annoyance, Galier gradually began to appreciate the silent company. Starting down onto the stage that had just moments before born the bleeding corpses of strong, healthy men was made easier, he felt, with a breathing body beside him. Not the faceless, blood crazed mob of the spectators but Adelphine seemed just as somber as he, after her questions were through.

From time to time Galier caught himself sneaking a glance over his shoulder. Adelphine sat primly on the stone bench, as if it were a throne built just for her. She barely shifted and when she did, she made it seem regal. The way these southern lords and ladies carried themselves always impressed Galier, they moved so naturally, like a stalking cat yet with the precision of soldiers on parade. It was as if it were bred into them, just another part of them. Galier often felt jealous of that quality. In his youth, not a day was spent to teach him the ways of court, not a minute devoted to how to act in society. His time had been dedicated to things deemed more necessary or practical. He could scarcely remember a time when he did not know how to sail, nor the day he had first picked up a spear. He could fashion a knife from stone if he found the right one but he still forgot which knife to use at the banquet table. He moved with all the grace of a bear, looming over the Maerinen, and now, as he sat next to the model of southern composure, he felt inadequate. More than that, he felt like a child meant to fill the armor of a man. That was not new to him.

Together they sat and watched the empty arena, unspeaking and tense in the cooling night, until the other audience members began to trickle back in in pairs or small groups, all talking about the delightful entertainment. Adelphine took her leave and Galier remained in place. The bloodstains were brown now. Lifeless. They could have been dirt for all the grace they were shown as the next batch of contestants entered the arena.

This time, Galier was not surprised to see Jormand make an appearance. His clothes seemed to have been hastily mended and he did not seem to be injured. He still carried the same sword he had left the field with but held a new shield, the paint unscrathed. This event would be safer. A simple bout of duels. To first blood, any killing would be frowned upon. Still, each contestant was encased in painted bronze. Galier was relieved to see Jormand was as well this time, though the molded breastplate looked to be slightly small on him. The group of about a dozen contestants was led back through the doors they had come from after a circuit of the arena to a round of cheers. Galier joined it, out of necessity. This time he had his reputation on the line, and not a small purse of silver. He could not let himself stew in worry all night. He would not let himself. By the time the first pair began their bout, he felt his spirits had been significantly lifted, their feet broke the settled patches of brown and mixed them into the sand. It was just sand again.

Galier did not know the contestants but by the shouts from onlookers, he was certain who had bet on them, they included a few he meant to collect from before the night was over. After the excitement of the opening melee, the standard Maerinen duels were dull, relaxing in their safety but dull. Each of the first three bouts followed the same path. One fighter attacked, another countered, they separated and repeated until one made a small mistake none of the audience could see and the bout was called. One contestant would sulk off clutching a small wound. They never left a straight line and rarely moved more than a few paces. That was until the fourth bout when Jormand exited the doors to the usual roar of applause along with his rival, a slim, tall woman bedecked in incredibly intricate, moulded armor who carried a long spear and a small shield. She still stood only to her opponent’s shoulders. By comparison, Jormand’s wide, short sword and broad shield looked clumsy but he strolled out confidently with a rolling stride, turning to the crowd and raising his brawny arms to their cheers. It only stoked the fires of their adulation, they yelled and cheered until lord Ealhold was forced to quiet them with a shout.

Jormand and his opponent took up their positions and the bout began. At first, it went like any other. The woman took a few graceful steps forward, the last of which suddenly turned into a long lunge, her spear suddenly covering the entire distance between them. Jormand easily batted it out of the way with his shield and then the fight changed. Instead of delivering the measured repost that was expected, Jormand hunkered down behind his shield and ran across the small stretch of sand, ramming into the other fighter before she had time to brace. The crowd drew in a collective gasp. She fell to the ground and dropped her spear. Jormand did not hesitate, he stepped forward, placing one booted foot onto her molded breastplate and struck with his sword, landing a cut on her exposed chin. That was it, the bout ended mere moments after it had begun.

The crowd screeched at the unexpected turn and Jormand turned to raise his sword in a clenched fist. His vanquished opponent stood groggily and shuffled off towards the doors, head bowed. Jormand followed her after a minute, still shouting back to the audience as he made his way back. He played the audience as well as his opponents. Never before had Galier seen him so effortlessly ingratiate himself with the nobility.

The next bout was about as interesting as the first, both victor and defeated seemed equally matched and followed the course set for them by tradition, but the last match caught Galier’s attention again. At first, it had appeared like many of the others and he barely paid attention, he had no bet riding on its outcome. Both contestants tested each other and countered and tested again but as it dragged on, one of the two fighters, a young woman wearing light naval armor and carrying a short handled axe, began to shift to the side of her opponent. Slowly at first, as if she was favoring one side. But then suddenly, as her opponent, a short man with a bushy beard that stuck out under his helmet, charged forward for an attack, she leaped to the other side, he corrected the wrong way, and she scored a surprisingly small cut on his bare forearm with a cut from her axe. The crowd was shocked to silence for a moment, but their cheers came back, louder than ever as the fighters left the stage floor. She did not stay for their attention.

The stage was quiet for a moment. A few men ran out to collect dropped equipment but Galier found himself searching the crowd instead. They talked amongst themselves, he could hear their excited murmurs and could see coins changing hands as those who had bet incorrectly paid out what they owed. That was something Galier knew. He had only bet on Jormand’s fight that round and would be collecting quite the sum after the entertainment was through. He would need to make sure none could slip away this time.

The next round of bouts began. Each contestant who had lost was eliminated, leaving a half dozen remaining, each of which strutted around arrogantly, as if they were guaranteed the next victory. These bouts lasted longer, the opponents were much more evenly matched. The first bout went as expected. The contestants tested and countered for longer but in the end, one fighter was victorious and the other left the arena with his head hanging low and one hand clasping a long cut on his shoulder. The next match was even more well matched. It dragged on and on. The two fighters became visibly weary, their movements becoming sluggish and their steps unsure. The dull ring of metal on metal began to grate on Galier’s ears. Eventually, after countless short clashes, the bout came to an end with both contestants wounded. They were both eliminated and left the arena eyeing one another angrily.

At the beginning of the third match, Galier sat forward, interested to see what would come. Jormand was paired with the youth who had caught Galier’s attention before and the fight was fascinating, as he had expected it would be. Without the need for elegant pretense, both fighters engaged in fierce, long winded clashes, several of which resulted in them backing away with visible damage to their armor. The very top of Jormand’s feather crest was sheared off quickly in the first such engagement, his opponent’s shield was split in the next. After that, they both were more wary. They stalked each other like weasels in circles, leaving a trace in the sand where they dragged their feet.

The fight dragged longer even than the previous one but the audience did not seem to mind. They would wait in silent anticipation as the fighters circled one another, looking for the slightest opening. Then, when one struck, the crowd would let out a unanimous, wordless roar, then fall to silence again. It continued this way for some time until, in their last clash, the youth raised her shield to block Jormand’s strike and it did not hold. A few splinters flew away, surprisingly little for the resounding CRACK that echoed throughout the arena but when Jormand stepped back, the edge of his sword was crimson with blood along half the length of one edge. His opponent staggered away, cradling her shield arm but Jormand paid her no mind. He raised his arms to the crowd and sauntered a circuit around the stage, head thrown back as he soaked in the gathered nobles’ adulation. As he passed his defeated opponent, he did not seem to even pay her a glance.

No one watching spared a second glance for the defeated youth who stumbled to a stop at the door, nearly keeling over when a woman in a nondescript white dress appeared to carry her through. Galier winced at the amount of blood she left behind. It left a trail of vivid red spots in the sand. Galier forced himself to tear his eyes away from it.

Jormand stayed in the arena, gloating over his victory until he was escorted out the doors by the same woman in the white dress. Her front was splattered in red now, not an insignificant amount either.

After the arena was cleared, the audience waited impatiently. They talked amongst themselves about the fight they had just witnessed, relishing the brutality. They were used to a more refined sport of it but it seemed they were delighting in the change. Galier heard them whispering about how northmen fought unfairly but they said it in such a way that it sounded like praise. Galier instinctively hunkered down to avoid notice. He was familiar with the accusations leveled at his people, not all unwarranted and he knew to avoid the topic when it was broached. He did not feel like being alone anymore.

It seemed the final bout was not destined to come any time soon and the muttering audience continued to make him feel uncomfortable. He stood hesitantly, hunching his shoulders and walking with a stoop. Still, he towered over the sitting nobility. He made his way around the arc of the seating gallery towards lord Ealhold’s balcony. At the small staircase that led to the balcony, he encountered a pair of guards dressed lavishly in intricately painted bronze with tall, striped crests on their helmets. They let him pass without incident, it was known he was on good terms with the lord and lady Ealhold.

Galier climbed the steps and as he did, he felt his tension lessen. He stood straighter, glad to be away from the sharp eyes of the gathered crowd. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he felt refreshed, even though he was not so far away, it made the difference. Tegrimm Ealhold stood to greet him, he stood at least as tall as Galier, perhaps a little taller and his shoulders were broader but he looked so at ease as he surveyed his gathering. He managed to fit into the part of a Maerinen lord so well. His hair was slightly darkened and greased back to hide the curls. His short beard and mustache kept in careful check and his face was well accented by a touch of makeup. His coat was well cared for, a tight fitting garment that stopped at his waist, the dark blue fabric embroidered heavily in silver. It was fastened with a well tooled belt on which hung a scabbard decorated in silver. If not for the soulstone ring so conspicuously on his finger, he could have been a lord of the old blood, if perhaps a little taller than normal.

“Ah, young lord Caerest, it is a pleasure to see you, as always.” Even his measured tone of voice and practiced speech was a perfect mirror of southern society.

“And you. You’ve managed quite the event here. I think it will be talked about for some time.” Galier said. Tegrimm motioned to a small wooden chair to the side of the platform. Galier gladly took a seat.

“Thank you but, as you well know this was all Eliah’s doing. I am but the figurehead tonight.” He chuckled to himself good naturedly as he took his seat again.

“Oh I am sure you are doing yourself a disservice. Being a figurehead can be hard work too.” Galier said, laughing politely himself. “It is a shame your wife could not be here this evening, I hope she is well.”

“Yes she is quite well, unfortunately she had some business that could not be postponed…” Tegrimm trailed off. He was looking down the staircase at some commotion.

When Galier turned to look, he saw the guards blocking the entrance with crossed spears. In front of them, standing just as elegantly as ever was Adelphine again. When he looked over, she met his eyes and raised an eyebrow at him as if to question why she was being kept back. He was surprised by her continued attention, especially after what Jormand had said back at the inn but Galier could not deny he was glad of it, at least for the moment.

“Is she with you?” Tegrimm asked, indicating Adelphine’s current situation with the guards.

“Oh yes, I suppose so.” Galier responded. He was still surprised to see her there.

Tegrimm motioned to his guards to let Adelphine through and she began to climb the stairs without a second glance at them. When she arrived at the stop of the stairs, she gave a formal bow to Tegrimm, her arms stiffly at her sides and her back straight as a board. Tegrimm responded with a slight nod.

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Tegrimm said in a smooth courtly voice. “I hope you are enjoying yourself tonight.”

“The pleasure is mine, lord Ealhold, I am honored.” Adelphine replied. She spared a sidelong glance for Galier, he could have sworn he saw her smile. “This evening has been marvelous, you are certainly a man of taste, my lord.”

Tegrimm smiled graciously. “You flatter me, lady…“ He trailed off questioningly.

“Adelphine.” She said, a deep blush rising on her face, Galier could see it even through her makeup.

“Lady Adelphine. I invite you to watch this next match from here, I assure you the view is far better.” He turned to walk back to the edge of the balcony, pausing a moment to smile at Galier and gently grasp his shoulder. “Come now you two, I believe our wait is at an end.”

Galier and Adelphine stepped up to where Tegrimm stood at the end of the balcony. They exchanged awkward glances and then both turned to look studiously at the arena below. Her being there made Galier sweaty. He was not used to women expressing any actual interest in him beyond a few hours. It made his stomach queasy all over again.

Jormand and his opponent were taking the stage now, both men shouting back at the crowd that cheered for them. They made a full circle in the sand before striding to the center and taking up stances.

The final match began and the three of them gathered close to the end of the balcony. Galier saw now why Tegrimm did not take his seat, the arena below would have been half obscured by the lip of the balcony. Galier and Adelphine stood a respectful pace back from their host as he began the match with a formal wave of his hand.

Excitement gripped Galier immediately. Gone now were his worries over Jormand’s safety. He even began to feel sorry for his friend’s opponent. Jormand commanded the field immediately. Every move he made pushed back his opponent and the poor man was unable to do anything but block and retreat. Jormand still carried the same short sword but now it was beginning to show signs of wear. Each of his strikes landed nearer to flesh but it was clear the bronze could not take the punishment for much longer. His opponents armor was not faring much better. The paint had been scraped off in many places on his shield and helm, revealing bronze that was now dented as well.

Jormand chased his foe relentlessly around the arena, harrying him with small strikes so he could not retaliate with his own sword. Occasionally, he would drop into a guard stance and try to make a stand, hunkering behind his shield, but without fail, Jormand would defeat his attempts and put him on the run again. Again and again the same series of events, neither could get a strike on the other so the fight continued.

The noise from the crowd was deafening. Each strike from Jormand’s blade was accompanied by a roar so loud it was a wonder Jormand was able to focus. The clashing of metal on metal echoed around the arena so the sound of a strike sounded as if it came from behind or to the side or out of time. It was easy to get caught up in the spectacle. Galier no longer felt queasy when he caught a sight of a bloodstain on the sand and he was moved to cheer along with the crowd for his friend. Beside him, Tegrimm grinned wolfishly at the sport. His sinewy hands were clasped before him so tightly they had begun to turn white. The lord leaned forward eagerly and even though he did not make a sound, Galier could tell he itched to draw that ornate sword at his side and fight in the arena himself.

Adelphine did not hold herself back nearly as much. Her eyes were wide and feral and she raised a clenched fist to cheer. Her teeth were bared and she screamed so harshly it was a wonder she could still make a sound. The sight startled Galier. She, like all southern women and men he had met, maintained a calm, unshakeable exterior at all times, so far as he could tell. The reckless abandon she showed now, so fascinated by the fight she nearly fell off of the balcony’s edge, made Galier’s neck tingle. He felt out of place, but still he smiled. No eyes were on him now, nobody could keep their attention off of the fight.

Through the din, Galier thought he heard a footstep behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder but saw nothing. The balcony was empty. Thinking it must have been the echo, he turned back towards the fight just in time to see Jormand’s battered bronze sword careening through the air towards the balcony, turning end over end as it rushed towards him. It clattered against the stone just below the balcony and Galier collapsed to the floor by reflex. Adelphine and Tegrimm followed a moment later, just as the sweep of a blade from behind meant for their necks whipped along its path. The slim dagger lodged in Adelphine’s cheek and she opened her mouth to let out a scream unable to be heard over the crowd. Something was happening below in the arena. Blood already streamed down her neck and onto her dress. It dripped to the floor into a small puddle now slowly extending its borders. Galier was transfixed by it. He did not even notice Tegrimm drawing his sword barely a foot away.

Galier heard a muttered curse behind him that shook him back to his senses. He turned about, still crouching on the floor. A man stood behind them clad all in dark, unornamented linen, another blade was already in his hand and he lunged towards Tegrimm, ignoring the other two completely. His bland face contorted into a snarl. His dagger was twisted aside by Tegrimm’s blade. For a split heartbeat, the would-be assassin froze and fixed Tegrimm with a level stare.

Then he was running. He disappeared down the stairs in the time it took Galier to stand. His legs were shaky and he could feel his stomach tensing up but there was no time to think about it. He scrambled for one of the abandoned daggers and charged down the stairs in hot pursuit, ignoring the cries from Adelphine and the curses from Tegrimm that followed him.