The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Streamers wreathed Proselyte's rooftops and stringed flags crisscrossed her streets, the paper lights dyeing the glimmering rays of the day star into a kaleidoscope of dappled brilliance illuminating the agog masses. The very breath of celebration had transformed the air, the zeitgeist so powerful it seemed even Proselyte herself smiled. She pulsed with exuberance; games, delicacies, and trinkets burst from every alley and stall, spilling into streets already overflowing with mirth.

People from every reach of Trammel flowed through the boulevards, where strangers danced hand-in-hand, laughter tangled with music, and flower petals spun through the air like the rains of gaiety. Parks overflowed. Rooftop verandas spilled confetti and ale in torrents, the streets below slick with merriment.

Beyond the city walls, a sprawl of tents and caravans had sprung up overnight—foreigners, merchants, and pilgrims, all drawn to the same impetus. With them came exotic wares and strange tongues, new rhythms stirring the dust of old roads, revitalizing the once tired city into a blossom of life. And farther still, across the quiet span of Trammel, the farms lay still. Fields unplowed. Livestock unattended. The world had stopped. For one breathless day, there was only: the Tournament.

One particular park along the city's eastern wall had metamorphosed into its own microcosm of indulgence. A party of children were bobbing for apples, while others swished sticks like it were their own Tournament duel. Meanwhile, their parents—with drinks in hand—threw axes at painted targets, or gambled over marbles.

At the center of it all, a carney had drawn a crowd with a fast-handed betting game—three cups, one hidden coin. No one had yet successfully followed the blur of his movements or, more importantly, pierced the tricks of his sleight. Coins clinked into his bowl; he grinned wider with every one of their losses.

Picayune lingered at the edge, head down, eyes averted from the spinning cups. He had practically already forsaken his wager. Instead, his thoughts churned elsewhere—revisiting his runes for the umpteenth time, mentally redrawing their logic, reciting the sequence forwards and backwards, looking for any fault in efficiency. His hand slipped once more into his pocket, fingers pulling at a loose thread in its seams. It had become his new nervous tick.

Two soft hands cupped his cheeks and yanked his gaze up from the ground—straight into the mesmerizing brown eyes of his questioning girlfriend.

"Did you hear anything I just said?"

Picayune's grim expression and vacant eyes were answer enough for Belabor.

She sighed, then straightened her posture, putting on her sternest face to scold her melancholic boyfriend.

"Picay, you need to relax a little. If you keep working yourself into the ground, you're going to burn out—and that's not going to help anyone. Well, not anyone except maybe the Vampire that you're up against. But I don't think that's your goal now is it?"

He tried to break eye contact. She noticed his avoidance and her glare sharpened; her palms stayed firmly in place, pinning his cheeks; she wasn't letting go.

As the staring contest dragged on, Belabor tightened her grip, smooshing his face into a ridiculous pout. She rolled her hands across his cheeks until he looked like a puffed-up fish all while maintaining her serious scowl.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

It was impossible to remain morose when looking the absolute buffoon.

Picayune snorted in spite of himself, a puff of reluctant laughter breaking through. "…No, I suppose not."

Belabor immediately switched back to that beautifully radiant smile of hers, and Picayune could already feel his spirits lift. She spared a brief glance at the carney claiming their coin and dismissed the loss. Instead, she eagerly locked one arm around his and, with a near skip in her step, guided him out of the park and deeper into the street festival. "Great! Because I found this really neat looking restaurant the other day, and I was hoping we could stop by for dinner."

As quickly as it came, his good mood fractured. Picayune gently pulled against her arm and shook his head. "We can't. Sorry, I forgot to mention it, but Director Dionysus invited all the Tournament contestants to dinner tonight."

Belabor frowned, puzzled. "Lately it seems like all you want to do is hole up and avoid the other contestants as much as possible."

"I wasn't avoiding anyone," Picayune muttered, pouting defensively. "I've just been making preparations for my fight. That's all."

He hesitated, then added, "But… I should probably see everyone at least once before things begin. Just so I know who—or what—I'm up against. And anyway… it's kind of mandatory."

Belabor hummed in understanding, feeling that the last part of that sentence played a much larger role in her boyfriend's decision making than the former.

Despite her foiled plans, she quickly bounced back to her usual jovial self. "Well that's great! I was really looking forward to getting a chance to meet Poetaster."

Picayune winced. "Umm… actually, the dinner's only for contestants."

Belabor put on a faux pout, but it was obvious that she wasn't actually bothered. If anything, she was happy that Picayune was finally leaving his room without her having to drag him out.

"Alright," she said with mock resignation, "but after you win your fight, you have to take me to that restaurant I found."

"Don't jinx my chances!" he groaned. "And why should I be the one treating you if it's my celebration?"

She bumped against his shoulder playfully, "Because you're a gentleman."

Picayune tried to hold his ground, but her warm smile cracked his resistance. He looked away, trying to hide his own up-turned cheeks. The attempt was for naught and Belabor laughed music to his ears.

After that, Picayune managed to relax—if only a little—and the two enjoyed what they could of the festivities before going their separate ways. Belabor vanished into the celebratory throng, unwilling to let the revelry end. Picayune, meanwhile, made his way toward the Arena Of Dionysus.

The great spherical coliseum was always among Proselyte's most iconic landmarks with its overbearing dome rising unmistakably above the city. Even with the streets distorted by tents and tourists, it was simple to navigate his way to the iconic landmark.

Upon arrival, Picayune stopped at the foot of its impossible entrance. The entire spherical megastructure of solid limestone was held aloft by just a few thin stairwells that made up its vomitoriums. Even the stairwells rested precariously, with only their final steps touching the ground, almost as if the stairwells were leaning on the sphere if not for the fact that the floating sphere must have been supported by the stairwells. It always unnerved him. He worried that his steps would be that last push required to slip the stairs and send the whole structure tumbling.

He swallowed his anxiety and entered.

Rather than gamble on the arena's tangle of backroom shortcuts, he simply followed the spiraling hallway upward. Years of navigating the maddening vertical labyrinth of Ersatz University with a backpack stuffed full of heavy textbooks trained him well for the overly long trek and he arrived at the dining hall entrance with only a little soreness in his legs.

Beyond the thick wooden doors he could already hear muffled voices. Picayune swallowed down his fears and pulled the doors open.