To say that Pavel felt cramped felt like an understatement. To say that he was claustrophobic, well, that was a lie. To say that he wasn’t having a good time would have been accurate. To say that he finally understood how Cruck’aa felt at times…well, he’d never admit that.

Pavel, Jo, and Cruck’aa stood together, one after another, pressed against the wooden wall that blocked the inner arches of the coliseum. At his back, Pavel could make out the dulled roar of a crowd that waited impatiently for events to kick off. At his front, he stared into yet another crowd of people.

Defying all common sense, every single contestant for the tournament had been directed to the left from the entrance and shoved together into what amounted to be a makeshift hallway comprised of the arches. It spanned one half of the southern wall of the coliseum – the other half comprised of the healer’s section – and was blocked off from the sands by a long row of hastily deployed wooden walls. Despite being open at the outer arches, some three rows away, so many of them were packed together that there was no room at all.

Well-armed men and woman, mercenaries, unsavory looking people with blades that more than likely didn’t belong to them, and a handful of nervous youths crammed shoulder to shoulder with one another, mimicking the crowd along the High Road. They filled every space available, packed together much in the way vegetables were crammed into a can. The trend continued from the entrance to the place, towards the middle of the outer arches, all the way down until the wall jutted to the right in a ninety-degree angle. You couldn’t extend your arms around you – there was physically no room to do so.

It seemed incredible to Pavel, then, that the three of them managed to shove their way through. Pavel had hoped to find a spot by the entrance to the sandy arena, to breath some fresh air, but none of them were allowed over there yet. Instead, they managed to steal a space in the arches from a group of youths, all who turned tail and ran when they saw Cruck’aa. Though if they ran from his furious expression or for the fact that they’d never seen an Aarakocra before, Pavel wasn’t sure.

Enclosed within the wall and ceiling, the sheer volume of the crowd smashed against Pavel’s ears worse than the din from the High Road. All conversation descended into shouting as everyone struggled to be heard over one another. Many pushed and shoved the people around them if they had to walk somewhere, resulting in more shouting, which only resulted in move shoving.

He could barely hear his own thoughts.

Pavel felt a tap on his shoulder; he turned his head, unable to turn his body without bumping against those in front of him and looked at Jo. She stood with her shoulder pressed against his, looking peeved, while Cruck’aa pressed against her on the other side, still looking furious.

Upon getting his attention, Jo craned her head towards him. Pavel faced the front and leaned to get his ear closer.

“Think they’ll start anytime soon?” Jo shouted. Even at the top of her lungs, Pavel could barely hear her. She turned her own ear towards him as he replied.

“Who knows!” He shouted back. “You’d think they’d tell us!”

“You’d think, but I doubt the attendants are coming back!”

“Maybe!”

Two coliseum attendants had somehow managed to fight their way through the congested arches towards the middle of the hallway. There, one projected his voice over the cacophony – magic, according to Jo – and laid out the ground rules for the tournament. Surprisingly, everyone fell mostly silent to listen to them, though the rules were short. Bracket style, each person going against another until two contestants remained, wherein the last one standing would win the payout. Listen to the attendants on the arena, and you’ll be fine. Once they were done, the two slipped their way out of the crowd and disappeared, the conversation quickly starting back up.

That had been some time ago, and the only indication Pavel had that the tournament was proceeding came from behind the wooden wall. A booming voice had announced the start of everything, much to the excitement of the crowd. As far as Pavel could tell, however, nothing regarding the actual fights had been started. Though he heard something behind the wooden walls, he hadn’t a clue what it might be. Opening activities, perhaps? Entertainment before the main event? Whatever it was, it didn’t involve any of the contestants, though none seemed to share his curiosity.

“How do you suppose they’ll tell us if we’re up?” Pavel yelled in Jo’s ear. She shrugged.

“Got me.” She yelled back. “Bet good coin on that announcer saying something though!”

“Right.” Pavel nodded.

They straightened up and resumed staring at the chaos in front of them. Pavel wanted to continue the conversation, but they could barely hear one another, despite yelling. Not to mention that Cruck’aa had grabbed Jo’s shoulder and pulled her attention away. And from the look on her face, the Aarakocra was complaining again. Him distracting Jo, then, gave Pavel ample time to reflect on his conflicted emotions.

A nervousness seemed to tighten in his chest, but he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t for the prospect of fighting – he’d faced worse before and lived. The fights themselves would be bloody but a retinue of healers and doctors were on standby for the occasion. He might get cut and beaten up, yes, but nothing life threatening. What, then, was the issue?

Perhaps it was the fact that, at some point today, he would finally have a chance to prove himself. To assure himself that he had improved. That what had happened on the caravan…

Pavel sucked in a deep breath and shook his head, feeling that familiar wave of anxiety threaten to crash over him again.

No. He couldn’t think like that. Jo made a good point, that day in the alley. Those thoughts, those ideas – Pavel would drown in them if he believed them to be real. He had nothing to prove. The caravan had been an accident, with no way to prevent it. Believing himself at fault, believing that, if he was better, he could have saved more lives, was faulty thinking. Too much of it and he’d poison himself, just as Cruck’aa had said, as loath as Pavel was to admit that the bird was right.

All of that, yet that wave still loamed over him.

Pavel pulled at his face with an armored hand.

All of that, yet he couldn’t make himself believe it. Pavel knew himself better than anyone – he listened to those words, he accepted them, but he never truly believed them. And could anyone blame him, with the caravan proving once again that Pavel, as much as he pretended, was unfit to lead anyone. How much he wanted to believe and yet…he just couldn’t.

The voice from behind boomed once more, the roar of the crowd rising after it. From somewhere in the packed, arched hallway, an attendants voice yelled over the crowd, telling everyone to prepare should their name be called.

It was beginning.

Pavel adjusted the sword and flail strapped to his hips. He breathed in deep, shoving his anxiety deep within him.

No sense in dwelling on it now.

…

Towards the end of the healer’s section, the arched hallway turned sharply to the right, extending the rest of the way until it connected with the eastern wall of the coliseum. In that small section, a large gap was left in the wooden walls, allowing easy access to the middle of the coliseum. Further in, situated slightly beyond the gap, rows of beds and benches had been laid out, along with crates of medical supplies, all ready for the wounded from the tournament.

It was there that Serena stood, leaning against one of the pillars that made up the gap in the walls, as she watched the opening processions of the second tournament of the Brightswords Festival.

Which didn’t amount to much.

The center of the coliseum hadn’t changed drastically; all the sand had been spread evenly across the wooden floor, turning the place into one large arena, not unlike the smaller ones she’d seen before. But what had changed dramatically, was just how packed the stands now were.

The tiered wooden platforms that circled above the sand had been filled to the brim. From her angle, Serena had been stunned by how many had managed to cram together along most of the platforms. And of course, everyone was shouting again. The loudest, it seemed, came from the ringed platform closest to the sand, where typical looking people smashed themselves against the railings. They bellowed and cheered in excitement, eager for the day’s events to begin. Each platform above the first, though still filled, grew less and less animated, with the people at the very top, some four stories up, seeming content to stand in silence. Despite the distance, Serena could just make out the fancier clothing that they wore, distinguishing them from the rest of the crowds.

Regardless of how silent the top platform was, the rest of the crowds made up for them. The entire stadium seemed to echo with an endless cascade of screaming, enough that Serena had to stick her fingers into her ears for a bit. That screaming, however, had quieted the moment the Masked Lord stepped out.

Dressed in thick purple robes, accented with jagged white lines similar to lightning, the Masked Lord cut a regal picture against the backdrop of the wooden viewing box, attached to the very top of the eastern wall. A large helm matched their robes, the faceplate depicting what looked like someone screaming, and the combination hid the Lord’s identity entirely.

With a raised hand – a long glove covering their entire arm – the Masked Lord had announced the start of the tournament. Their voice boomed over the coliseum, and perhaps the neighboring areas around it, though it came out distorted. It was as if three voices all overlapped at once, giving no indication of who the Masked Lord might be. Which, Serena supposed, was the point.

The tournament hadn’t actually started, however, as the Masked Lord walked back into the viewing box. Instead, multiple people from the wall across the sands came flooding out, all decked in the same attire she’d seen the street performers in some time ago.

And thus began the opening acts of the tournament, though all failed to hold Serena’s attention. As expected, flame spitters, knife jugglers, sword swallowers, and more all strived to keep the crowds occupied for a time. Which they did, though the mock fights that came after seemed to engross the crowd more.

Serena gestured in front of her – evidently some historical battle was being reenacted – and looked to the white robed man beside her, the same who she’d spoken to earlier. Behind them, many of the doctors and clerics bustled about, checking on final preparations.

“Why don’t they just start the tournament? Do we really need to watch all this?”

The man shrugged. He’d caught up to Serena after she’d grabbed one of the necklaces, once again asking if she was absolutely sure that she was alright. Thankfully, he’d accepted her answer that time. Now, he leaned against the pillar across from her, eyeing the fighting with half closed eyes.

“Well, I believe they do it to buy a little more time for the attendants to prepare, considering that everything tends to be done at the last minute.”

“Really?” Serena raised a brow.

“Oh yes. You think it was odd how they just let you in? Well, imagine how they do everything else.” The man shook his head; Serena really should have asked for his name. “I have to imagine that it’s all a slow process.”

“How come?”

“Do you honestly believe any of the attendants truly want to be here? They drag their feet through everything, huffing and puffing as though you asked them to help you with your taxes. With all that, I doubt the whole thing runs smoothly. By the Nine Hells, I bet even the brackets get finished at the last minute.”

Serena shook her head. “Oh, they don’t do that.”

“Oh, I bet gold that that’s the case.”

“You do?”

“Well of course! They work for the city after all. I bet a half-drunk pig could do their jobs better than they could!”

The man broke into loud laughter, covering his mouth with a hand. Serena could only offer him a confused smile. He stopped, once he’d notice, and regarded her with a look.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people who thinks they run things well in this city. Are you? Because I could probably prove you wrong.”

“I…” Serena shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve barely been here for a couple of weeks. I think. It seems nice so far but…I haven’t seen anything that made me think that.”

“Ah, that would explain it.” The man turned fully towards Serena, leaning his back against the pillar. The fight in the sands had changed, new people coming out. “Well ma’am, I can tell you that the city of Waterdeep, er, the government I should say, isn’t the best at things. When they run events or such, they tend to hire based off the lowest bidder. Saves money, but makes everything run rather…awful.”

“Is it that bad?” Serena asked, genuinely curious.

“Ah.” The man waved his hands about. “More or less, sometimes an exaggeration, sometimes right on the nose. The Dock Ward, for instance, is a terrible mess, what with their Masked Lord running things simply to line his pockets. Thought you shouldn’t be heard saying that down there. Yet Castle Ward has been thriving lately. Couldn’t tell you why. Seems like the Masked Lord over there knows what they’re doing. Isn’t in it just to get rich.” He huffed. “You’ll find many of those Lords tend to have gone after the job for the pay. And it pays well, mind you. Lot of stress, that job. But because of that, not as many truly care for how things go in the city. Oh, they put on a front alright and make little changes here and there, but none of them are interested in actually changing things. Could disrupt profits, don’t you know?

“And I say all that…but there are some good ones. I suppose. Like I said, whoever oversees Castle Ward seems to actually want to help people. Now, the way they do it isn’t always…popular, but no one’s starving, that’s for sure. Unlike the Dock Ward. Goodness.” The man snorted. “They need to guillotine that Lord by now…but I didn’t say that.”

“Oh.” Serena rubbed her chin. “Never knew that…any of that. And you can’t just…talk to the Mask Lords with problems?”

“Oh no!” The man guffawed. “They rarely take visitors. Plus, they’re masked for a reason. Can’t just run into them on the street and vent your problems to them. Helps cut down on corruption or whatever they’re saying these days. There are other ways to broach problems to them, sure, but you’ll never really know if it’s doing much.” He turned towards the sand as the last of the mock fighters cleared out. “Oh, looks like things might be starting.”

Serena followed his gaze. The mock fighters quickly fled from the sands, followed by the cheering of the crowd. No one else took their place. Serena poked her head out a bit as the cheering began to die down, as the Masked Lord walked back onto the balcony of their viewing box. A piece of parchment was held in one of their hands.

“I hope,” the enhanced voice boomed over the coliseum. “that our opening theatrics have readied us for the main event?” A wave of cheering answered them. “I see. Well then! Perhaps it’s time to begin the tournament!”

The crowds erupted into a frenzy; Serena cringed back into the opening and stuck her fingers in her ears again. The Masked Lord had to wait a little bit before it all died down.

“Without further ado, let us begin! Our first fight to start the day!” The Lord had to raise their voice as the crowd roared. “Contestants! When you hear your name, please exit to the sands quickly, and follow the guidance of the attendant!”

They paused. Though she couldn’t see them, Serena could imagine the Lord squinting at the brackets, finding the right names.

“Our first fight! Morris Tull against Pavel Smith!”

Serena started, her heart leaping into her throat, rising with the cheering of the crowd. Pavel was the first fight?

“You know one of them?” The man beside her asked, voice raised. Serena nodded but kept silent, fingers still plugging her ears. “Well, hope your friend wins then!”

She glanced back onto the sands and to the left, as Pavel, further down the way, stepped out from the contestant side.

Serena stared. Despite the crowd, Pavel seemed calm, completely in control.

She shook her head. How did he do it?

…

Pavel hoped no one could see him sweating. He knew with how much he heard from behind the wall that the coliseum must have been packed. But actually seeing it was another issue entirely.

After he had fought his way through and emerged from the contestant side, he’d stopped right outside the cutout, gazing up at the massive crowd around him. The ringed platforms were absolutely packed, save for the top, though it still held many people. The voices arose in a storm that almost deafened him, and he couldn’t help but wish that that muffling magical wall was here to block out the noise.

Despite himself, Pavel’s heart was in his throat. He knew from practicing that the place could hold this many people, but his imagination paled in comparison to the real thing.

Someone else strode up and stood next to him, equally stunned. He glanced over, though ripping his gaze from the still screaming crowds was an effort, and with a start, realized that a child stood next to him.

Perhaps child was the wrong word, but the youth seemed young. He looked barely seventeen, and the shaking of his narrow body didn’t help matters. A leather vest, too large, had been cinched tightly over a green tunic; it paired well with the shield strapped to his arm, also too large for the youth, and his sword that seemed as though it had been left out in the rain for months.

The youth looked at Pavel and yelped, blue eyes wide with fear. He ran out onto the sand as though his life depended on it. A coliseum attendant followed him shortly after, looking shockingly bored.

Pavel stared. That was his first opponent? A boy that looked barely old enough to hold a sword properly? He sighed, and strode out onto the sand after them, giving his splint mail and weapons one last check.

They did say anyone could join this tournament.

The youth – Morris Tull, if Pavel remembered correctly – halted just beyond the middle of the sandy arena. The attendant stopped some paces before him, off to the side. Sensing his place, Pavel stopped a few feet away from Morris, the three of them now forming a triangle in the sand. The attendant nodded at Pavel, evidently pleased.

Morris shivered despite the sun beating down on them both. A small breeze blew through, throwing about the youth’s dark brown hair.

Pavel frowned. His own golden hair had been getting longer these days. Perhaps he should have tied it back.

The attendant raised a hand over his head. Slowly, the crowds quieted, though a low, excited roar still rumbled throughout the stands.

“Gentlemen!” The attendant yelled, voice clear. “You both have the honor of competing in the first round of combat for this tournament! Have you both prepared?”

Pavel nodded, unsheathing his weapons. Morris gave a shaky thumbs up with his hand that held his sword; his knuckles had turned white.

“Good! This is an all-out fight, nothing held back! One will fight until they are physically incapable of doing so, or until they willingly surrender! Do you understand?”

They nodded.

“Good! Then please step forward and either shake hands or bump knuckles!”

Pavel stepped forward instantly, Morris following suit a second later. When they met in the middle, Pavel raised a closed fist, which Morris hesitantly bumped with his own.

The youth seemed to be trembling even more. Pavel suppressed a grimace; this would be a short fight.

At the urging of the attendant, Pavel and Morris turned and walked ten paces away, then turned back around to face one another. In that moment, he realized that most of the coliseum had grown silent.

The attendant raised a hand again. He glanced towards both contestants, before letting it drop.

“Begin!”

Pavel flinched as the stands sprang to life once more, filling his ears with the screams of people desperate to see blood on the sand.

He lowered himself into a half-crouch as the youth jumped.

He was more than happy to oblige.

Pavel crossed the distance, causing the youth to jump again. With a flick, he aimed the flail towards Morris’s head.

The youth yelp and raised a shaky shield, barley blocking. The impact shook his arm, causing him to stagger, the crowd screaming.

He jumped back as Pavel swung his sword to his side, missing by an inch. Morris stumbled away as Pavel swiped again, hitting empty air.

Pavel retreated a few paces. He began to spin the flail in a wide circle, sword to his side, as Morris struggled back up.

The youth didn’t know what he was doing. Those blocks and dodges, all seemed accomplished by luck.

Not that it mattered.

He stepped forward and swung the flail, aiming for the head. Morris blocked barely in time.

Pavel lashed out his sword, an obvious strike. Morris blocked again.

Pavel stepped forward and slammed his shoulder into the shield, hoping to throw Morris off balance.

Except Morris held his ground with barely a stumble. Instead, he stabbed at Pavel’s chest. The sword bit hard into the strips of metal, smashing against Pavel’s sternum.

The crowd roared.

He grunted and backed up, aiming an underhand slice at the youth, who parried it away. He looked as stunned as Pavel was.

Despite that, Morris swung at Pavel, who was forced back. As he moved, Pavel swung the flail low, towards Morris’s legs, aiming to wrap the chain around them. The youth quickly hopped, dodging it.

“Gods –” Pavel began; Morris slammed the shield against his head. Hard.

Stars exploded in Pavel’s vision; despite the pain, he swung wildly with the flail, making a space in front of him as he retreated.

Morris backed up, nervous look still in his eye. He looked otherwise unharmed.

Pavel grimaced as he rubbed his face with the back of his sword hand.

Something didn’t make sense. The youth looked scared out of his mind, yet he blocked and dodged each blow, enough that Pavel wasn’t even sure if it could be called luck.

He shook his head. No time to think.

He dashed across – again – and swung his sword at Morris’s side, expecting a block. Pavel was rewarded as metal bounced off wood.

With a flick, he wound the flail tightly around his hand and grasped the chain just above the head. He smashed it against the shield with a loud CRACK.

Morris grunted and stumbled back but raised the shield again as Pavel brought the flail back down – again and again and again – forcing the youth back, yelping. The crowd screamed in rhythm with the smashing.

Pavel shoved Morris back towards the wooden wall on the other side of the arena, and with a final blow, smashed the youth’s shield through. Morris screamed as one half exploded away, leaving him with half a wooden board – useless.

The crowd screamed louder. Pavel stepped back as the youth frantically tore at the straps on his arm. No point in humiliating the boy.

As the ruined shield fell, Pavel stepped forth and swung his sword at the youth’s chest. Morris yelped and parried – barely – before dashing to the side, away from the wall.

Pavel unfurled the flail, spiked head almost touching the sand, and followed Morris. At least the youth knew not to put his back to a wall.

Each step he took, Pavel swung the flail forward, head arching at the boy like a snake. Each time, Morris barely jumped out of the way, skirting around in the sand until they’d completed half a lap around the coliseum. The cheers turned to jeers and laughing.

Pavel frowned as Morris kept dodging, feeling a heat rise in his face. It was like a circus act, one that he wasn’t privy to.

Almost back to the other side, Pavel let out a roar, and dashed at Morris, slashing wildly, hoping to catch him off guard.

The crowd roared again as Morris parried another blow. This time, much to Pavel’s frustration, the youth looked confident.

He stabbed at Pavel, who jerked barely in time for the tip of the sword to only score a hit along Pavel’s cheek. Blood trailed from the cut, sending Pavel stumbling back. Morris didn’t follow.

Instead, he stood his ground and laughed.

Pavel tightened his grip on his weapons, knuckles turning white.

Without thinking, he closed the distance, swinging his sword at the youth, flail going out wide over the youth’s head. For a split second, he caught Morris’s eyes flicking towards the sword.

Pavel jerked to a halt, dropped his sword, and kicked Morris in the chest; his foot collided with the leather, sending the stunned youth flying back. He smashed into the ground, hard, and let out a yell, before flipping onto his stomach, hand covering his head.

The crowds went wild.

Before the youth could react, Pavel leapt on top of him, dropping his weapons, and pinning him to the ground. He grabbed Morris’s hand and smashed it once – twice, finally causing him to scream and drop his sword.

Pavel stood up slightly and flipped Morris over, raising a fist aimed at the youth’s face.

Which was not his usual face. Instead, an impossibly smooth, grey face, eyes like a cat and completely white, stared up at him, an expression of surprise across its alien features.

A doppelganger.

Pavel screamed in surprise and brought his fist down, cracking the odd creature in the jaw. Its head jerk to the side, and when it looked back at him, spitting up blood, it stared at him with the face of Morris.

Pavel’s fist hung in the air, too stunned to move. Under him, Morris – or whatever Morris was – raised his hands.

“I yield! I yield!” he shouted.

“Morris Tull surrenders!” The attendant yelled, raising a hand. “Pavel Smith is the victor!”

That deafening roar returned as Pavel scrambled backwards off the creature. He ran towards his weapons, but by the time he’d retrieved them, Morris had dashed off towards the opening in the wooden walls. He was too far to chase. Instead, Pavel ran to the attendant and grabbed his arm, heart smashing against his chest.

“Hey!” He yelled. “That’s –”

“Please refrain from grabbing me sir.” The attendant said calmly. Pavel released his grip, and pointed after Morris, who had disappeared into the coliseum.

“Sir, that wasn’t Morris!” He yelled. “That was a doppelganger!”

“What?”

“That wasn’t a human! That –”

“Sir, you beat the boy fair and square, there isn’t a need to dehumanize him.”

“What?!” Pavel screamed.

“Sir, I won’t accept this slander towards him.” The attendant gestured to where Morris had left. “Now, please exit the sands or else I will be forced to disqualify you.”

Pavel could only stare.

“Please leave now sir. The next fight will be happening very soon.”

“But that wasn’t Morris!” Pavel yelled.

“Sir, this is ridiculous. The boy was scared out of his mind and now –”

“I’m not insulting him! I don’t even know what that thing was!”

“Sir, please refrain from any more speaking. Now, I will not ask you again, please leave the sands.”

“But –” Pavel stammered.

“Last warning sir.”

Pavel yelled and threw up his hands, but stalked towards the opening in the wooden walls, tuning out the cheering around him.

That was a damn doppelganger, he knew what he saw. What in the Nine Hells was one doing here, fighting in a tournament? It didn’t seem to have been causing trouble but that didn’t disregard the fact that it was here in the first place. Could he even chase after it right now? The thing had lost, and Pavel doubted that it would hang around. Not if it was trying to maintain that scared persona.

Part of Pavel did want to go after it, but he knew that if he left now, he’d be disqualified from the tournament. Was it worth it then, to go after a creature that, for some inexplicable reason, wanted to fight in the tournament? It didn’t seem like the ones back in Simont but that didn’t rule anything out. Then again, the attendant hadn’t seen the boy’s face transform – if Pavel did go after the thing, he would more than likely land in a heap of trouble. His word against everyone else’s, including the doppelganger. Besides, what would one be capable of, in a city like this?

Pavel sighed as he passed through the opening of the wall and back into the crowded contestant section. Many of those around him congratulated him, some pounding him on the back for a good fight.

Maybe it wasn’t his concern. At least, for right now.