The first blush of morning arrived. Lilieth walked lethargically through Artemest, a coating of water from the night rain beneath her feet reflecting the sun and sky. Each step she took made a soft splashing sound that mingled with the early morning bustle of people setting up stalls.

  The main streets leading to Artemest Square were wide and lined with stores and shops and all sorts of pop-ups. Its denizens seemed much more excitable than what Lilieth was used to as well. In a few days, the Relic Festival was set to begin, and that nervous energy everyone had felt contagious.

  Despite Lilieth’s desire for that energy to take her over as well, she just felt numb.

  It was cold. She looked down at her clothes—a simple tunic and pants. She remembered the clothes Sibeiya gave her back when they first met. They ended up getting ruined and torn some time ago, and she had hoped to get them patched up one day.

  “...”

  She shook her head and continued walking until she passed by a clothing shop. One of the ensembles displayed at the front of the store was a leather waist-length jacket paired with sturdy-looking trousers. The shop also sold minor pieces of armor—it seemed that most clothing shops did when the Relic Festival was near.

  ‘Clothes for adventuring’, she realized—good for combat. She’d always worn dresses before, as befitting a priestess. She imagined what she’d look like wearing the clothes in front of her now. Her reflection lined up almost perfectly with them.

  Do ya think changing yer image is gonna help?

  Lilieth sighed and continued down the street. Children ran past her, giggling and laughing as they played amidst the street puddles, competing to make the biggest splash they could. She remembered the other children in Hesperus often playing that game.

  All you did back then was watch, right? Ya never even bothered to ask if you could join in.

  Her eye twitched. She ignored the children and kept walking.

  I’m startin’ to think that you’ve got no one to blame but yourself for all the shit in your life. Hells, maybe even those so-called heroes were in the right for—

  “Shut up!”

  Lilieth screamed. The people around her began to murmur, looking at her with concern, all the while avoiding her. The young mage cradled her head with her hands as a fierce headache surged.

  She fell to her knees and waited for the throbbing to subside—pained, laborious breaths until the world stilled.

  Regretting the words you said to the Shebauno girl? That it? Ah, wait. She ain’t even that, huh? Yer accusations ‘gainst her all proved to be bull.

  “I shouldn’t have said all that to her,” Lilieth whispered, bringing her face closer to the ground. “I ... that was wrong of me.”

  She tried to stop you.

  “She was just looking out for me.”

  And what bloody reason did she have to do that? Like ye said, none of you are friends.

  Lilieth grimaced as the words tore at her.

  “Still, I didn’t need to say all that to her ... As a person, that was ... wrong.”

  The voice in her head laughed.

  As a person? You’re barely a person, brat.

  Lilieth paused.

  What, don’t tell me you’ve never realized? Back in your village in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, all you did was pray and pray and pray ‘til some wannabe hero came and swept you off yer feet. You prayed ‘cuz you were told to pray, isn’t that right?

  “That’s not—”

  You never went out and played with those other imps. All ya did was wait for ‘em to talk to you first. Then, after you joined Verlaine of the Hundred Shitstains, you did the same thing: stand around and do what others told ya to. A person’s ain’t what I’d call that. No wonder no one ever noticed ya. You were barely even there to begin with.

  “Shut up ...”

  The one time you did somethin’ on yer own, you done and fucked it all up. Bloody hilarious, that is. That’s what happens when someone who’s never done a thing in her life tries to actually do somethin’ for once. The fuckin’ hubris on you.

  Lilieth tried to block it out, that voice. It was all in her head. None of it was real. And yet, she could feel Markosh standing beside her. She could feel his hand grab the top of her head and pull it up.

  Look. Yer so pitiful on the ground, and yet no one comes and picks you back up. No one even tries. Look at everyone—so intent to ignore you.

  And he was right. Not a single person came to her aid. Some looked at her, worry in their eyes, but no one cared to actually check if she was alright.

  You don’t have depth. You don’t have character. You don’t have anythin’. Before you were betrayed, you had no hopes or dreams of yer own. There’s nothin’ inside you but a big, empty void. And now, yer goin’ around, tryin’ to fill it any way you can. You steal others and cram them into that hole just to feel like a person.

  I’m not ...! Lilieth tried to voice opposition, but no words came out. She dropped her head down, letting it meet the pavement.

  Lilieth Lasvenn does not care about Irene Lytras and Tethys Lytras. Yer feelings for them are stolen. Yer concern for them don’t belong to you. Same goes with that sword: ya still carry it around with you, but you don’t have any bloody obligation to return it to whoever it fuckin’ belonged to.

  The shortsword. That shoddy old thing that she was sure couldn’t be used in battle anymore or else it’d shatter. She ... she couldn’t remember who used to carry it, but she knew she had to give it to someone.

  But ya know what does belong to you?

  Lilieth raised her head—slowly.

  That hatred of yours. That bloodthirst.

  She shuddered and shook her head. “It’s yours.”

  Not a bloody chance. What could Markosh Lytras have ‘gainst those heroes? ‘Gainst Olivier Verlaine? None, I tell ya. That goal belongs to you and you alone.

  Lilieth could feel her own heart burning at those words, searing her blood until it was boiling.

  Who can steal from you that right? No shot you’re gonna let that other girl take it from ya.

  The young mage stood up. Her clothes were drenched from having been on the rain-pooled ground. She turned around, towards the direction of that clothing store.

  What’s your plan now?

  “I have a duel to win.”

  Once, she’d have said there was no point to it, but putting Sibeiya in her place and proving that she was strong ... that was point enough.

  Yer not gonna win on as ye are, brat.

  “I know.”

  She could hear the voice laugh again.

  I wonder who you’ll steal next.

  Once again, Phaedon sat on the roof of some abandoned building somewhere. It didn’t really matter where it was as long as it had a clear view of the sky and the absence of anyone who might disturb him.

  He was looking at that pendant again, a rusty little thing in the shape of a mouse-ear flower. It was a common flower in Krysanth, and the trinket itself was probably even more common.

  Phaedon had never once worn the pendant now that he thought about it. It felt wrong to do so. He would never wear it for the rest of his life, he was sure.

  The young lord placed it back into his pocket and stared into the distance. The sunrise had passed.

  He made his way down the building. He needed to train while he still had time.

  This year, he’d do it.

  He would finally escape.

  Sibeiya dodged each one of Albus’ strikes. They were both Blessed, but she was faster and stronger than he was. Albus, however, had a way of fighting that always got on her nerves anyway. She could never really tell what he’d do next, and it was mightily difficult to read his attacks.

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  His favorite sword art to use was called Snow Dancing, a discipline from Odunast that was best used with two weapons. Unlike most “dancing styles”, which were graceful and precise, Snow Dancing was terribly violent and relentless in comparison. Albus twirled and twisted his body around, letting his blades flow around him like a blizzard. Each strike didn’t land very hard, but when you had to contend with so many strikes in such a short span of time, it got tricky.

  “That’s enough,” Albus said, sheathing both his swords.

  “No, I can still keep going,” Sibeiya replied, trying to ignore the sweat that drenched her entire body.

  The gray haired man shook his head as he walked to sit on a nearby stump. “Nope. I admire the drive, but overexerting yourself is only going to do more harm to your body than good. I thought you knew this,” he ended with more of a question than a statement.

  “Yeah, but ...” Sibeiya sat down on the ground, trying to catch her breath.

  Albus stared at her with a discerning eye, as if he was trying to read her somehow. After some time, he just gave a few nods, unsheathed one of his blades, and began cleaning it.

  It was, of course, a real steel blade—dulled but real. Grits and Albus usually used dulled steel in training. Wooden ones broke far too easily with their strength.

  Sibeiya didn’t like acknowledging it, but it wasn’t something she could deny either. Grits, Albus, even that Phaedon guy ... they were above her. So far above her. Grits and Phaedon didn’t even have Blessings, and yet, they were much better, much stronger fighters.

  She had the blood of the Shebauno in her veins. She was descended from them. True, she didn’t receive the gift, but her people were stronger than most still. Even then, it wasn’t enough.

  Every time Lilieth called her a Shebauno, she always wondered why she never corrected her. Was it a point of pride? Maybe something else?

  Sibeiya didn’t like thinking about things like that, so she didn’t.

  Deeper in the forest, she could hear the fierce sound of fighting.

  “It’s been hours,” Sibeiya said. “They’re still going?”

  “Grits looked extra determined lately,” Albus replied, “and Guillem will indulge him for as long as he wants. I think he’s got a soft spot for the boy.”

  “He beats him up harder than any of us.”

  Albus shrugged. “Exactly. Types like him go all out for their favorites.”

  Sibeiya sighed. “It doesn’t really feel like training, no? What Grits is doing, I mean. It feels more like ... self-punishment.”

  Her mind immediately flashed back to Lilieth. It wasn’t any different with her. She cleared her mind of it. She didn’t want to be in a bad mood today.

  “Maybe something happened lately.” Albus moved to his next sword. “Let him get it out of his system for now.”

  The desert girl could feel worry creep up in her heart, like tension being pulled taut. She trusted her gut more than most else, and her gut wasn’t calming down.

  Perhaps she was just nervous for the festival.

  Night was starting to fall, and Niko strode down the emptying streets. The moonsilver lamps hummed on, one by one, just as the evening bell tolled. He was closer to the outskirts now, but even here, the sound vibrated his bones. He always liked the feeling, truth be told. He liked waking up to the sound, too. Many people disliked it to the point of buying ear mufflers to sleep with—though those didn’t really help much when the sound reverberated through you. It was just one of the things you had to live with in a Krysanthian megalopolis.

  And Niko loved this city. It was his home, flawed as it was. It was why he stayed, even after being ...

  “... Exiled is a strong word,” Niko muttered to himself. “Maybe ... kicked out? Yes, kicked out.”

  At any rate, he was no longer allowed to work in SilverRose or visit his old estate. Thales, his father’s old partner, was the one who managed both now, not that Niko ever had any claim to them. The estate, maybe, but not the clinic—it was never intended to be his, and he understood why. If he were in his father’s place, he’d have probably made the same decision.

  He was glad that his father did make that decision. At the very least, it led to Niko becoming the person he was now. Life was hard, yes—he was always hurting for money—but it wasn’t a bad life, and he’d rather be the healer “Niko” than the lord “Nikolaos Argyri”.

  He carried on with his rounds, visiting all of his bedridden patients one by one. He always did so, each one at least once per week.

  The last one to check for the day was Irene. Thankfully, she wasn’t injured during the wyvern attack, but the stress of it all did do a number on her health. He’d have let her stay at his clinic, but it was full of people with worse injuries, and Irene herself offered to stay at their insula. Niko had a copy of their keys and checked in every day, but he admired the girl’s courage nonetheless.

  Her sickness was a rather advanced one. As a First tier, he couldn’t fully heal it. He had been trying to cure it through more traditional means. He wasn’t the best pharmacist, but he did try.

  The Healmage dug into his bag and pulled out a vial: his latest creation. He was rather hopeful for this batch. He had spent several nights up late making it.

  Arriving at the insula, he rode the lift up to the top floor. It rattled as it climbed, the familiar hum of magitech reverberating through the healer. Niko leaned back against the railing, rolling the vial between his fingers. The liquid inside shimmered faintly. Stable—at least, it should be. He triple-checked ratios and remeasured them countless times. If this doesn’t work, then—

  The lift chimed.

  Niko stepped out into the quiet hallway. The lamps that lined the corridor were dimmed for the night, bathing everything in soft amber light. He crossed the space, towards the Lytrases’ room, and knocked twice.

  “Irene? It’s me, Niko,” he called out.

  No response. Perhaps she was asleep. He knocked again.

  “Irene?”

  Silence.

  He didn’t bother a third time. He grabbed the keys, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

  Irene was sprawled out on the floor, a leg still on the bed.

  The vial slipped from Niko’s fingers and clanked against the floor as he ran to the girl’s side. He gently but swiftly turned her onto her back.

  She was alive. Unconscious. Breathing, but erratically. And her entire skin was burning hot—a severe fever. How long had she been like this? Several hours, at least, if he had to estimate.

  Bad. Bad, bad, bad.

  He cast Diagnostics. Her illness was acting up again. His medicine ... He needed to ...

  ... No, the sickness is progressing too fast. His concoction wouldn’t be enough. The only place—

  No time to hesitate.

  He carried her in his arms and bolted out the door. He ran down the stairs, two, three steps per stride, and dashed through the night. Frantically.

  The next few moments, he remembered as a blur. He got her to SilverRose, and she was cared for immediately. Again, he drew the awkward, strained gazes of his former subordinates—co-workers, really. Again, he was unable to save someone with his own abilities.

  His legs gave out immediately after, and he found himself sitting outside the clinic, by the road. The air was cold. He had no jacket on, but that was of little importance.

  “You’re still as unathletic as ever.”

  Niko looked up and saw Rhea standing next to him. She didn’t look at him, of course. He understood.

  “It’s gotten better since I was Blessed,” Niko answered, his voice quieter than usual.

  A long silence passed between them. Niko cursed himself for getting into another awkward situation. Of all people ...

  “... The kid’s illness,” Rhea said after some time. “Argentemia.”

  Niko nodded with a soft hum of affirmation.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “Two years now.”

  “Tulphanera,” Rhea cursed. “She should’ve gotten proper treatment in the first few months.”

  “They couldn’t afford it,” Niko answered.

  Rhea sighed. “Her silver veins are too deteriorated at this point. At this rate, the mana she’s producing will slowly start poisoning her.”

  Only some people were Blessed, but all humans produced mana in their bodies. Silver veins were the pathways that allowed mana to course through the body. When one had argentemia, those pathways were likely to degrade.

  “Can she be saved?” Niko looked up to her, pleading.

  For the first time, Rhea made eye contact. A complicated expression was on her face. “It’s going to be an expensive treatment, much more so than for that woman you brought in before. Can you pay for it, too?”

  “I’ll ...” Niko hesitated. “... Yeah. Yeah, I’ll bring you the payment in a few days, sure.”

  Another pause lingered between them. She looked at him, observing him, as if trying to see if she could trust his words, or judging him.

  Whatever she was doing, he didn’t feel comfortable with it.

  “I should go,” he said, immediately standing up and leaving.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped. He turned to see Rhea opening her mouth, though no sound escaped it. She stammered, and eventually, she just closed her mouth and looked away.

  He didn’t know what was going on in her head, and he found that he was too afraid to know.

  Niko gave a nod to her and left.

  As for Irene’s treatment ... he didn’t have any money left. He spent most of his savings to pay for Tethys’. As is, he couldn’t afford to pay for both.

  That only left one path for him to take, and if it meant not letting another patient die on his watch, he’d tread it without question.

  It was early in the morning, but the streets were abuzz with revelry.

  The day had finally come, and Artemest was at its loudest. A spirited energy could be felt from every corner of every district. The festive atmosphere permeated the air as music danced with the wind, carrying every note down streets and alleys.

  Sibeiya stood in front of the coliseum. She had attended many relic festivals before, but this was her first time participating in one, and she could feel the nerves getting to her. Grits and Albus stood on either side of her, properly dressed in combat attire of their own: leather armor, of course, the same with Sibeiya. It didn’t offer as much protection as steel plates, but this wasn’t a “to-the-death” tournament, and Spearman always valued speed over power anyways.

  “Nervous?” Albus whispered to her.

  “No.”

  “I am, too.”

  “You don’t look nervous,” Grits chimed in. This wasn’t his first festival—far from it, in fact—so he was very calm about it, or at least that’s how he seemed from the surface.

  “I’m good at pretending,” Albus said. “What about you, young Grits?”

  “Me? Peachy.” Grits stretched his neck.

  “You look like you have a lot on your mind.”

  “That’s because I do have a lot on my mind. I’d like to keep it all there, thanks.”

  Sibeiya took a deep breath to calm herself down. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  The three of them walked into the coliseum, entering the halls of the back entrance dimly lit by sunlight illuminating both ends. Deeper inside, where the arena was, she could already hear the cheers of the crowd. They didn’t do much for her nerves.

  After being recognized by the staff as legitimate participants, they were given bracelets, each inlaid with a small device bearing a blue gemstone. Apparently, they were identifiers so they could keep track of every participant. After putting them on and being handed dulled steel weapons of their choice, the three finally emerged into the arena proper.

  The coliseum opened up around them in a sudden, overwhelming sweep of space and sound. Tiered stone seats rose high up on all sides, packed with spectators whose cheers rolled together into a deafening roar that could rival the Greatbells’ rings. Banners hung up from the balustrades, flowing with the breeze, bearing the sigils of the noble houses of Artemest.

  The fighting grounds were wide and spacious—but not empty. Dozens of fighters were already standing about, some stretching, others testing their footing or sizing one another up with wary glances. The sound of weapons clinking filled her ears.

  It was far more overwhelming when you were looking from down here instead of up in the seats.

  “Quite a number we have here,” Albus said excitedly. “Looks like this will be one hell of a first round.”

  The first round of the festival was a free-for-all. All the participants went at it until only sixteen were left. It was only then that the one-on-one battles began.

  Albus began stretching and jumping about. “Well then, only a matter of time befo—”

  The gray haired man’s eyes widened as he looked towards the crowd of fighters. Sibeiya looked, as did Grits, only to see an unfamiliar figure with a familiar face. He was dressed differently, light armor and a sword at the waist, but there was no mistaking those glasses and red hair.

  “Niko?” Grits called out, incredulousness in his voice.

  In the distance, Niko noticed them, gave a small nod, and went back to doing stretches. There was something different about him though. He didn’t seem as bright and cheery as he usually did. He looked like a fighter.

  “He knows how to fight?” Sibeiya asked in hushed tones.

  The other two didn’t really have an answer.

  Then, she heard footsteps echoing from the entryway. They were familiar, too, but they were heavier. Somehow, her ears had picked up on them, as if every other noise was irrelevant … as if demanding her attention. Sibeiya turned to the entrance.

  Leather jacket over a breastplate, thick trousers, dark blue hair tied up into a ponytail, bright blue eyes, a longsword sheathed on her back ...

  Sibeiya froze.

  Lilieth stepped into the arena.