The Kemp Vekoslav Colosseum rose like a monument to spectacle itself—an architectural marvel born of stone and artistry. It is a mountain of pale marble shaped into an oval ring, its surface etched with carvings of heroes, beasts, and the insignias of all seven tribes. Each arway was framed by pillars coiled in flowering vines, and at dawn the petals of those blooms scattered in the wind.
The approach began through a courtyard. Trees with pink blossoms shaded pools of still water, and delicate bridges of carved stone crossed between them. Inside, the Colosseum opened like a vast bowl, immense enough to cradle tens of thousands of voices. Rows upon rows of seats climbed steeply upward, encircling the central arena. The highest seats touched the sky while the lowest stood mere paces from the combat floor. Those of higher standing took the elevated boxes draped with silks and banners, their view perfect and their comfort absolute.
As marvelous as the architecture was, the engineering is what the Colosseum prides itself on. Its stones were not fixed; it was a living structure shaped by mechanical ingenuity. Beneath the arena lay a network of iron gears and cogs—electricity, steam, and human strength working in tandem to give the moveable parts life. Through them, the earth could be commanded to shift and rise. A floor could change its form, stone walls surging upward to divide the arena into halves, quarters, or even small chambers. Four separate contests could unfold at once, duels, races, archery tournaments, each hidden from the others by solid stone.
There were also water sluices that could be opened, flooding the arena to create a deep pool. With another shift, the pool would be drained, and if necessary, a muddy field would remain as an alternative stage to be used. Spectators would always admire the various landscapes that would overtake the arena. From water and mud, to mock mountains, or towering fields of grass—whatever was needed.
When grand spectacles ended and private matches began, the Colosseum transformed again. The walls would contract, the stands folding into the outer edges until only a small circular platform remained at the heart of silence. No more than fifty witnesses might attend such dues, sometimes fewer, to watch ceremonies take place upon that lonely stage.
The tribe of Noctua has stated that if any disaster were to befall Kemp Vakoslav, they might not be able to recreate its grandeur. They consider it a one-of-a-kind masterpiece, a construct that failed and collapsed many times and would have been abandoned had the tribe’s resolve and pride not been so steadfast. Cian had thought he would be visiting the Colosseum under different circumstances. It had been a dream of his to witness or possibly enter the ‘Trials of the Tribes’, a competition where each tribe puts forth a champion to represent them in a series of courses that tested a person's wit, skill, and endurance. Of his tribe, Zhi Hao has been representing them, winning his fair share of victory sashes.
Cian will never be allowed to enter now, seeing as tribal leaders and their heirs are barred from the competition. It is one thing to have a champion lose, and it is another to have a tribal leader lose.
“What are you thinking about?”
“That I’ll never be the champion of Heartsease,” Cian replied without much thought. It took him a moment to realize he was no longer alone, and he swiftly spun around to see his uncle. “That will only happen if you become my heir,” Bomin said, his tone causing Cian to shift his eyes downward. “There is nothing wrong with confidence, my son.”
“It feels wrong. It's as though I'm being disrespectful to Keegan.”
“Then I must also be rude for being grateful that your talent and skill surpass his.”
“Why are you here, Uncle?”
Bomin drew closer to Cian, laying a hand on the side of his face. “I’ve come to bless my sons.” His words caused Cian to furrow his brows. “Can you even do that when only one of us can win?”
His uncle’s hand moved to caress the top of his head gently—the motion soothing him, a tactic his aunt and uncle learned could calm his anxieties, the rare moments they would show. “I can. Although I’ve asked for you to triumph, I am still a father to you both, and can’t help but wish for my sons to succeed in whatever they do.”
It was quite the conundrum his uncle found himself in, and Cian supposed his part was easier. He did not have to balance fatherhood and leadership, and he knows his uncle will have a tough time of it. Keegan surely will look at him differently—look at them both. “Thank you, Uncle.”
Bomin smiled. “May God be with you, guiding your mind and body in the fight to come. Be well, my son.”
Cian could not help but feel cold when his uncle’s hand slipped away.
The coldness persisted as the moments passed, even when the trap door above fell downward, providing him with a ramp to ascend. Sunlight washed over Cian’s face as he stepped out onto the arena, Keegan doing the same from the opposite end.
—————
When Cian surfaced, his eyes immediately traveled to the raised seats that held the onlookers. In the front rows were the tribal leaders, each with their family, and behind them were the heads of prominent clans. Of the tribal leaders, there was Patriarch Griff with his three sons—Wukong noticeably sleeping, his chin resting atop Skadi’s head. Patriarch Julian with his wife Medea. Matriarch Isolde of Noctua and her only child, Son Elias. Patriarch Galen with his wife, Melina. Matriarch Regina of Nemesis with her husband, Baldric, Daughter Imara, and young Son Aleatorio. Patriarch Darian of Marmor with his wife Alethea. Matriarch Vara of Marmor with her husband, Edmund.
As this was no spectacle, the crowd of people was silent as he and Keegan walked toward the middle of the arena. They faced each other, Keegan’s face blank, stern in a way Cian had never seen before, and that had him feeling pensive. From amid the onlookers, Bomin stood with a speaking trumpet that amplified his voice enough for all to hear. “When twins are born to the leader of the tribe of Heartsease, we believe that they are equally entitled to the heirship. Although Cian and Keegan don’t share the same mother, they were both born on the same day at the same hour, and my adoption of Cian has further compounded their spiritual twinship. Our customs would have the twins discuss whether one or both wishes to become the next leader. Should they both vie for the title, then a rightful heir ceremony will take place. The rules for the ceremony are simple. The twins will face off against each other in a trial of combat where any weapons can be used. Their goal is to pin the other down and force them to submit. Should a person become seriously injured, then submission is unnecessary. The hurt individual will be considered as having lost,” Bomin explained. “There are no draws in this ceremony; the fighting will continue until only one stands victorious.”
Bomin turned around, raising a hand as he closed his eyes. Cian and Keegan both closed theirs as well, and Cian's heart began to beat faster. “May His will be done!”
“Amen!” The boys cried in unison.
The moment Cian opened his eyes, he had to jump back and cover them immediately. A cloud of dust formed where he had been standing, and he coughed from the bit that managed to enter his lungs. Fortunately, his eyes were not affected, and as this is a move Cian is familiar with, he is quick to draw up his knife to counter the sword strike against his side.
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In preparation for their battle, each son of Heartsease was given enforced chainmail as they would be fighting with real weapons. The use of real steel was intended to provide a semblance of actual combat, making the two opposing fighters realize that this was no simple sparing match. This was a test to see which could rise to the call of leadership, which wanted it more, and if they could handle a taste of what it means to be a tribal leader. So Keegan and Cian were expected to go all out, and Cian could feel the strength behind Keegan’s strike—his arm buckling against the weight of the sword. It was a common tactic employed by his brother to blind an enemy and follow through with a series of hasty strikes. Keegan does this to compensate for his weakness, as he needs every hit he can land.
Cian twisted his wrist, sliding the shorter blade down the length of the sword until the pressure broke. He ducked under the next swing, air rushing past his ear, and dove forward with a quick jab meant for the gut. The sword’s crossguard caught it just in time. They broke apart, and Cian rushed to circle, but he watched Keegan pull something from his trusted pouch at his belt. He changed course, wanting to instead put some distance between him and whatever it was Keegan held, yet that seemed to have played in Keegan’s favor. Cian stepped back the exact moment Keegan threw what looked like a spherical glass containing some sort of black substance. It sailed through the air, landing where Cian was to step, breaking and spilling forth its contents. Cian’s foot sank, and when he tried to move it again, he found it stuck.
“What is this?” Cian questioned, attempting to wrench his foot free. Keegan surged forward, the blade of his sword sweeping in a low arc. Cian twisted sideways, barely clearing the arc, but his trapped foot dragged him off balance. “Birch tar,” Keegan replied, coming in again for another strike, his sword passing close enough that the wind of it brushed Cian’s sleeve. “Noctua has been experimenting with it as a waterproof coating, but I found that by tempering it with resin and oil, I could make it cling harder.”
The tar was new and a pain because it kept him immobile and at the mercy of Keegan. On instinct, Cain dropped into a crouch, one hand hitting the ground for balance as he avoided yet another slash. While low, he yanked again—nothing. The tar held fast, which meant he would need to forgo his boot, so he did. Cian quickly cut the bindings of his boot, and the moment he was free, he rolled in between Keegan's legs.
Cian stood, his boot missing, and his uncovered foot feeling the burn of the arena’s stone floor. He was annoyed, yet had his wits about him as he reached into his robes and pulled out an extended length of rope, swiftly tying it around the handle of his knife. If Keegan wanted him stationary, then his brother would get his wish. He flicked his wrist, the rope arced out, its tip whistling through the air. It landed against Keegan’s forearm with a sharp, stinging smack—not enough to cut through the chain mail, but sufficient to make him flinch and pull his arm in. From where Cian stood, he began to work the rope like a puppeteer. He lashed it out low, sweeping Keegan’s ankles and forcing him to widen his stance. “Quite toying with me!” Keegan yelled, anger seeping into his voice as he realized what Cian was doing. “And take this fight seriously!” In response, Cian only smiled.
Keegan’s patience was thinning, and his counterattacks were coming faster now, a blur of swings and chops. Cian answered in kind, his body twisting and contorting as he maneuvered the rope to his will—the knife nipping at Keegan’s heels. The blows met each other, but it was Keegan who began to force his way forward, and Cian doubled his efforts to keep the other at bay. It was a deliberate move by Keegan as he used his sword movements to mask the hand that once again reached into his pouch. He withdrew three darts, twirling around another attack from Cian, but instead of countering with his sword, he let the darts fly at his brother.
Cian noticed the projectiles coming his way, and in an awkward dance, he avoided them only to witness as another volley was set loose. This time around, two of them missed, but the last one struck the small area where the neck and shoulder connected, just above the protection of the chain mail. He knocked the dart away and went still for a moment, trying to determine what the dart could have been dipped in because all of Keegan’s darts were always coated in something. Cian had made sure to attach the pouch Alma had made for him on his belt, yet he refrained from blindly pulling out a vial. Each vial was meant to counteract specific poisons, and he could not afford to waste them, as he was sure Keegan had more up his sleeves.
The first signs were sneezing, then his eyes began to water, and his throat felt scratchy. His breathing turned labored, and it was then that Cian realized what Keegan had just poisoned him with. Aspergillus Flavus is a type of mold that grows on nuts, dried fruit, and grain. Cian found he was allergic to such a mold when he once lost an apple in his room at The Cornucopia. It had dried out instead of becoming mush as it withered away. By the time he found it, it was covered with a yellow dust that had gotten on him. Later, he broke out in a rash and experienced the same ailments as he had now.
He cannot wrap his head around the idea that Keegan would cause him to have an allergic reaction. Of all the underhanded schemes, this one is the most severe. Cian is confident Keegan is not trying to kill him; the boy is as adept as Alma and would know how much of the mold he could be subjected to without serious repercussions. What Keegan is aiming for is to incapacitate Cian, and he capitalizes on the opportunity. Cian just manages to whip the rope at the approaching Keegan, but he does so sloppily, and the other boy twirls around and uses his sword to cut it. His knife is sent flying out of the arena, and the rope drops limp. With his rope no longer a threat, Keegan charges in—Cian valiantly trying to defend himself. He is unable to block the knee to his stomach.
Cian wheezes from the assault and suffers a blow to his back from the hilt of Keegan’s sword. He unwillingly drops to the ground, but he uses his new position to roll away, narrowly avoiding Keegan stomping his foot down. It is with trembling limbs that he stands, and he is uncoordinated as he dodges Keegan’s relentless pursuit. His paroxysmal movement is a welcome side effect of his allergies, as they impede Keegan from guessing what he will do next. Cian follows whatever direction his body would have him do—more focused on reaching inside his pouch.
Alma had been consistent in changing the vials she had initially prepared for him. The days before he departed from Fallen Petal saw her second-guessing herself, her mind suddenly conjuring different scenarios in which Keegan concocted a new poison that she had not already thought of a remedy for. One scenario in particular had her concerned about allergens, as she was aware of Cian’s adverse reaction to Aspergillus Flavus, having reviewed his medical records as a precautionary measure. Her intuition was incredible, and the next time Cian saw her, he would ensure not to tease her for a month.
The vials Alma prepared are of a special design. One needs only to pop the top off to reveal a needle and inject themselves with whatever medicine was in the vial. What Cian realized is that the inventor of such a vial most likely never thought the one using it would be in a combat situation. The moment Keegan caught on to what Cian was trying to do, he immediately attempted to thwart his plans. It became a struggle for Cian not to break the vial whilst simultaneously evading Keegan’s blade. The fiend was purposefully aiming his strikes at Cian’s left hand, hoping to make him drop the vial and break it on the arena floor. To make matters worse, Cian’s symptoms were intensifying, and he felt sick.
In a daft move, Cian faced his brother and threw the vial directly at him. He hoped that Keegan would instinctively dodge the vial, thinking it was an assault of another kind. A high-risk gamble that left Cian momentarily thinking he had done the most idiotic thing, but that was until he saw it pay off. Keegan dodged, and Cian was swift to seize the opening given, dashing past his brother and catching the vial before it could fall. In that same instant, he used his teeth to remove the top of the vial, shoved his sleeve up, and jabbed himself with the medicine Alma had said would alleviate symptoms caused by his allergies.
How lovely it would have been if Cian could have rejoiced in this simple victory, but he was accosted by a projectile landing near his feet. In the next instant, a cloud of gray burst forward, and the smell of rotten eggs lay besieged to Cian’s senses. He sputtered as another projectile was thrown his way, and the cloud grew thicker. The cloud of horrible smell left him momentarily disoriented, and in this state, it was a miracle that he somehow avoided another dart that whooshed past his face.
Keegan, for all his lack of skill, could maintain a foothold in a fight as long as he kept to his tricks and mix of swordplay. During their sparing matches, his brother would forgo using such tactics, determined to beat him through conventional means. This fight was different. Where the sparing was a match for boasting rights, this battle was a match for their prospective futures. Keegan wanted to win. No matter the cost, no matter what he had to do, he would defeat Cian and claim the title of Patriarch.
His brother is like that, and Cian did not like it.
If he wanted to win this fight, he would have to show his brother why he was considered a prodigy of their era.
