“What just happened!?” Micah leaned forward in his chair, seated between Sigi and Magnus. One moment, Tyr and Lucian had been engaged in a dazzling display of swordsmanship – and the next the air had shivered and warped to display a wholly different image. Tyr was being beaten senseless by the sheathed sword in Lucian's hand, bounced around the arena like a pinball. Before he could reach one side or the other, Lucian was there to send him flying again. Repeating the same phrase over and over, a dozen times in half as many seconds.

“...Illusion magic?” Micah said to nobody in particular. “Wow, I had no idea. That's some impressive stuff – but why? I thought it was against the rules to use illusion artifacts?”

“Who cares, this is far more exciting.” Sigi mused. Contrary to her words, she wore a hard frown and seemed a bit irritated, whatever the case may be. Disappointed, perhaps.

“I'd be a bit more excited if Micah hadn't bet all my money on Tyr!” Brenn grumbled. Most of his money was sent back to the orphanage and he'd made a decent amount betting on surefire wins. And now he was about to lose everything he had because of Micah's bizarre sense of loyalty to somebody who hadn't been a very good friend to them.

“Why would you give your money to Micah in the first place?” Alex's lips twisted, looking down her nose at both men, making them feel like children.

“That's a, uh...” Tythas nodded slowly. “A good point. Why did we give all of our money to Micah?”

“Because he's always right. Remember the pit fights in Krieg when we were on our way back from the empire?” Magnus said with a shrug. “We all wanted to bet on red because it was 'easy money', but Micah told us to bet on blue – and we won. Simple as. In any case, I suppose lucky streaks have to end eventually.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.” Jartor suddenly said. He was there, but he was so still as if to not exist in the room at all, they'd almost forgotten about him. Some of them considered the fact that this might be some primus specific ability, and it wasn't just him – but Octavian, Alexandros, and Vidarr who had joined him in nearby seats far too small for their frames to be comfortable. Each of them had entered and seated themselves in observation without any of them noticing.

“Brother?” Astrid asked, looking to Vidarr. “When did you get here?”

“About twenty minutes ago, Astal and Absolon ended up getting into a brawl and we got kicked out of our booth... Even me, can you believe that? These people have no respect.”

“Shut up, Vidarr.” Alexandros whispered, intently watching the match. Vidarr cast him a dirty look but did as he was told, puffing his cheeks out and glaring at Octavian for some reason.... “Just watch.”

“Primus. Do you really think he can win?” Alex asked her 'father'.

Alexandros turned his head in hypocrisy of his own demand and looked toward Jartor with an upraised brow. “Your own daughter calls you primus in trusted company?” There was nothing else, just a meaningful 'hmm' before the Lyran primus returned to watching the match. Jartor ignored him, only offering a soft shaking of the head.

“No.” Jartor said. “There is no chance of him winning in the slightest. Prince Iscari could go down and join him and they'd both lose. Lucian is very talented, and there is a reason why he hasn't simply to eliminated Tyr by throwing him into the barrier. Say no more, just watch. You might see something exciting, but you should be more fiscally responsible in the future, I think. Gambling is for cretins and scoundrels, it is beneath you.”

–

Tyr wasn't sure how long it lasted, the pain was so incredibly intense. Lucian knew exactly where, when, and how hard to hit him to cause the most damage without throwing his body into that state where the agony began to soften. It was hell. Knowing the entire world was watching him be clubbed like a baby seal up and down the arena. Some showing from a 'primus'... Even a future one. Lucian rattling on all the while. “What do you fight for?” and “What would you sacrifice for?”

Tyr was left cognizant enough to give thought to the questions. What did he fight for? As in the existential? Everything, honestly. Nothing in particular. What was something he'd sacrifice for? That one was easy. Everything and anything if it made sense in the moment. Tyr was selfish, cruel, and irascible, but he had a simple mindset when it came to the world. Now more than ever, taking the complete opposite of the obvious lesson that grandiose scale of a cosmos was meant to teach him.

Nothing mattered, everything mattered. Because he was just a small, insignificant speck of dust. If it made sense in context, he'd die for anything at all. Nobody would remember him, he would live on in nobody. That was the way his kind were meant to go, and he'd do that gladly if it meant screaming up at the enemies boot when it caved his skull in once and for all.

But that was a scenario that would never come, Tyr was as immutable as death itself. Whether it was his own consciousness or not didn't matter, he was everywhere and nowhere.

'As immutable as death itself'. It sounded alien, like he was repeating some subconscious truth within him, but it rang pleasant in his thoughts. Though Tyr remained full cognizant of how arrogant that sounded, like he was some kind of god... But death, as immutable a concept as it was, was below him – it was a weapon, not his master.

He laughed, even as he was being beaten to bloody splinters by Lucian, earning a laugh from the saint in the process. They both, all of a sudden, seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Death. Tyr frowned, furrowing his brow. Even sideways and airborne, he had that habit of tilting his head like a dog. A boy sworn to death...?

Tyr had died so many times. Every time he was broken beyond a certain point his self would go somewhere. In less time than the blink of an eye, he'd return again – but he knew that place like the back of his hand. Beyond the black river, that dull gloomy purgatory, a field of black water stretching on into infinity. Lucian had 'killed' Tyr... A hundred times, maybe more. All in the span of a scant few minutes, and he began to feel it with such intimacy.

Valkyrja was both a goddess and the very concept of life itself, on both sides of the coin, the entire cycle. There was no goddess of life that Tyr was aware of, but there was a goddess of the life cycle – and it was her. Life and death, and everything in between.

Rendered into many pieces just as whoever he had once been, had been. Orpheus said all humans were pieces of their own gods, nobody was special whether they were born differently or not. Tyr wondered what this greater and whole part of himself had been a god of. Something bad, he figured, but in this moment that didn't sound so fel to him... As long as it worked.

But he knew that accessing an aspect wasn't so easy. Not for him, not for anyone. A man could train his entire life, physically, and never manage to obtain that kind of power even in their lesser states. It was in the heart and mind, and Tyr was insufficient in both – always had been.

Lucian smashed Tyr to the ground, kicking him full in the face, spraying blood and teeth all over the floor of the arena. Grabbing him by the back of the head, his bloody and shattered body held up before the roaring crowd. Hanging by his hair like some kind of trophy. Them, still so excited to see 'the saint' in action, displaying true might against the competition. Tyr could hear their cheers, but they weren't for him, and he felt the bile rising up in him at how revolting and wrong it all seemed for these people to cheer for anyone else.

The crowd was fickle, shouting their approval of the violence with all the strength in their lungs. Lucian slammed Tyr face first into the dirt, furrowing the stone and dragging the younger man through it. Stomping on his back and kicking him away with a snarl. Torturing him, and nobody seemed to care very much that he was being abused so, though it was clearly against the rules.

Above, in the observers box, Iscari was glaring at his father, wishing the others weren't there so that he could say how he felt. It was a level of cruelty that he did not find necessary. Lucian could have ended the fight instantly. Instead, he was parading Tyr about and making a stuffed head of him. Reminding those nations in attendance who the true kings of the southern half of the continent were, with Tyr as their example. Raw brutality not befitting the shining beacon of Varia. There was nothing saintly about this...

“What do you fight for!?”

“Her.” Tyr replied, halting the sheathed blade in its tracks, though Lucian allowed him to. If only to be impressed by the reaction speed if not the durability of Tyr's body. The boys arm shattered in the process, but the pieces didn't fly away this time. They were frozen, hovering above the cross section of his arm and displaying the bones that had been beneath the flesh. He didn't know what the significance was behind this mystery woman who tortured his countless egos for all eternity by forcing them to exist, but... It sounded well enough in that moment.

“...Her?” Lucian gave Tyr an appraising look, the lustrous gleam of his hair fading as the sky above grew gray and stormy on so clear a day. “Your wives? Love is as powerful a motivation as any, but I do not think--”

“Death.” Tyr said, a dull voice with all the emotion sucked clean out of it. “Drengr Svuren Valkyrja”

A boy sworn to death – the context was unclear to Lucian, as the observer. But he could feel the... Not power. A total and present lack of it, or anything else. He saw flashes in Tyr's aura, or rather what was trying to make itself one with the energy that sheathed all beings. Almost instantly recognizing it for what it was, the boy was sacrificing his life force for power – but he must've had infinite life, so how far could he reach?

Perhaps a decent diversion, in any case – Lucian allowed it to happen. Just to see how things would play out.

A slender woman in a white sheet, with hair that alternated through all the colors of the rainbow. Her eyes, too, were indistinct in hue. Skin warped and withered before becoming smooth and young again. Repeating the process endlessly, from young girl to an ancient crone, a skeleton, and beautiful once more. Lucian felt a profound sense of sorrow as she wept, tears of black and red and luminous white. Haunting was how he'd describe her, a distillation of mourning sadness.

...A domain!? Lucian almost laughed, if it hadn't been for the fel and foreboding nature of said domain, he would have. It was a small thing, incomplete. Tyr was too young to have gained the mental clarity necessary to gain mastery over it.

But this... Lucian was intimately familiar with this sensation, he had fought many paladins and templars in his time, and it felt similar, but different in a way. Like... Those paladins were merely accessing the smallest thread of a gods passing interest while Tyr occupied all of the attention of this celestial being. She hovered over him like the reaper, black wings wrapped around his body so lovingly, clawed hands both pinning themselves into his flesh, while simultaneously caressing him as a lover would. Ugly, beautiful, insane, calm and content. A being of duality, something Lucian himself couldn't hope to understand.

Light and dark alternated within Tyr, uneven in their balance. Such was expected of a young man on the cusp of true manhood, but this was a vicious cycle where one devoured the other in an endless loop. It wasn't natural balance, it was a veritable war for control over his flesh.

“Alright.” Lucian nodded, backing away in a flash and finally drawing his sword full from his sheath. It was shattered through the half of it. Rusted in places, the same sword he'd kept with him since his days as a volunteer militiaman. The shattered pieces linked together through his will, burning with golden spira and twinkling about in an approximate to the blade that had once been. “Show me what it means to be a boy sworn to death.”