The Tournament [A Non-Traditional Fantasy]

Bemean – Royal Palace ( 21 days before The Tournament)

He had thought the torment was behind him. That he'd finally broken free from the confines of his arbiters. That the inky monsters would no longer haunt him.

He was wrong.

They followed him everywhere—watching, waiting, biding their time. And eventually, as always, they struck. They unleashed their unrelenting wrath and forced his hand.

He responded in kind, unsheathing his weapon with a dash into ink… and placed his pen upon the page:

A guest list for the Bemeanian royal palace gala.

Attendee signature: Ad Rem,

guests: None.

A regal attendant silently watched as the haggard soldier finished signing the page, his eyes widening slightly upon recognizing the name.

He recovered quickly, smoothing his tone into professional neutrality. "May I see your invitation, Captain?"

Without a word, Ad drew a glowing parchment from his coat and held it out. The attendant had already seen ten others like it, but still, he couldn't help but marvel at the fantastical paper.

The attendant didn't let his amazement shine through his voice however. "Congratulations and welcome to the Royal Gala, Captain Rem. You would be the last Tournament invitee to arrive."

A second servant bowed low, then gestured for the captain to follow.

It had been a long time since Ad Rem last stepped foot in the royal palace; yet, somehow, it seemed entirely unchanged.

The guest hall was still the overindulgent excess of opulence that he remembered. Diamonds bled from the walls while gemstones painted constellations across the domed ceiling. To complete the astronomical theme, a perfectly spherical chandelier floated at the room's center, a micro moon dominating the castle's false night. It pulsed with a kaleidoscopic rainbow of light.

It almost looked like the very heart of the castle. It made no sound, but he could feel the thump of every beat. His skin turned to gooseflesh under the pressure of its magic.

Captain Rem stopped and stared up at the chandelier.

Once, it had been the most devastating weapon of the Second Human-Mokoi War. Now it spun lazily overhead, reduced to a conversation piece meant to dazzle nobles.

He glanced down at his own overly-flamboyant suit—prettied up to appease the lords and ladies.

He exhaled, long and tired.

The world had changed.

It felt strange to be so tired when he had spent most of the day doing nothing but sitting in a carriage, but there was a mental toll to the endeavor. He belonged in a battlefield, not a gala. The only consolation was that this event was merely the preamble to a battlefield. In that, at least, he found some solace.

Ad's gaze swept across the vast great hall. Clusters of nobles gathered around the various Tournament invitees, each currying for favours to one day redeem. His mood immediately soured the moment he spotted: him.

There, breaking off from a crowd of starry-eyed nobles, stood his least favorite person—looking, as always, aggravatingly youthful.

"Why is that guy glaring at you?" Iatric questioned, her arm interlocked with her husband's.

The couple had only just managed to peel themselves away from the latest cluster of nobles, and though Iatric was well trained to not show it, she didn't want this new entrant to so soon shatter their peace. After all, as her husband was a Tournament invitee, this gala was in part for them. Take on top of that, that this pair were two of the most famous people in the world and it was obvious that they would be getting a lot of attention.

It wasn't all awful though, Iatric was happy to visit her old home and see her father, the king.

"I don't know." Her husband responded.

Doyen, the hero of New Heirisson conquest and now, as decreed by The Tournament, also simply: The Hero, gave the man a brief glance. "He seems familiar though. Maybe I beat him in a duel at some point or something."

Iatric squinted her aged eyes, studying the man more closely. "Isn't that Captain Ad Rem, famed leader of Murugan Squad?"

Now that she had a proper look at him, she couldn't believe she hadn't recognized him sooner. Age had not been kind. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Maybe." Doyen just shrugged, not really caring either way.

Mason awkwardly fidgeted with the sleeves of his frilly attire. He wasn't one to be much for the marketing or socializing side, but as head engineer of the TOIL initiative he was asked, more accurately ordered, to attend this gala.

It wouldn't have been much of a problem; he could've just kept low and let the shiny metal hulk that was the Toil do all the metaphorical talking while Starlet and their boss did the actual talking.

That strategy could have worked if it wasn't for one small hiccup: The TOIL initiative's founder was here.

"You actually completed it." The founder stated with a trace of pride.

He paced around the gleaming metal giant, studying every joint and gear with critical intensity. Mason stood stiffly nearby, nerves prickling as the man occasionally nodded or hummed in approval—at conclusions he never shared aloud.

He felt like he was getting a surprise performance review.

Mason adjusted his collar.

The founder gave the TOIL's glittering chassis a firm slap. "I must say, I'm impressed. I didn't expect you to solve this little riddle of mine so quickly."

Mason couldn't hide his frown at hearing the founder call it 'his riddle'.

"How did you manage to decode the incalescent fire's neural logic past the rotational essence fields?" He asked, tone bright with curiosity. "Surely you had to develop some kind of adaptive algorithm, didn't you? There are far too many moving parts for simple trial and error… aren't there?"

Starlet could see Mason's mood immediately flip.

The moment he realized he was speaking with a fellow academic, his entire demeanor shifted, eyes alight with passion, eager to share his discoveries.

"We did precisely that!" Mason burst out. "We'd been overthinking it for weeks—turns out the solution was beautifully simple."

Mason gushed, unable to contain himself once he could share his excitement with someone that would actually understand the genius at play.

But before Mason could spiral further into technical rapture, his boss stepped in.

"I apologize for my employee's enthusiasm," the man said smoothly. "I can tell you sir that if it wasn't for Mason here, your project would have never been completed so quickly."

The founder smiled, but his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He noticed the team lead was not particularly happy with that fact. It almost felt like he was trying to stop Mason from speaking about this algorithm of theirs.

Their team lead pushed forward, clearly trying to steer the conversation away from the technical details. "It's an honour to finally meet you in person, Mr. Surety. But—if I may—what brings you here tonight?"

The founder smiled at the man's question. "Just Surety is fine. And as for why I'm here—well, the answer's simple."

He paused, finding humour in the situation.

"I was invited."

All eyes went wide.

Surety's smile widened.

The king tapped a silver spoon against his goblet, the single ring cutting through the noise of the great hall immediately drawing it to silence.

"I don't mean to interrupt any of you for too long, so I will keep this brief." he said, his voice carrying easily across the room. "I have just been informed that all Tournament invitees hailing from Bemean have now arrived."

He raised his goblet. "First, allow me to personally congratulate the extraordinary citizens of Bemean who have achieved this miraculous feat."

He gestured broadly. "A hand, please, for:

Ad Rem: The Knight."

Immediately upon the king's announcement, a thunderous wave of applause exploded throughout the room.

"Doyen Heirisson: The Hero."

The crowd redoubled in their applause with an even grander furor, much to Rem's displeasure. Doyen, meanwhile, flinched slightly at hearing his full name—he had still yet grown used to it.

"Wish Heirisson: The Chosen."

Cheers and scattered whistles joined the clapping, mostly from the younger attendees.

"Sully Surety: The Archeologist."

The announcement caused a ripple of shock around the hall, that the notorious genius and reclusive scientist would be invited to a combat tournament.

"Tiffany, daughter of Paltry: The Craven."

The applause continued out of necessitated courteousness, but no one really recognized the name. Without a surname, it was clear she was a peasant.

No one expected much.

"Copse: The Bud."

Heads turned, people craning their necks, whispering as they tried to locate the elusive invitee.

No one could.

"The Toil."

Mason straightened his shoulders, pride filling him as he heard the title of his work called out by the king of his country.

"Nymph: The Fairy."

Many anxious murmurs spread as people made sidelong glances to the small glowing green sphere at the edge of the room.

"Poetaster: The Flare."

A massive roar rivalling that of which was given for Doyen exploded from the room.

"Pinna: The Friend."

The applause swiftly dimmed, turning cold and sparse. A general unease settled in the room, disdain thick in the silence between claps.

"And Liederkranz: The Band!"

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The final applause rolled through the room, echoing off the vaunted ceiling then settling into stillness as the king waited for quiet once more.

"You eleven—along with our prodigious wizard, Espy Foofaraw: The Obstacle, who unfortunately could not attend this evening—are the pride of our nation. Your patriotic courage will represent your whole people in the Tournament to come.

"Also present at this gala are some of Bemean's most powerful and influential figures, many of whom, I'm sure, would be delighted to sponsor and support you in your trials.

"And of course," he added with a smile, "the royal family would be happy to provide whatever amenities are necessary to ensure your safe travel to your respective arenas—and help prepare you in whatever way we can to help secure your victory."

He raised his goblet high. "To Bemean's champions!"

A resounding cheer chorused with the sloshing of raised drinks and then the room returned to its mingling.

Copse couldn't believe the nonsense that the fat man had just said.

He even had the gall to claim Copse as one of HIS citizens—as if Copse belonged to the fat man! Unbelievable!

Copse wouldn't have come to this absurd place at all, but it needed one of the fat man's wagons since Copse didn't know how to navigate to an arena on its own.

But just because Copse needed the fat man's help wouldn't mean it would be happy about it.

The tiny creature skulked in the corner of the great hall, doing its best to avoid every soul in the room. It glared resentfully across the floor at a line of wooden chairs and polished tables.

The audacity of these humans!

Tiffany fidgeted with the uncomfortable strap of her gaudy dress.

Puce had lent her one of his sister's dresses so that she didn't have to arrive at the party in her 'dirty drawls'. Tiffany hated the cumbersome clothes but there had been so much on her mind at the time, that in a very uncharacteristic bout of silence, she accepted the dress without question.

Now Puce was proudly guiding her around the gala, introducing her to every stuck-up, silk-draped moron he knew.

She ignored most of it, all the drivel going in one ear and right out the other. Her gaze idly drifted upward, bored and distant, until it landed on the floating, perfectly spherical chandelier.

She had to choke back a laugh. Using that thing as a chandelier was the height of absurdist comedy. Leave it to the rich.

Apparently, her laugh had come at an inopportune moment in whatever conversation she was supposedly having. Puce floundered to smooth over the perceived slight. Tiffany didn't care.

Her eyes drifted back to the chandelier.

She'd never seen someone else with an arcane heart before.

It was small—comparatively—but immaculately smooth. That couldn't have been natural. She wondered how they managed to shape it so cleanly. It had taken her weeks of work just to break off a sliver.

Her attention snapped back to the party when she heard the gravelly bellow of a large man. "Puce, my boy! What are you doing here—and with a beautiful maiden, no less?" the man called, making his way over.

One glance was all it took for Tiffany to recognize him as Puce's father. The resemblance was undeniable.

"…and in your sister's clothes," Puce's father added upon getting a better look at Tiffany. "Weren't you supposed to be staying at the Yearn estate?"

Puce waved his father's concerns off, more excited to introduce his dame.

Tiffany didn't much like how casually Puce was accepting, and even enjoying, the building conception that the two of them were some kind of couple. The way Puce beamed beside her made her stomach twist. She hoped Puce wasn't getting any ideas.

"Yes, yes, Father. But when I heard Tiffany had been summoned to the gala, I knew I had to bring her home with me!"

Tiffany scowled. She didn't like that word choice either.

His father raised a thick eyebrow. "Tiffany… as in Tiffany the Craven? The Tournament invitee?"

Puce's smile only widened. "The very same! I was thinking—maybe the family could sponsor her in the Tournament."

Tiffany scoffed at the very thought. "Yeah, right. Like I'd accept your condescending handouts."

She spat onto the marble floor and Puce's father recoiled a step, visibly disturbed.

"She would be honored to accept any support your family might offer to improve her chances in the arena." Of course. That aggravating old coot, Care, could never resist meddling in her affairs.

As the one who'd alerted the royal family to Tiffany's Tournament invitation, he'd been promptly assigned as her chaperone—but there was no mistaking it for anything other than a thinly veiled excuse to chain her down with a warden.

"Guh. I need a drink." Tiffany spun on her heel and stormed away from the group, making a beeline for an out of the way corner at the edge of the gala.

She tugged at the collar of her dress. It was so suffocating.

This whole place was suffocating.

She didn't even want to take part in this idiotic Tournament.

Her fingers reached under the hem of her bodice and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a dark, bubbling liquid which she had smuggled in.

She uncorked the vial and drank.

Wish was a famous person.

It wasn't just the fact that he was the son of Doyen the Hero of New Heirisson conquest, and Iatric Eminence the Holy Light, or that he was distant royalty. Those facts helped of course, but he had his own fair share of personal prestige. He was invited to the Tournament at the young age of fifteen after all.

Despite the fact that he was among the most acclaimed individuals present, not a single noble dared approach him.

That was because of the mokoi sat upon its haunches by his side.

Under any other circumstances, that vile creature would be slain where it stood, but the Tournament invitation it carried served both as an armistice of peace, and also a warning of the strength this creature possessed.

The mokoi spoke with an oddly sheepish tone, betraying her massive, terrifying form. "So umm, uh, hi. I'm the Friend." She spoke slowly, struggling to articulate the 'n' of friend as her mokoi anatomy made the human language difficult to parse.

She scratched at the semi-transparent quills along her shoulder with her horrific claws in some kind of nervous tick. "Or—well, that's not my real name, obviously. My name is…" She scratched again, a little more vigorously this time as she pondered,, the sound like wet bristles on stone. "...Pinna, I think is how you say it in human."

Wish sipped his wine, trying his best not to appear too disturbed by the truly gargantuan foe. A creature from the same race which his family was famed for slaughtering en masse.

"Wish." He simply replied.

Pinna extended a massive clawed arm, and Wish flinched backward, narrowly avoiding what looked like a swing.

"Oh! Sorry, Wish! I didn't mean to scare you," she said quickly, retracting her limb. "I thought humans did handshakes as greetings. Maybe I was wrong. I… haven't been able to study your culture too well." There was a strange sadness in her voice, and she resumed scratching nervously at her translucent shoulder quills.

It almost made Wish feel bad for her.

"Oh… yes, we do do that." He hesitated, then cautiously reached out his own greeting. The mokoi's transparent bill warped into what appeared like an almost hungry snarl that sent a shiver down his spine. Pinna took his hand in hers, the goliath paw wholly swallowing his hand and shook it.

Pinna hoped she was doing the smile thing right. It hurt her bill to hold the shape but she'd heard humans liked it. Internally, she was squealing with glee, she was at a human event, talking with humans, and touching humans, and not fighting a single one! It also meant she couldn't eat any of them, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

"Do you want to be friends?"

Wish took another long sip of wine and raised a wary brow at the hulking mokoi.

The wondrous Poetaster stood amidst a crowd of dreamy-eyed nobles, all gawking at the magnificent magics unfurling from Poetaster's fingertips. With every syllable spoken, every graceful gesture performed, the audience swooned—men and women alike drawn helplessly into the radiant glow of Poetaster's charm.

Poetaster was, as always, impossibly beautiful. And the attention they received was intoxicating.

Still, Poetaster felt a flicker of irritation pass upon noticing Doyen the Hero had garnered an equally adoring crowd.

What was further irksome was that Poetaster's private performance was interrupted by the high-pitched squeak of a nearby voice. "Hyia there, Flare! I'm Nymph. It's nice to meet you!"

Everyone turned to the voice and the crowd parted slightly, revealing a small, glowing orb of green light that hovered closer. For those who squinted through the light, they could make out the figure within: a tiny naked humanoid sporting antennae and four insect-like wings.

Despite the nudity, the tiny human was not immodest, as it had no genitalia to begin with.

Nymph beamed brightly, flashing rows of oversized, razor-sharp teeth.

Several nobles recoiled in alarm.

Poetaster didn't so much as flinch at the sight. Instead, they returned the greeting with a smile of their own. "It is a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a fellow Tournament invitee," Poetaster said, dipping into a practiced, courtly bow.

The gesture sent Nymph into a fit of high-pitched, jittering laughter, doubling over midair and clutching its stomach. The laughter was strange, inhuman, it resembled more like the clicking of cicadas than any reasonable voice.

The nobles didn't share in the creature's mirth. Since the fairy's arrival, many started to feel ill. One by one, the enchanted audience drifted away, murmuring excuses and rubbing away headaches.

In moments, the entire crowd had cleared, leaving Nymph alone with an increasingly unimpressed Poetaster.

Nymph's grin somehow widened even further as they floated a little closer, eyes gleaming with hunger. "You smell different!" they chirped with uncontained glee.

Poetaster raised a sculpted brow, already sensing that they did not like this little creature. "How so?"

"It's kind of like that hero guy over there, but I can tell the weird smell on him is just a topping. You, though—" Nymph licked its lips, saliva practically drooling from its jagged maw. "You're a full course meal!"

Unsettled by the creature's proclamation, Poetaster took a subtle half-step back.

That only made Nymph laugh harder—those unnatural, chittering clicks grinding in his ears.

"I'm not sure I follow," Poetaster said flatly, already scanning the room for an exit strategy to rejoin the gala.

"Liver!" Nymph exclaimed, throwing up its tiny arms in praise. "I love livers! I'm the pretty generous sort, so I tend to leave them for the other forest animals. But I don't need to share in this Tournament."

Nymph's needle-toothed grin returned in full. "Nope, nope. It will be all for me! I'll get every cut of flesh."

The creature hovered backward a little, trying to shake off the delighted vividness of their own reverie.

Nymph tilted its head, curiously trying to make something out of Poetaster. "Do you have a liver, Mx. Flare? You look pretty human on the outside, but I've eaten mokoi before and hoo boy, they can be pretty weird inside."

Poetaster's eyes shot wide at Nymph's insinuation. Poetaster was aghast, face furling to a furious scowl. "How dare you compare me to such a thing! I would neve-"

Nymph raised a tiny hand, cutting off Poetaster's tirade, while supporting its stomach with the other as it laughed in uncontrollable jubilation. "Stop, stop!" Nymph wheezed between spasms. "You're making my abs hurt from laughing too much!"

Poetaster stood frozen, expression souring further as the little creature wiped tears from its eyes.

"Don't worry Mx. Flare, I won't share your secret with anyone just yet, that would spoil the fun of teasing you!"

Poetaster's nostrils flared, seconds from storming off, but Nymph flew in the way, blocking escape.

"Of course," it murmured, almost wistful, "I'll have to wait if I want you to share your liver with me."

Nymph raised its arms, pointing a clawed finger across the room. "You'll have to beat her in The Tournament first."

Poetaster followed the gesture—eyes landing on a bubbly, middle-aged woman in an old military uniform not fully fitting her.

"Captain!" Liederkranz called out as she jogged across the ballroom floor and approached her old commander.

Captain Rem looked up, visibly weary beneath the weight of his years—dark bags shadowing his eyes—but he brightened immediately at the sight of his pupil.

"Liederkranz! it is wonderful to see you." His gaze drifted downward, and a chuckle escaped. "Is that your old uniform from the war?"

"Sure is! I haven't worn this thing in twelve years. I can't believe it still fits like a glove."

Captain Rem's eyes caught on a brass button pulled tight near the midsection. He raised an eyebrow.

Liederkranz narrowed her eyes. "Like. A. Glove. Right, Captain?"

The Captain let out a stilted defensive laugh. "Yes, yes. You look just like you're still twenty."

She gave him a mock scowl, but the glare softened instantly—the teasing still familiar and easy despite their years apart.

"I can't believe it's been so long already. How have you been?" Ad asked, his voice dipping into genuine warmth. Liederkranz had always been one of his favorites.

"I've been great. The kids at my school are always a blast," Liederkranz said with a grin. "A rowdy teenager isn't much better than a snarling mokoi, but I'll take what I can get!"

She laughed at her own joke, her thoughts briefly drifting back to her noisy classroom in the village.

"Though I will admit, I'm pretty excited to get some action again."

Ad gave her an emphatic smile. "You know, we could really use you back in our forces. The top brass have me putting together a new Murugan Squad, and I swear—the new blood just doesn't cut it."

Captain Rem shook his head in lamentation remembering all the paperwork awaiting him.

Liederkranz just laughed at his complaints. "Oh, don't be like that, Captain. If I remember right, you said the same about me when I first joined the squad."

She gave her captain a sly look. "Maybe it's time we left the heavy lifting to the next generation. Shouldn't you be thinking of retiring yourself soon? I know my bones are still paying for the war. I can't imagine how you're feeling."

The captain released a weary sigh and ran a hand through his greyed hair before putting his smile back on. "Nonsense, Liederkranz. I've still got a few good fights left in me—at least the Tournament Corporation seems to think so."

That earned a chuckle from the woman. "Well, I'd love to catch up more, Captain, but I was hoping I'd be able to catch Iatric and Doyen before they get too overwhelmed by the crowd again."

At the mention of Doyen, Ad's smile twitched into a frown. Liederkranz caught it immediately and grinned wider. "Oh, don't be such a grump, Captain. I'm sure you'll get your rematch in the Tournament."

He just waved her off. "Yes, yes, go say hello to your friends."

Liederkranz turned to make her way towards her old friends but saw that she had been beaten to the punch by another Tournament invitee. Lieaderkranz was impressed by how young the girl was, she was young enough to be one of her students for goodness sake!

Tiffany stumbled her way toward that 'oh so wonderful and amazing hero'—ugh, makes her sick! Her path zigzagged wildly, her booze-addled brain barely managing to place one foot in front of the other.

"Hey, hero boy!" She shouted out to the heavybuilt man louder than intended and caused a large portion of the gala to turn her way. Unbeknownst to her, the elderly Care blanched as he realized both her destination and her condition.

Doyen blinked at her in confusion. He vaguely recognized her as another Tournament invitee, but beyond that, he didn't know—nor did he particularly care to know—who she was.

Tiffany hiccupped as her body swayed, barely managing to stand up right. "You don't look so tough to me." She slurred, jabbing an accusatory finger against his chest. The stench of alcohol wafting over, hit him harder than the jab.

He looked helplessly to Iatric, hoping her social suave could kick in and rescue the situation, but her bewildered expression made it clear she was just as lost.

Tiffany sneered, eyes half-lidded. "So lame. Only wife you got could outlive a devadoot." She scoffed and grabbed her crotch mockingly. "Mustn't have much below the belt do you?"

That did it. Doyen's jaw clenched. Insulting him was one thing—but insulting his wife, a princess! in the royal palace! In front of all her subjects?!

He stepped forward, anger flaring—only for Tiffany to fold over and vomit squarely onto his shoe.