The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

"—yen. Doyen!"

His beautiful wife's frustrated voice freed him from the grip of his memories.

He was brought back to his tacky foyer imprisonment. A large room choked with ornate decorations. Others might have called them treasures, but Doyen found that insulting. These weren't weapons or powerful tools; they were nothing but monetary fetishes. One wall of the room was made entirely of glass, inviting a flood of daylight to pour across the space. The day star's rays refracted through purposefully placed gemstones, sending shimmering waves of multicoloured light dancing across the floors and walls. The effect was, admittedly, beautiful—Doyen didn't like it. Everywhere he stood, he interfered with the majesty of the tapestry, like humanity's presence obstructed the very art that had been supposedly made for them.

Doyen, so lost in his own mind, had completely forgotten why he was even there. He always hated how stuffy and artificial the room felt. Searching around the series of furniture much more pretty than they were comfortable, he finally remembered.

Iatric sat beside him, casting her usual glare of disapproval, her hand irritably pressed against his leg. And though Doyen knew he ought to feel guilty for always causing her grief, he couldn't help but think of how adorable she looked when her brows furrowed and her nose wrinkled just so.

Across from the two of them, Duke Payola sat with preposterously prim posture, the smile on his face equally strained as he waited patiently for Doyen to rejoin the conversation. Doyen tried to scour his mind, hoping some unconscious part of him had been paying attention. There were traces—faint impressions of intention and thought. He felt disdain, hope, concern, an oddly specific uncertainty over confectioneries? Too many different thoughts fought for his attention, different ideas and emotions that he couldn't place temporally or spatially.

He felt a squeeze on his thigh and was reminded of Iatric's grip on him. The two of them had conjured a sort of signalling system for how he should respond when she woke him of his spontaneous daydreams.

She squeezed his leg twice; did that mean he was supposed to respond positively or negatively? They had rehearsed this hidden language countless times, yet he couldn't for the life of him remember. Time was drawing long, and he had to say something. "Um… yes, I agree." Doyen plastered his most earnest smile to punctuate his sentence, hoping he had said the right thing.

Iatric palmed her forehead, groaning with exasperation. "Oh, Doyen."

He had not.

Payola, on the other hand, was much less animated, his irritation relegated to the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. He cleared his throat, slipping effortlessly into a tone of practiced eloquence that never failed to rub Doyen the wrong way.

"We were discussing the younger generation of nobles," he began, voice somehow simultaneously condescending and respectful, "and how they are becoming increasingly lax in their responsibilities, mingling with the common rabble. I've heard that you have been disappointed in your son's martial prowess, particularly considering he's often seen socializing with the common folk."

Doyen quelled the aggravated furor rising from within him. His mouth itched with all the sharp responses he wished he could muster, but he swallowed them down. Iatric's quiet, knowing look steadied him, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to choose a more subdued answer. "It is true that I am quite harsh on my evaluations of Wish's training, but that is more attributed to my impossible standards and less so with any shortcomings of his own. His progress is remarkable for his age. And I have no problem with his friendly relationships with commoners." Doyen gave the duke a steel glare and a sharp smile, "After all, it was a noble interacting with that 'common rabble' which was how I met Iatric."

Unlike the born nobles, Doyen was much less skilled at masking the emotions in his voice, and Doyen's powerful tone made Duke Payola visibly stiffen. The duke swallowed his anxiety, forcing his composure back into place before speaking. "Well, there are always exceptions, of course," he said, carefully choosing his words, "but not every farmer is a hero in the making like you, Mr. Heirisson. I believe that people of quality should only surround themselves with others of equal quality. Don't you agree?"

Doyen's fist clenched, frustration bubbling at the surface as the bureaucratic double-speak wore thin. But just as the anger began to take hold, he felt the steadying warmth of Iatric's hand over his own. Doyen felt an awkward embarrassment as he realized Iatric had let him lead the defence of their child to help his social growth. And now, he couldn't help but feel like he had failed.

Iatric spoke up, voice sweet and charming. "I completely agree with you, Duke Payola. Quality should keep to quality, which makes me wonder… why, then, did you come to visit us today?"

The duke had been clearly placed on his back foot, and he became increasingly aware of the furniture's discomfort. "Well… I thought it pertinent to inform you that we have received news of recent movements concerning the White Witch."

The Khan snatched the flying bolt mid-air, its scythe arcing toward Doyen. Jocund surged forward, his tower shield slamming into the blow with a deafening crack. The echo of their collision rang throughout the wide chamber, shaking dust from the rafters.

The Khan twisted its grip, the scythe's red whip writhing to life—slithering around Jocund's shield and snapping toward his exposed side.

Doyen intercepted, his sword lancing between whip and ally. The living cord knotted around steel instead of flesh. Locked. The two stood caught in a stalemate, weapons snarled together, strength contesting strength.

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The Khan's head turned—slowly—three hollow sockets glaring at Doyen's unnatural gold glowing eyes. Then, a claw rose high, ready to strike.

Ken fired—a searing bolt of arcana lit the chamber like a flare.

The Khan caught it in the corner of its eye. It yanked its whip back.

Doyen's sword snapped in twain, and the mokoi spun, ducking the arcane blast that seared the hem of its silver gown.

Doyen shoved Jocund aside and vaulted forward, the broken hilt in his grip already sprouting a new blade—crystal growing along an invisible spine as he charged again.

Forgo flanked the edge of the fight, eyes tracking every motion as she loaded her next bolt. "Ia—haste! Ken—zone twenty-six!"

The healer moved fast, hands already mid-prayer.

The Khan saw her. Magic flared at its back—zoning fire, explosive pressure. It didn't take the bait.

The Khan leapt upwards, one hand ringing a small brass bell inscribed with the number four. From that sound, reality itself warbled with pain and collapsed out of existence. A void of nothingness ripped through space and swallowed the incoming spell. At the same time, the Khan's scythe swung low to the charging Doyen.

A bolt sliced through the air. The living whip jerked midswing, redirecting the connected scythe and snatching the projectile before it struck true.

The Khan landed. Doyen was already there.

It pulled back a step—too late.

The blessing finished. Radiance surged. The Saviors ignited.

Light surged beneath their skin, tracing muscle and bone, anointing each of them with divine acceleration. Their breath synchronized. Their hearts pulsed in rhythm.

Doyen and Jocund moved as one—shield and blade, offence and defence—circling, weaving, striking. Two bodies. One warrior. The scythe swung down, a shield blocked. A sliver of an opening—Doyen slipped in and struck.

The blade flew toward the Khan's gut, and behind, like a mirror of Doyen's own attack, a magical lance crashed in.

Once more, the Khan rang its bell, reality-warping resonance catching the spell, while the Khan dropped low, kicking forward and shattering Doyen's artifact sword. The scythe whirled, its red whip tip snaked past Jocund's shield and bit into flesh. It didn't cut. It erased—stripping away meat as if unmaking it from the world itself.

Forgo fired low, forcing the Khan to roll out of position to avoid the bolt slamming into the ground near its head. "Ia—two, haste-save, mend-wall! Ken-swarm!"

Iatric's blessings shifted. The radiant pulse beneath the Saviors' skin dimmed, their shared boon collapsing into Doyen alone. He pulled back behind Jocund's shield. In perfect rhythm, Iatric redirected the flow again—pouring healing into Jocund. Divine light sealed his wounds, even as another lash opened new wounds.

The pair surged forward again. Attack-Recover. Shield-Retreat. Over and over. Iatric kept pace, her blessings passing between them in lockstep with their rhythm, each one hitting as the next blow fell.

The Saviors held momentum—but it was cracking. Each deflected scythe strike sent the Kahn's whip lashing around, scoring more wounds than Iatric could close. Even in retreat, the Khan commanded the field.

Sweat poured down Iatric's face, her breath shallow, ragged. With each of Doyen's swings, she desperately siphoned more of her own life force to mend Jocund's growing injuries. But her powers could only cauterize—she couldn't restore what had been unmade. Too much was simply… gone.

Jocund stood rooted, barely. The shield weighed heavier with every clash, his limbs slow, his footing staggered. His breath came in wheezing bursts, armour scorched and leaking red. Still, slick, torn hands held strong to his defensive shield wall. Though Jocund was the protector, he was still no match for the Khan's speed and relentlessness; only Doyen could match that ferocity.

Doyen moved like a blur, sharpened by divine speed. He slipped between the Khan and Jocund, striking to protect the very man meant to protect him.

The Khan met each blow with ease—even with divine providence, the Khan matched strike for strike. Every time Doyen attacked, his blade shattered. And every time, he summoned a new one, the weapon growing like crystal from the broken hilt, already in motion before the sword had finished forming.

Doyen's aggressive front managed to keep the Khan on its back foot long enough for the great wizard Ken to prepare his next spell in full.

Forgo snapped the order. "Ia-one-wall, Ken-call."

With the command given, Ken released his spell.

The ceiling vanished. Above them stretched the open night sky, a tapestry of a thousand glittering stars in the void.

Then the stars fell.

A storm of arcane hellfire crashed down from the heavens—an endless barrage of meteors screaming downward. The royal chamber vanished in blinding radiance, the air howling with cosmic fury.

The Khan stood ready. All seven arms gripped its scythe overhead, brass bell dangling between clawed fingers.

Forgo held her breath, crossbow aimed.

The stars crashed.

Forgo fired.

The roaring starburst fever pitched to an ear-splitting whine. The air itself ignited with heat. Light poured in from every direction with impossible brilliance, blinding and absolute, a weight that pressed against the skin. Eyes slammed shut, hairs sizzled in the inferno.

The Khan swung.

From the arc of the falling scythe, reality split open, torn from top to bottom, and the stars were swallowed. The meteor storm vanished to nothing. Gone was the sky, the stars, the ceiling, the castle. Only an empty blot of void remained.

It took a moment for the unreality to unwind, returning the castle to completeness. When the light finally returned, the Khan stood unscathed, Forgo's bolt clenched uselessly between its jaws.

Exhausted, Ken fell to his knees. Despair overcame the Saviors; Jocund barely held his tower shield upright, Iatric's spirit agonized over its overstrained divine burden, and Forgo's eyes darted across the board, mind whirring over dozens of failing strategies, no solutions sprouting.

Doyen, eyes glazed, skin burning, roared with every ounce of fury he had. He lifted his sword and charged forth.

Forgo wiped the sweat from her brow, lungs aching, but a familiar smile quirked upon seeing her leader's relentless charge. "Team—cycle forty-five, full push!" She loaded a bolt, and they kept fighting.