The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Chapter 64: Prologue's End



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The castle's spires rose from soured land like monolithic claws, grasping for that ever-unreachable day star. Stone buttresses laced through gothic ornamentations, curling inward to support the grand central tower that dominated the island. Three massive clocks climbed the tower's surface, their lumbering hands slowly circling tick by tick, calling for a day.

The behemoth structure cast an imposing shadow so vast it overtook the dawn-struck city, past the shell beaches still, and plunged further into the crashing swells of the blackened ocean. As the day star crept higher, that long shadow arced slowly across the island-wide city eclipsing its varied districts with an enveloping stamp of time.

Inside the titanic tower, tucked behind the face of its central clock, lay a spacious chamber wherein an intricate weave of brasswork, no larger than a fist, powered the goliath showpiece.

Beneath this tiny wonder stood a table, cards and chips strewn across its surface staging the theater of the devastated warzone of an amateurish poker game. At the table's center, five cards lay face-up: six of hearts, eight of hearts, five of diamonds, nine of spades, King of clubs.

Four players sat around the table:

Sapphic, an older woman with flaming red hair, lounged confidently in her chair, a cheeky grin dancing on her lips as she watched her opponents squirm. She had already folded this round, so all that was left was to gulp down her quickly drying bourbon and enjoy the show. With a lazy tilt, she leaned sideways to peer around her hefty stack of chips, eager to see who would crack first.

To her left sat Pan, a broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties, sipping upon a red wine while he peeled a ripe orange with slow, deliberate care. He'd already folded, having just broken even. Pan had no interest in slipping back into the red so soon; however, he still kept an attentive ear on the table, humouring the frustrated mutterings of the active player.

To Pan's left sat said active player, Mulct, a compact man having just reached his thirties. Two heavy maces—one black, one white—rested beside him at the table.

The lone glass of water by his side rattled as his elbows struck the table. He ran an irritated hand through his thick hair while his other stealthily peeled up his cards to reconfirm: ace of diamonds, ace of clubs. Then he glanced at his pitiful stack of chips, then to the growing mound in the center—already several times larger than his own. Finally, his eyes shifted to the source of his stress: the last player at the table.

Névé was a young woman, though her petite frame made her look even younger than her actual age of nineteen. She was still nursing her first cup of light ale which had been discreetly watered down further with a subtle rain spell. Unlike Mulct, who kept sneaking looks at his cards, she didn't need to remind herself what she had. Her hands rested protectively over her face-down cards, her expression inscrutable: no thought possible to discern.

That impossible apathy only drove Mulct further toward madness, especially when set against her towering stack of chips, surpassed only by the frankly absurd mountain in front of Sapphic.

Mulct let out an exhausted groan. "You have it, don't you? You have a seven. Oh my god, it's so obvious. You're too easy to read—you have the seven!"

Névé remained completely expressionless.

"Come on, Névé, just tell me. Just tell me you have the seven. I already know anyway, so just say it."

The red-headed Sapphic stifled a laugh at the poor boy's unravelling, while Névé continued to remain as silent and still as a statue.

Pan shook his head. "If it's so obvious," he said, "then why don't you just fold already, Mulct?"

The young Mulct jabbed an exaggerated finger at the immovable Névé as he whipped around to the muscular man by his side. "Because that's what she wants me to do isn't it, Pan?"

Pan merely shrugged. "If you say so." He tossed an orange slice into the air, caught it in his mouth, and bit down. The burst of sweetness lit his face with a quiet bliss that sharply contrasted Mulct's souring intensity.

Mulct took a desperate gulp of his water and then returned to Névé. "I know why you won't tell me that you have a seven. Because you don't. You have nothing don't you?"

He leaned forward, his voice building with accusatory excitement. "I bet that you are just terrified that unlike everyone else here, I've seen through your bluff. You're trying not to show it, but you're horrified that I'll call… or worse: raise." A crooked grin crept across his face as he nodded to himself, pleased by the sound of his own theory.

Névé didn't so much as blink.

"But I see through you, Névé, and that is why I am going to…" He trailed off, holding back his play, eyes locked on hers—waiting, watching, desperate for the slightest flicker, any cue he could seize. But her face remained a blank, merciless slate. "…fold. I can't fight against that stone wall of yours."

He shoved his cards into the discard pile.

Sapphic exploded with laughter. "After all that, you just fold?!"

Mulct threw up his hands, exasperated. "She's unreadable! Come on Névé, show us your cards."

For the first time since the round began, Névé's blank facade broke: the faintest hint of a cheeky grin. She picked up her cards and flipped them over.

"Better than the straight, I had a flush!"

Névé beamed with uncontainable self-satisfaction as Mulct slumped forward, smacking his forehead against his pitiful stack of chips.

Pan raised a single eyebrow. "Well, that was unexpected."

Sapphic leaned further around her mountain of chips to get a better look at the table. "Umm… Névé, how exactly do you have a flush?"

Névé eagerly pointed at the board. "Look, there are three reds on the table, and I have two reds in my hand."

Sapphic broke into renewed laughter. "Oh, Névé, A flush is only when you have five of the same suit, not colour."

"Suit?"

Sapphic replied. "The Shape on the cards."

Névé's grin vanished into a thin, flat line. "So what is five of the same colour?"

Pan chimed in. "It's nothing."

Névé glanced down at her ten of hearts and jack of diamonds. "So all this time I only had a—"

"A king high." Sapphic finished pointing to the shared King on the table with a cheek-splitting grin.

Mulct jerked upright, tugging at clumps of his hair. "How did I lose to her?!"

Névé turned to Sapphic, more curious to the rules than the outcome. "Did I still win?"

Her apathetic tone drained the last of Mulct's energy. He slumped back in his chair, his voice reduced to a pitiful whimper. "I just lost so much money…"

A new scratchy voice, thick with a foreign accent so harsh it bordered on inhuman, interrupted the group "Is this what you lot do with your allowances?"

Most of the table turned toward the entrance while Névé stiffened, eyes locked to her hands tightly folded in her lap.

The players were greeted with a displeased woman standing bundled in dozens of layers. A thick scarf climbed high enough to hide her nose, and a heavy woollen tuque dropped low over her brow, its fluffy flaps covering her small ears. Her boots were enormous—each step landing with a thunderous thump that nearly drowned out the rapturous thrum of the great clock overhead. She looked almost entirely swallowed by her cocoon of fabric, the only parts of her escaping that soft prison being a cascade of lush blond hair tumbling from beneath her hat, and a long scaled pink tail, tipped with a sharp barbed spike.

Pan was the first to speak "Well, if it isn't the mighty Queen Arete in the flesh, abandoning her post to mingle amongst us filthy humans."

Queen Arete tsked at his sarcasm. She had shown these humans an unprecedented courtesy: letting them sleep in her chambers, eat from her plates, spend her currencies—all while she bore the unrest their presence stirred among her people. She sacrificed so much to keep them here and all they did was play games and mock her burdensome work.

She wanted to give them a nagging earful, but truth be told she was more jealous than insulted.

Besides, she had long lost her right to play the reprimanding mother.

Despite saying nothing—and with most of her face hidden—Arete's silent scolding was still loud and clear to Sapphic. The queen's empty pouting made Sapphic chuckle. With a grin, Sapphic pulled out an empty chair. "Why don't you join us for the next round? I'm running out of money to steal."

Arete huffed but took the seat regardless. "You're already stealing enough of my money; I don't need you to take anymore."

That drew a round of embarrassed, half-stifled laughter from the table.

Névé didn't laugh, offering a polite smile a little too late and a little too brittle, then lowered her gaze again. Pan however had no qualms with the queen or voicing himself to her. "So then why are you here?"

Arete cocked her head to his question. "I thought you could tell me. Bunny said to gather for a meeting."

The group returned Arete's question with their own confused looks.

Sapphic frowned. "The witch called for a meeting? I didn't hear about this."

She turned to the rest of the group assuming she had somehow missed the memo, but they too were just as lost as she was.

Mulct snickered as a mischievous thought crossed his mind and then he eased with an unnaturally high-pitched voice putting on a show of faux fear. "Oh no Sapphic watch out! The White Witch is coming."

Sapphic groaned. "Ugh, why did she ever tell you about that? For the last time, it was an emotional night, I was exhausted, and I come from a generation that was trained well to fear her name."

The well-rehearsed excuse bounced right off Mulct, who grinned shamelessly. "Uh-huh. Whatever you say, scaredy-cat."

One lesson Mulct never seemed to learn was that Sapphic had no issue stooping to meet her mockers—and she always got the last word. "How have your rematches with Pan been going?"

Mulct leaned forward, ready to retort—but no words came.

Pan, on the other hand, lurched in his seat, choking on an orange slice as it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed hard, wheezing out his protest between gulps of air. "Whoa—don't bring me into this."

Arete interrupted the by-play, knowing if she didn't course correct, they would never stop. "About this meeting we are supposed to be having—"

Arete was then interrupted in turn by the chime of a bell sounding from the center of the poker table. At that place where the sound originated, there was what seemed to be a small pink rhombus which grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with five limbs. One arm was outstretched towards each human present: Sapphic, Pan, Mulct, and Névé; each hand holding onto a separate glowing parchment. The fifth arm pointed toward an empty spot on the poker table; this hand held onto three glowing parchments.

The intruder's sudden appearance sent the group scrambling, chairs clattering to the floor in the rush.

Mulct snatched up his dichromatic maces.

Pan unsheathed his slender golden sword.

Sapphic drew her revolver.

Arete unwound a red whip from beneath her layers, coiled at her tail.

Névé remained seated—eyes locked on the creature, but essence still coiled tight beneath her skin.

The organism made no move, its glowing parchments held steady, unbothered by the threat.

The standoff lingered—until Sapphic lowered her gun and reached forward, plucking the parchment offered to her. That broke the tension and one by one, the others followed suit, each claiming their own.

"Well," Arete muttered, slipping her whip back into hiding, "I guess we know what the meeting's about." She approached the fifth hand—the one still holding three parchments—and examined them. Arete's face cycled through a series of emotions as she looked over the three papers; starting with confusion, then worry, before finally ending in embarrassment. She took only one parchment and returned to her seat without a word. As she sat, the pink organism began to recede—its body unravelling its transformations in reverse, shrinking down into a small pink rhombus before vanishing entirely. The two remaining parchments, no longer held aloft, drifted gently to the table.

Everyone read their own invitations to The Tournament with varying reactions.

Pan frowned, unimpressed.

Sapphic beamed with satisfaction.

Arete shrank deeper into the protection of her thick clothes.

Névé remained expressionless.

Mulct let out an affronted groan. It was Mulct's theatrical reaction that drew Pan's attention. He leaned over, casually peeking at the younger man's letter—and immediately choked on a mouthful of orange.

"Pfft!" Pan sputtered, spraying juice across Mulct's face and clothes. "Hey everyone! We've got The Sin-Eater over here!"

Sapphic burst out laughing. "The what?"

Pan clutched his stomach as he doubled over. "What in the world is a sin-eater?!"

Mulct atop of being sprayed with gross half-chewed citrus was also now being ridiculed by the very same person, which to say the least, did not help alleviate his spirits from his very recent loss of wealth.

"Oh yeah?" he snapped. "What's your name, then?" He snatched Pan's invitation and read it aloud. "The Emulation? What kind of lame name is that? At least mine sounds cool."

"Does it?" Sapphic asked dryly.

"Oh, and I suppose yours is so great? Let me guess: Hotrod? Ginger Root? Rosebud?"

Sapphic turned her invitation over, unphased by Mulct's jabs "The Fusilier." The title shut Mulct up immediately. His comebacks faltered, falling flat against the unimpeachable coolness of her Tournament-appointed name. He slumped in defeat.

Sapphic turned to Névé. "What about you?"

Névé flipped her parchment without a hint of pride. "The Floe."

Mulct threw his arms up. "What the heck! Why do the girls get the cool names? I want a refund, or a name change… or something."

Sapphic laughed. "Don't be so melodramatic, it's just a name."

Mulct turned to Arete, fishing for solidarity. "Come on Arete, you got yours in some kind of group bundle, right? Please tell me yours is equally awful. Some sappy, romantic trio theme or whatever."

Arete didn't answer right away, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "Like Sapphic said, it's just a name."

Mulct leaned forward, eyes wide. "Oh my goodness it is!"

Arete shut him down with a glare. "It isn't related to the other invitations." He slumped back a little but kept grinning, sensing blood in the water. He opened his mouth to press further—Arete snapped. "I don't want to talk about it,"

"What, why not?"

"It can't be worse than Sin-Eater." Sapphic chimed in, then shot up, snatching the invitation clean from Arete's hands.

Arete's tail whipped toward her, the pink barbs slicing through the air—but missed Sapphic dancing back with a laugh.

"You have been invited to The Tournament-"

Arete jolted upright and lunged, but Sapphic was quicker, hopping onto the poker table just out of her reach.

"You are The-" Sapphic clamped a fist over her mouth, failing to stifle her laughter.

"Don't say it." Queen Arete commanded, her voice low and deadly. But she saw that the order bore no power against Sapphic. It was times like this that Arete truly detested hanging around people who weren't subservient to her royal decrees.

With mock solemnity, Sapphic cleared her throat. "You are… The Curio."

Mulct settled back in his seat, feeling much better about himself. "At least we know that the cool names aren't reserved for the girls."

Even Névé, usually statuesque in her silence, let out a timid titter. That—more than anything—stung Arete's pride.

Having cycled through their own invitations, Pan's eyes wandered back toward the two unclaimed invitations. He questioned Arete "Why was your invitation bundled instead of on its own like ours?"

Before Arete could reply, her attention was stolen toward the doorway. Two sets of muffled footsteps echoed through the chamber, just barely heard between the clicks of shifting clocktower gears. The door swung open and two women stepped inside.

The first was a short middle-aged woman, with a bright yellow headband wrapped tightly across her forehead and a pair of revolting blue eyes. She carried a large leather box, with several messy stacks of paper packets teetering on top.

The second was incredibly tall; in fact, all of her proportions seemed uncannily inhuman. She was completely bathed in white; from her clothes, to skin, to her impossibly wide-brimmed hat, even her eyepatch was the same white colour. The only mark of coloration on the woman's body was her sole disgusting clouded red eye. Even after years of companionship, no one could help but wince at the sight of those red and blue eyes, though they never commented on it.

The woman in white was the first to speak. "Good. Seems like everyone's received their invitations." As she approached the table, she staggered in step and reoriented herself toward the two unclaimed parchments. Her single clouded eye stared into nothingness, yet she easily snatched up the papers. She ran her fingers across the surface of the pages, feeling for something, but without finding it, she frowned. "What is this?"

She flipped the two papers outward for the rest of the group to see.

Sapphic answered for her, "Looks like invitations to The Tournament. Witch and Scribe."

The woman in white pressed her tongue into her cheek. "Well. That's… disconcerting." She stepped back from the table, absentmindedly passing one parchment to her shorter yellow-headbanded companion before turning to generally face the group, "How about you, Khanny? Did you get one?"

Arete nodded, snapping a finger in Sapphic's direction. "Sapphic has my invitation now…" That drew a visible frown from the woman in white. Arete didn't like seeing her friend so unsettled. "Bunny?" she asked gently. "Will this affect the plan?"

Mulct interjected, still trying to catch up. "I thought getting invitations was all a part of the plan?"

The woman in white ran her thumb across the face of her parchment, "I had been curious as to who The Witch was going to be. Turns out it was me." The discovery drew a quiet chuckle from her. "Scribe is a very fitting name for you isn't it Pen?"

Her shorter companion did not respond.

The woman in white turned to Mulct. "You all getting invitations was a part of the plan, but Khanny and I have lived through two Tournaments without ever receiving an invitation. Pen has lived through all five without an invitation." She tapped the edge of her invitation with a finger, her voice flattening. "It would appear that we are not the only ones who will be spicing things up this time around."

Sapphic narrowed her eyes, "What do you mean spicing things up?"

The woman in white clarified for the group. "It seems the Chauffer and/or the Tournament Corporation finally have a use for us." A subdued irritation took hold as she concluded her train of thought "Like some harmless tools that are now ripe for exploitation."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Arete shifted uneasily. The sudden disruption to their long-prepared strategy gnawed at her nerves. "But this doesn't change much… right, Bunny? If anything, this makes everything easier."

"Yes Khanny, yes it does." The Witch quickly dashed away her irritation in place of the usual smile she often carried with her. "If they want to underestimate us then let them. Karma will gut them in time." Swiftly moving on, the Witch gestured for Pen to approach. "Before we continue on this subject, I think everyone would appreciate it if we had a short tangent first."

The Witch doubled the size of her smile and outstretched her arms like a grandiose unveiling. "Today is an auspicious day. It seems that everything has come together at the right time." She paused for gravitas, "Your masks have finally arrived."

The once-silent group let out a collective sigh. "Finally."

Pan rubbed his chest with a wince. "Thank goodness, I have been aching really bad recently."

Mulct couldn't help but throw in a snide remark. "Sucker."

Pan was ready to retaliate but the Witch continued on without consideration for their banter. "Yes, it has taken quite a while, but I trust that none of you will be disappointed. Pen, if you may."

Pen stepped forward and placed the leather case on the poker table. The stacked parchments slid to one side as she unlatched the strings and opened the lid. Inside were seven porcelain masks, each nestled snugly against their own foam face mould. She reached for the first and handed it to Sapphic.

"For Sapphic," the Witch announced, "we have the Mask of the Marked."

Sapphic took the mask with the giddy reverence of a child receiving a new gift. The mask was made of smooth, white porcelain, making its expressionless appearance and unnatural facial features awfully uncanny. The porcelain was completely uncolored except for a red reticle encircling the right eye socket. The mask itself didn't have any straps or methods for which to hold against her head, but Sapphic had already been expecting such. She didn't hesitate. She placed the mask against her face. It held.

"The next mask is for Pan, the mask of the sacrificed."

Pen handed his mask over. His mask had the same uncanny white porcelain face. But its coloured mark was different—a crimson sword, plunging down through the left eye socket, its blade bleeding out both tear ducts.

"Pen, you can grab your own mask." Pen unceremoniously grabbed her own mask and placed it on her face. Without any discernable means, the mask stuck. "The mask of the blinded." It bore a single red band stretched across the forehead, with a bold red circle at its center.

"Continuing on. For Arete, the mask of the silenced." Pen handed the next mask over to Arete who curiously looked over its craftsmanship. Her mask was of the same white porcelain with a red x painted over the mask's mouth.

"For Mulct, the half mask" His mask was divided vertically: the entire left half painted stark red. "Now Mulct, as previously discussed, your mask may take a little bit longer to acclimate to due to the circumstances of its creation. The Whittler tried his best to accommodate you, but this is uncharted territory even for him."

Mulct didn't respond directly, instead just nodding in affirmation.

The Witch did not idle on any of them admiring their new masks and moved on, turning to the last unmasked member. "To Névé, the mask of the drowned." Névé accepted it without a word. The mask's crimson detail was a single, stylized wave washing over the right eye socket.

"And lastly… for me." The Witch took hold of her own mask. Finally, after so much waiting she was able to admire its completed artistry. "The mask of the unborn mother."

Unlike the others, it had only one open-eye socket—her right. The left was completely sealed and painted over in deep, solid red.

She placed it over her face. At last, her expression matched the legend—blank, unreadable, as cold and inhuman as the myth of the White Witch. From the left eye socket, her blank white eyepatch peered through.

For a moment, the room was quiet.

Save for Pen, everyone removed their masks, taking a moment to study them—turning them in hand, inspecting every carved line and brushstroke. Each person searching for meaning in the details: every swathe of red paint, every chisel mark, every reflection of themselves.

When the last of them was finally satisfied, the Witch clapped her hands to refocus the room. "But the masks aren't the main event today are they?" Pen and I have just finished… 'visiting' the Tournament Corporation, and Pen if you could."

Pen circled the table, distributing a thick packet of paper to each of them.

The paper read:

"The Tournament's first bracket"

Arena of Dionysus

Flare

Vs.

Band

Game

Vs.

Topiary

Animal

Vs.

Curio

Apprentice

Vs.

Vampire

Arena of Yu

Dragon

Vs.

Monster

Umbra

Vs.

Antecedent

Bulwark

Vs.

Sin-Eater

Hero

Vs.

Hyperborean

Arena of Thrones

River

Vs.

Spear

Flower

Vs.

Weapon

Loner

Vs.

Illusionist

Noumenon

Vs.

Ascetic

Arena of Empedocles

Archeologist

Vs.

Sailor

Toil

Vs.

Toxophilite

Chosen

Vs.

Fusilier

Reliquary

Vs.

Anlace

Arena of Utnapishtim

Child

Vs.

Cockatrice

Lead

Vs.

Divine-Warden

Ghost

Vs.

Mire

Witch

Vs.

Ardent

Arena of Damocles

Sage

Vs.

Fairy

Commander

Vs.

Friend

Bounty

Vs.

Amaranthine

Nimbus

Vs.

Craven

Arena of Tantalus

Pith

Vs.

Bud

Repudiate

Vs.

Golem

Bolide

Vs.

Angel

Knight

Vs.

Emulation

Arena of Shapur II

Phoenix

Vs.

Hunter

Floe

Vs.

Obstacle

Scribe

Vs.

Asset

Mother

Vs.

Song

Mulct slapped his packet onto the table, the latest in a day full of indignities. "What the heck! There are tons of cool names here. Why did I have to get the weird one?!"

Pan chuckled, flipping through his own list. "Could have been worse, you could have gotten Loner or Child. I wonder what poor saps got those names?"

"Or Curio." The Witch teased playfully sticking her tongue out. Arete sank lower into her chair, only her eyes peeking out from under her scarf. But Sapphic wasn't listening. Her eyes raced down the list—line by line, match by match—until she froze.

Then:

"Yes!! She made it!" Sapphic leapt from her chair, sending it skittering behind her and startling Arete beside her.

Arete shifted her chair back, trying to create space between herself and the suddenly animated Sapphic. "Who did?"

Despite Arete's attempt to make distance, her question only called Sapphic closer. In a flash, the redhead was leaning over the back of Arete's chair, practically draped across her shoulders as she peered down at the queen's own list. "There!" she said, jabbing a finger at the page. "The Toxophilite, in the Arena of Empedocles—that's my girl, Biddy! And she's in the same arena as me!"

Arete squirmed beneath the invasive proximity. "How can you be so sure?"

"Oh, please." Sapphic barely glanced up. "Some of the names on this list are soooo obvious. There is no way anyone else would have gotten the Toxophilite title unless it was me, which it wasn't." Sapphic's excitement finally subsided enough for her to see the discomfort she was causing Arete. Embarrassed, Sapphic stepped back and gave the queen a little breathing room much to Arete's relief.

Sapphic returned to her seat, righting it off the ground and plucked her packet back off the table. "Surely you can recognize some of the names on here."

Arete scanned through her list again, this time with a more critical eye. "Well… I guess Bulwark and Hero must be those Savior guys; Jocund and Doyen."

Keen on this guessing game, Sapphic flipped through her packet for more identifiable names. "And the Dragon must be the three-armed dragon."

Pan leaned in, eager to join the gossip. "It can't be the three-armed-dragon."

"Why not?"

Arete answered before Pan could. "You can't be invited to the Tournament more than once."

Sapphic paused, gears turning. "So… it would be the one-armed dragon then?"

"Or the blood dragon." Mulct offered before taking a drink from his glass.

Pan, less interested in dragon fanaticism, steered the conversation back toward the Saviors. "If two of the Savior members were invited, wouldn't the rest of the team be as well? They also had a princess and a wizard, right?"

Arete arched a brow. She knew perfectly well that Pan was fully aware of the Saviors' team dynamic. Rather than question him she simply answered. "The wizard was in the last Tournament so he can't be invited again, and I doubt the princess will be invited either."

Mulct suddenly choked on his water, spraying a thin stream down his chin. "What the heck! Was the wizard fighting out of the womb? How old is this guy?!"

Arete answered. "He's a hundred and twelve years old now and got his invitation to the fifth Tournament at twelve. Best be careful if you ever come across him, wizards aren't necessarily known for getting weaker with age."

Mulct dabbed at his chin with his sleeve, still shaken. "Jeez, I knew he was powerful, but I didn't realize he was that scary."

While the rest of the group was discussing Ken Ream, the Preeminent Sage, Pan was still mulling over what Arete had said about the princess. He wasn't sure how to feel about it. Her simple answer sent a swirl of conflicting emotions to inconclusively tumble around in his chest. "Why not?"

The group glanced at him, confused—clearly the conversation had moved on. Realizing he needed to explain, Pan added, "Why don't you think the princess will be at The Tournament?"

Arete responded as if reiterating from a report sheet for the thousandth time. "She hasn't aged as gracefully as the rest of the team. But more importantly, her fighting style simply doesn't lend itself to one-on-one combat. The Tournament can be a little unfair like that." She sighed and waved a hand dismissively. "Now can we talk about somebody else, I'm sick and tired of reporting to you every single thing about that family."

Pan bristled slightly at Arete's tone. "It was just a question."

The Mokoi Queen rubbed the bridge of her nose, exhaling. "I know, I'm sorry. It's just that I've been buried in countless reports from every direction every time one of those 'Saviors' do so much as sneeze."

"And we appreciate the effort you put in Khanny." The Witch alleviated with a smile.

Mulct kept his face buried in the bracket list ignoring the conversation until he finally found his own Sin-Eater title and those he would be sharing his arena with. "Sorry Arete, I know you want to move on from the Saviors, but I just have one more question."

He finally glanced up, worry tightening his face. "Will I be fighting Jocund the Wall in round one, And stuck in the same arena with both him and the Hero, Doyen?!" The fear coiled in his chest, tangled with a perverse, electric thrill. He wasn't sure if he was more frightened or excited by the terrible matchup.

Everyone turned back to the bracket lists to more specifically read over the arena groupings. Arete raised her eyebrows as she took in the implications of Mulct's arena. "Looks like the Dragon's the only one in there who won't try to kill you on sight by mere association with the White Witch."

"And that won't be for long." The Witch included with an entertained chuckle.

Though Mulct was interested in hearing more details about that comment, the rest of the group was still identifying as many Tournament invitees as possible.

Sapphic called out, "Anyone else recognizes any of these? Mulct, any of your clotted merc buddies make the cut?"

Mulct's earlier anxiety slipped away at the thought, replaced by a bark of laughter. "There definitely won't be any clotted mercenaries here. But there is someone who should be here: Ad Rem."

Pan looked up from his page. "The Murugan Squad leader?"

The name alone brought a flush of old, unresolved fury rising through Mulct's chest, but overriding it all was a simmering anticipation for a rematch. "Yeah. I'm betting he's either The Commander or The Knight. If he's the Knight, can you do me a favour Pan and make his death insufferable? I'd rather kill him myself but if you come across him first then there's nothing I can do about it."

Sapphic spoke up. "You know, if what the White Witch says is true—"

"Which it is." The Witch quickly clarified.

Sapphic rolled her eyes. "Since what the White Witch says is true…" She gave the Witch a pointed look, sassily searching for approval of her corrected phrasing. The Witch, though unseeing, instinctually read Sapphic and smiled. Sapphic resumed. "Doesn't that mean that Filch isn't dead and you don't need to take any vengeance?"

Mulct's grip tightened around his glass, a sharp crack sounding as fractures webbed across its surface. "It's the thought that counts."

Uncaring of petty human squabbles, Arete pressed on. "If the Murugan Squad leader is The Knight then General Zeal is probably The Commander. I hope we're never placed in the same arena. What a mess." She rubbed her temples with the heels of her hands, already feeling the weight of The Tournament as just one more crisis added to her overflowing list of obligations. Just a second ago she was silently admonishing the humans for their petty squabbles, but she was just as much an offender in the end wasn't she? It was just that her squabbles involved massive armies and frightening conflicts of historical proportions.

The Witch too was eager to join the gossip. "If we're talking about familiar faces, we can all look forward to seeing our little princess and her attendant."

Arete swelled with pride but rapidly squelched with regret. "Vow will definitely be there."

Sapphic was a little confused as the Witch's and Sapphic's certainty seemed oddly dissonant to the image Sapphic held of Vow. "Wait… you mean that little kid who was hanging around when I first got here? Why would she be at the Tournament?"

Arete straightened in her seat, instantly offended on Vow's behalf. "First of all, she wouldn't be a child anymore. She's twenty now and—"

"Technically she's much older." The Witch added with mischievous pleasure.

"That doesn't count, she is twenty." Arete shot the Witch a glare, "You know it's because you kept giving her these ideas that she—" Arete exhaled, reining in her frustration. "Anyway, age doesn't matter. And you really shouldn't underestimate her, Sapphic. If the two of you ever fought, you wouldn't stand a chance."

Mulct was thinking back to his few interactions with the princess during the brief period they both resided within the castle. "I'm looking forward to seeing her again. I liked her. What do you think her and her weird attendant's Tournament names are?"

Arete scanned the list with narrowed eyes. "Weapon would be fitting for the guard." she paused, frowning slightly. "But as for Vow... I haven't the slightest clue which name would be hers."

Pan gave a mischievous grin to Névé."The River is probably your fiancé, right Névé?"

"ex-fiancé." Névé made sure to clarify, not finding any of the humour that Pan did in the teasing.

Once again, the list of Tournament candidates only served to sour Arete's mood further. She let out an audible grunt as her eyes landed on yet another familiar name. "Ugh, I think we all know who the Vampire is going to be."

Mulct went down his page following along. "Oof, and he's in the same arena as you?"

The Witch burst into laughter. "Ha! Have fun with that one Khanny. And you thought you were lucky not to share an arena with Zeal."

It seemed everyone had run out of names they could trace back to familiar faces—everyone except Névé, who had remained quiet through most of the conversation.

Mulct turned to her. "What about you Névé, do you recognize anyone?"

Névé had no interest in any contestants other than those in the same arena as her. She looked over the seven names she would share a space with and felt a strange ache in her chest she had not felt for years. She suppressed the feeling and reclaimed her stoic visage. "No. No one of note."

The masked Pen came to the Witch's side and deposited a braille translation of the Tournament roster.

She took a second to read through it and then jumped on the lull of the group's gossip. "Well," the Witch began, "this little game of who's who in the Tournament makes a perfect segue into what we actually need to talk about. If you all flip to the next page of your packets, you'll find a detailed breakdown of our intended strategy."

Before she could continue, both Mulct and Sapphic groaned in unison.

The Witch gave a knowing smile. "Of course, we have spoken about all of this many times before and I'm sure you have all intimately memorized every aspect of the plan."

Mulct and Sapphic immediately straightened in their seats, faces flushing. "…That's fair,"

"That's what I thought. Which is exactly why I made these reports for you." The Witch tapped her packet. "Now you only really need to be concerned with the sections pertaining to your specific arenas, but I still suggest you read through the whole thing. There are still plenty of non-arena factors that are unaccounted for. And the more each of you knows, the easier it will be for us to adapt."

The Witch felt along the packet's side for a marked tag and opened to a specific page, more for her audience's benefit to follow along than her own, though her own packet had been drafted in braille. "One of these unaccounted-for factors that I would like to highlight is we still don't know which Tournament name is tied to our precious little Wish. So whichever one of you find him first will be responsible for ensuring his safety."

"You want us to interfere in The Tournament?"

The Witch shook her head. "Not necessarily. He doesn't have to win. But if his life is in danger, then yes, we step in. We cannot allow him to die. Under any circumstances." The Witch cleared her throat, it was beginning to feel dry with all her talking. "As for what we do know—Mulct, your task is going to be the most difficult. Your grouping was… unfortunate."

She flipped a page, her expression growing more serious.

"I had plans in place for Director Yu, but now that your arena includes the Dragon—and considering how hostile your co-competitors will be if your identity is exposed—we may have to push Yu to a later round." She faced Mulct directly, missing eye contact, but her focus on him was still clear. "Your priority should be on The Dragon. As a Director, Yu is not going anywhere, but The Dragon could be knocked out of The Tournament at any time. Your goal is to collect a sample of its blood and put as much distance between you and that arena as you can until Pen can pick you up."

"If you somehow get an easy opportunity to deal with Director Yu then take it of course, but don't let that distract you. You'll have your hands full with the Dragon; and remember, once you get the blood, you have to get out of there as fast as possible before Ménage the Blood Dragon comes to get it. Unless of course, Ménage is The Dragon. Thankfully I don't think any of the names in your arena would belong to Wish." Mulct gulped as the exact challenge he was previously joking about made itself bare. That fear, it felt energizing.

The Witch turned to Pan. "Pan, you don't have any specific targets in your arena, but keep an eye out for Wish or any dangerous unknowns. If anyone suspicious surfaces, observe and report."

Pan acknowledged the orders with a grunt, though a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. He couldn't help but feel overshadowed—Mulct got the danger, the glory… and more importantly, a chance to face Doyen.

"Sapphic, you'll be responsible for Empedocles, if Mulct doesn't have the time to deal with Yu, which he most likely won't, then it will be on you to get Empedocles. It's not vital to manage our Directors in the first round, but I'd rather we act early when we can afford to than scramble at the last second."

Sapphic was a little disappointed to have work in her arena with Biddy but hoped she could get it finished fast enough. Regardless, she snapped a sharp theatrical salute, the rustle of her coat loud enough to be caught. The sound brought a faint smile to the Witch's lips. She made another quick read of the Tournament roster before continuing. "None of us were placed at the Arena of Thrones in this bracket, unfortunately. We'll have to push that back to a later round."

"But our luckiest outcome by far is at the Arena of Shapur II. We have two operatives—Névé and Pen." She placed a hand on Pen's shoulder. "Your task is the most important: capture Shapur II."

Pen did not respond.

Névé meekly mumbled "Yes, Ma'am"

"And what about you?" Mulct asked.

The White Witch coursed her fingers across her braille sheet with the new knowledge that she was in fact the Witch. "Well, it looks like I'll be going on vacation," she said, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "But don't worry. I'll bring back a souvenir."

Pan flipped through the rest of the parchment, a little unsure where the meeting was meant to go from here. "So… now what?"

"Now, The Tournament begins."


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