Chapter 132 - 131: Lingering Figure.

Chapter 132: Chapter 131: Lingering Figure.

It quickly becomes clear that this is the event that everyone has been waiting for.

The crowds and the soldiers of the visiting kingdoms had all gotten involved in the archery and the jousting, and while sure, they were sports of skill and finesse, the way the very air thrums with anticipation today makes it abundantly obvious that they were little more than opening acts for what was always going to be the real spectacle.

​Khobi is used to the training grounds’ particular brand of liveliness, however, this is something else entirely .

​Today, the scent of battle is in the air, stronger, and fiercer than ever before, and the soldiers he passes as he stalks through their ranks to centre stage, are stern, and proud, and carry themselves as men who are confident in their own strength.

It gives him chills to think that today, he gets to cross blades with them.

​And in a place such as this.

​The Pit, where he fought and defeated men who thought they were strong, had been so dark, and dirty, and miserable, but this place is so bright, and festive, and far grander than anything he’s ever seen before in his life.

When he was a child he’d thought that the tournaments his uncle had thrown were mighty, but they all now pale in comparison.

​This looks like the kind of place where legends are forged.

​It’s breathtaking.

​And kind of liberating.

​The wind, carding through his hair, is cold, and smells like snow.

​He wonders if, when he wins, his uncle --wherever he is --will hear of it.

​With a low breath, Khobi takes a grip on the sword at his hip, and the soft keening it makes as he pulls it free of its sheath is music to his ears.

Almost instinctively, he glances around, like someone’s going to turn on him for drawing a weapon, but today, no one even bats an eye.

​Today, every soldier in the area has a sword in hand, and Khobi is just another one of them.

​A grin fans out across his face as he takes up his sword with vigor, the rush he feels as he cleaves the air with it for the first time, is incredible .

​Come on , he thinks to himself, breathing deeply and savouring the anticipation he scents on the wind as he starts to move through the throngs of soldiers, sword proudly in hand.

All around him, the stands are filling with nobility and royals and the entourages that accompany them; first slowly, then all at once, like a dam finally caving under the weight of the water it holds back.

And all around him, the anticipation builds like a summer storm; rising hot and volatile, and promising to shatter the earth.

​He’s sure that there’s not a man standing upon this field with him that can’t smell it; not one soldier out there who can’t feel it seeping into his blood and setting his heart on fire.

​Let’s do this .

​But Khobi’s wrong.

​There’s one.

​One that, judging from the whispers, and furtive, secretive looks that get passed between soldiers like an unwanted toy as he passes, is unexpected, and not necessarily welcome.

A few of them seem fearful; others resolute, but more still --and by far the overwhelming majority -- share the dark look in Khobi’s eyes.

The kind of look that says, without pretence or disguise, that they would like nothing more than to beat the utter, living crap out of him.

​Loac Trent’s strength is, after all, legendary.

​And every man out there wants to be the one to topple Crade’s most infamous royal and most prized swordsman.

​(If he’s even fighting, that is.

​Everyone has heard of strength. Few care to actually remember it, nowadays.)

​Said swordsman doesn’t even seem to care; doesn’t even notice the way the crowds’ eyes dog his steps with dark, greedy eyes; all wondering what he’s doing there, when his seat has sat so glaringly empty in days of late.

​It’s clear that they’re all dying to know. Even the princess looks confused --if not mildly alarmed --but her furrowed expression clears when she catches sight of Khobi in the crowd, and he immediately becomes the envy, and mortal enemy of all the men in his vicinity as a bright, dazzling smile comes his way out of nowhere.

She even waves, and points him out to the solemn captain standing guard behind her father when he awkwardly raises a hand in greeting.

Bongo smiles as he dips his head, and gestures meaningfully at the empty seat at her side that Khobi is clearly supposed to be sitting in.

He doesn’t want to. Some unseen signal has the other soldiers starting to drift towards their respective banners on the outskirts of the arena, and he would have thought that today, of all days, he’d be permitted to muster with the ones he’s spent his time training with.

But Bongo’s expression is firm, and tells him, quite plainly, that if he has to come down there and fetch him he’ll be in for a world of trouble, and for a second there, he reminds Khobi so uncannily of his uncle (and kind of his aunt) that he finds himself obeying, if reluctantly.

​He doesn’t sheath his sword.

​Unfortunately, to reach his seat, he has to bypass Loac, who is inexplicably loitering at the base of the dais steps; back against the wall, eyes cast low, and a sword at his hip.

That’s the first thing that strikes Khobi as odd; he doesn’t recall, in their brief and unpleasant encounters, having ever seen Loac carrying a sword.

​The second, is how he’s dressed. The fact that he’s completely clothed for a change is a surprise in itself, but that he’s donned thick, leather armour; black, fitted and sleek, and not unlike what Khobi himself is wearing, is another thing entirely.

​If Khobi didn’t know better, he’d say Loac was dressed for a fight.

​He doesn’t even look up as he approaches, and for a split second there Khobi thinks that he might just let him pass by in peace.

​Wrong .