A flower wilted between my fingers, life stripped away to supplement my own. Vibrant petals turned brown as stem, and all succumbed before my eyes, a dried husk the only testament of what it once was. The familiar warmth of chi saturated my veins as an instinctive hum of appreciation escaped my lips. The high eventually passed, leaving a somewhat empty sensation in my gut that I promptly snuffed out. Though this process was necessary, I could not allow myself to get swept up in vain indulgences.

My path was revealing itself to be one of thorns, stagnation and ruin looming by the wayside. But I would endure and overcome whatever was thrown at me so that one day, at journey’s end, the all-glowing may rest in the palm of my hand. The flower escaped my grasp, crumbling, disintegrating into nothingness as it impacted the ground, flecks of ash wafting away, a brief memorial.

A chilly breeze carried the remnants of the flower’s memory into the distance as I tied a few stalks together and stuffed them into my fur jacket, completing my preparations for the event that was to come later in the day. The sweet scent of blooming winter ericas tickled my nose, a carpet of purple covering the area. These flowering plants were unique in that they only bloomed during the winter season, and I had found this little spot on one of my treks. Though children weren’t allowed outside the confines of the village, this didn’t mean there weren’t areas where the wilderness hadn’t crept in. Inhaling one final time, I left towards town, a bird’s cawing echoing in the foreground.

Walking through the stone-paved streets, the usual hustle and bustle of the masses I had grown used to was nowhere to be seen. Only a few stray people were going about their business, the doors to all shops tightly locked. This odd set of circumstances was because today was the first day of the metnaðr-raun. It was an event that was of great importance to the whole city, one where everyone from the youngest of children to the oldest person was eager to attend. It was both a celebration and a competition that displayed the community’s very best. However, the event only came around once every three years, prompting prominent houses to splurge in a show of pomp, adding to its prestigious nature.

The was taking place to the city’s west, temporarily commandeering the warrior’s training area and facilities. This was different from the general training area to the north and was explicitly tailored for official warriors. The event lasted for about a week, which was a lengthy amount of time to waive their duties. At the end of the day, we could not afford to ignore the existential threat that hung us for too long. Knowing this, everyone embraced it wholeheartedly as this was one of the rare times they could forget about the harshness of reality, letting go of their worries, albeit temporarily.

Nearing the area, hubbub from the raucous crowds filled the air with festive vibes. Makeshift stalls littered the grounds, squashed together due to their numbers, consisting of a stone framework with animal hide stretched over, looking like glorified tents. Almost everything one could want was being sold here, all the craftsmen in the city capitalising on the event to display their wares. If they had a good showing, they would earn a nice sum, and their business would likely see an uptick in sales for the years to come. Hence while everything was cordial on the surface, underhanded tactics were at play between rival sellers, all done within reason, of course. The officials would ignore minor offences but not anything that crossed the line, overtly harming the affected party.

Boars were being spit-roasted over wood fires, bathing the area in a smoky scent, drawing all those nearby like moths to a flame. There would be a great feast at the end of the day, where the whole community would unite in celebration. Though the booze was already flowing, seeing the many people carrying stone mugs with flushed cheeks. Salespeople shouted over each other while others argued with potential buyers, haggling for the best deal possible, as children frolicked about.

Some scuffles did occur during my brief time here, but they were broken up before anything escalated. The rowdy, almost frenetic atmosphere was indicative of the general population’s intent. They were just here to enjoy themselves and have a good time. There was no need to put on airs or hold themselves to a higher standard due to their family name or who they were associated with. Everything had its advantages and disadvantages.

Squeezing between the throng of bodies, I reached the central area of the festival, where the Karls tended to congregate. The items sold here catered to those with deeper pockets, being of higher quality than those on the outskirts. I was hunting for anything that caught my eye. There were many games set up with prizes to be won. Who knows, maybe I could snatch something of value.

Multicoloured flags fluttered overhead, various family crests proudly displayed for all to see as I passed the threshold between the two sections. I immediately noticed a sharp reduction in the number of people in the area, their clothes made of finer material. At the same time, they carried themselves with dignity and restraint, conscious of how those around them would perceive their every step. It was evident that everyone here was of high class, exuding an imperceptible aura that weighed upon everything.

No law prevented people from entering the inner grounds, nor were there any guards that barred the path, but I guess it was instinctive to human nature to congregate around those of the same ilk. A natural chasm separated them, reinforced since birth by upbringing, tradition, and the like. Same but different, the gap only being bridged under exceptional circumstances or even attempted to.

Unlike the crude makeshift stalls in the outer ring, the ones here were of higher quality. More complex in structure and crafted from luxurious materials displaying wealth and splendour for all to see. As I looked to and fro, the recognisable names of well-known businesses met my eyes, Afkarr’s Apothecary, Thyrgisl Ironmongers and Tailors of the Wilde, to name a few. Both reputation and name were at stake, so competition between vendors was much fiercer here than elsewhere.

Browsing through a couple of them, I realised they still cost too much for someone like me despite being cheaper than usual. I had no income source and could only rely on the meagre amount of money I had painstakingly saved over the years. The Illugis did not give me an allowance, nor did I dare ask for one, and while my father’s side would definitely be more than willing to help, I intended to take advantage of their kindness in other ways. Wouldn’t they be less generous if I had already borrowed a large sum of money from them? I didn’t want to risk it, so all I was left with was a small pouch of álfursteinar in my pocket that produced a pitiful jingle with every step.

Eventually, I came across a booth that piqued my interest with a large, decorative sign overhead that spelled Don’t Wake The Bull. From the looks of it, the aim was to knock down as many targets as possible, with a menagerie of prizes up for grabs depending on the score. The group of people gathered around disrupted my vision, so it was difficult to see the full extent of the game, but that didn’t matter as my eyes were drawn above. Amongst the potential prizes that could be won, displayed on the topmost shelf, were a pair of knives, a price tag of fifty attached. The whole piece was forged from pitch black metal, the tang extending from the blade, looping around in a flourish creating the handle.

The reason they caught my attention was the fact that they were earthbound weapons. These weapons were crafted using a rare metal that had the unique trait of being highly compatible with earthbending, increasing the wielder’s ability while using them. It would help me immensely later on if I could get them, but the owner would definitely have some kind of contingency if something of this value was up for grabs. Deciding to observe on the sidelines for a while longer to see if there was trickery at play, I moved closer to get a better look.

The presenter entertaining us was a man dressed in what looked to be worn clothes that draped over his spindly frame. Cheekbones peaked out from a rather haggard face that looked far too spent for someone his age, likely a thrall manning the stall in his lord’s stead. Poorly combed hair, complemented by dirty stubble, did nothing to improve his image, and I suspected that he would have been thrown out long ago if not for the earthbound weapon and his gift of flattery. He had honed it into some sort of artform, fuelling the already bloated egos of the Karls.

The rules were written on a wooden board that was hammered on the wall to the right of the counter, visible to all. After paying a small fee, participants were given five stones—well, they were closer to rocks pressed into a spherical shape—about the size of an adult’s fist. The targets, which looked like cowbells, were stacked into five pyramids, each constructed with five cowbells. Your point tally depended on how many targets were knocked over, each worth one point. However, if you managed to topple over a pyramid on your first try, it would be worth ten points. With some basic math, the second-highest score one could get was forty-four points, the corresponding prizes being low-quality hunting knives and daggers, a massive drop in value compared to the grand prize.

The general consensus seemed to be to try and throw the rocks as hard as possible, using force rather than accuracy to bring down the pyramid. Looking at the way people were going about the game, it was pretty obvious all of them were aiming for the earthbound weapons, their allure far too enticing. The surrounding spectators were fully enthralled in the spectacle, letting out “oohhs” and “aahhs” whenever someone got close to the fabled fifty mark. Most scores fluctuated between fifteen and thirty-five points earning the participants some minor knick-knacks that weren’t even worth the initial fee they paid to play, making the owner a tidy sum.

Fairly soon, however, I noticed a pattern emerging amidst the chaotic outcomes. Certain bells made a particular noise whenever they were hit, and I never saw any of them being knocked over. The obvious conclusion was that they weighed more than the others and were the failsafe that prevented any unwanted circumstances. The man would always shuffle the bells around in a show of fairness, preventing anyone from spotting the abnormality. I had barely recognised it myself, and it would have been missed if I had been concentrating on sight rather than sound.

If everyone took just a moment to carefully observe, they would realise this game was clearly tipped against their favour, but despite that, people were lining up, waiting for their go. The whole situation triggered a long-forgotten phrase to re-emerge from the fog of my subconscious, ‘Avarice makes one blind to the circumstances before them, a demanding mistress that always requires more. But it is also the substance from which brilliant ideas have drawn their sustenance.’

The genius wasn’t that weighted targets were in play, no, anyone could think of such a simple trick. What sealed the deal was, in actuality, the scoring system by dictating that players could only get maximum points by knocking a pyramid over on the first try. It essentially corralled the easily achievable scores into a somewhat subdued range.

Ignoring a full sweep worth fifty points, the next highest score possible was forty-four points, four pyramids and four bells knocked over. But was it so easy to get a strike on a pyramid on your first try? Of course not, and for every stack not knocked over on the first try, a minimum of six points were lost. This resulted in scores hovering around the mid-twenties to low thirties, rarely breaking the forty mark.

The weighted bells were barely needed as many couldn’t even knock over the pyramids without them, only serving their purpose when a particularly outstanding player stepped up for a try. All these factors culminated in him barely making any losses as the resulting prizes were worth next to nothing. The man was earning a considerable amount of money, and it was only the first day. But I wanted those knives, and they would be mine even if it meant disrupting this masterful setup and possibly stepping on some toes.

Time gradually passed as I stood on the sidelines, making a mental note of all the weighted targets, piecing together a plan of attack. A commotion to the left drew my attention, the culprit responsible emerging from between the tightly packed bodies. I groaned at the sight while stepping behind a nearby bystander. ‘What a way to ruin such a fine day.’ Bluto and his posse had made an appearance, with chests puffed out and heads held high, looking like a band of fools.

“Step aside, step aside, warrior in training coming through,” he declared, waving his hand to clear the way, annoyed spectators shuffling out of the way. Stopping in front of the counter, he slammed a hand down, the clang of currency sounding out, his payment. “I see the grand prize has yet to be won,” he turned to face the crowd, “observe closely, for with my unmatched skill—”

“Will you just shut up and get on with it!!!”

“Yeah!!! Save that shit for someone else!!!”

“This is the inner area, you fuck nuts!!!”

Interrupted by a flurry of remarks, his face turned a bright red, the rest having their heads down, kicking the dirt as if oblivious to what just happened. Turning back with a harumph, he grabbed a stone and threw it with venom towards the first pyramid.

*Clang*

Metnaðr-raun – glory trials

Álfursteinar – elf stones/gems

I’ll be posting an auxiliary chapter soon that will be updated as the story progresses. There will be pictures and a short description for each character, along with other things I can’t fit into chapters as time goes on.