Chapter 194: His Rival

The tunnel under the arena smelled of tar and lamp oil, the crowd's roar sifting through the ceiling. Mara tightened the strap on his bracer, her claws working the buckle with a care she called routine.

"If you die, I will be extremely rude to your grave," she said, tugging the buckle tight.

"I'd expect nothing less," Riven answered, "but I'm not planning on the grave."

"I have prepared a statement for victory," Veska said, handing him a folded card, "and another for heroic collapse."

"What does the heroic collapse card say?"

"That I verified it was heroic, in triplicate, with a witness present."

"I rigged a hatch under the corner bench," Nix said, patting the wood, "for emergencies and snacks."

"There is a loose stitch in your right sleeve," Isolde told him, "pull it if you need me."

"Do not die before the gala, it is already on the schedule," Yukine said, straightening his collar.

"I demand a clean win," Ysabel declared, fanning furiously, "I have two thousand silver riding on your face."

"My face is not for sale," he said, "but I'll try to bring it home in one piece."

A black tail brushed his wrist as he passed, a drag of fur that said everything Mara's mouth refused to. Behind her the other five stood in a row along the tunnel wall, watching him walk out into the light.

'Six people who would drag me back from the dead before they let me stay there... fair enough.'

Thirty thousand voices dropped to a murmur as he stepped out of the tunnel into the bright noon glare. The arena rose around him in tiers of flags and faces, every banner in Solace hung from every rail.

"Good people of Solace," Selh cried through his brass horn, "welcome the challenged party and his second!"

Cassen followed one pace behind, carrying a towel and the very stubborn face of a man inventing his role. Half the stands roared for him, the others hissing like a kettle left too long over an open fire.

"That's a lot of people who came to watch me lose," Riven muttered, squinting up at the flags.

"They came to watch a story end," Cassen said, adjusting the towel, "we are going to give them a different one."

Gold banners snapped above the rival box, where Dorian's allies proudly waved long scarves stitched with his crowned silhouette. Heat rose off the sand in shimmering ribbons, carrying the smell of roasted chestnuts from the vendors' carts above.

"Nine to one against the villain," Cael shouted from the second row, "and I am backing him loudly with my own money!"

"Gambling in the stands is prohibited under article six," Veska told him, tapping her spear on the step.

"Then arrest me after the bout, Sergeant, I will be far too rich to notice."

Moderator Keld struck the sand three times with his staff, his robes much too clean for the occasion. Dorian walked out of the opposite tunnel in gold, a halo of lamplight trailing him like a cape.

"The challenger will present himself," Keld called, "and name his second."

"I name an old friend," Dorian said, "who has not yet realized that he is available."

He wore no helmet, only a smile practiced for thirty thousand people and carefully adjusted for every single row. His steps made no sound on the sand, which was either a miracle of tailoring or the Weaver's handiwork.

"Before the blades come out," Dorian said, his voice carrying without effort, "I owe one man a public apology."

"Cassen, I took your light and your place, I am sorry for it."

'He's offering a real way back... and half the crowd is already crying about it.'

"Come back to my corner," Dorian said, opening one gloved hand, "and I will give your Regard back, every grain of it."

The arena went so quiet that Riven heard a single banner flutter three full tiers above the sand. Thirty thousand people leaned forward together, hungry for the kind of tearful reconciliation that always sells out theaters.

"Your call, Goldilocks," he said, not turning his head, "I won't hold the door either way."

Cassen draped the towel over the rail and walked toward the gold, each step slow enough to count. At the halfway mark he rolled his shoulders, then walked past Dorian's open hand without turning his head.

"Cassen?" Dorian said, the smile cracking at one corner.

"I'm not anyone's hero," Cassen said, loud enough for the back tiers, "I'm his rival."

The roar started in the cheap seats and climbed tier by tier until the flags shook on their poles. Even the gold sashes in the rival box were on their feet, torn between clapping and recalculating their bets.

"Rival," Riven said, grinning, "that's a promotion."

"Do not get used to it, I have a reputation to protect."

"You are choosing a villain's corner over a—" Dorian began, the warmth draining from his voice one degree at a time.

"I'm choosing the man who tells me when the game is rigged."

Cassen stopped beside Riven with his chin lifted, snapping the towel over his shoulder like a banner at a parade. His hands shook only a little, a tremor that nobody in the stands could see except the man beside him.

'He just threw away his old life in front of a whole continent... I owe him a very good fight.'

"Seconds to the corners," Keld ordered, raising his staff, "the Founders' final begins at the bell."

"Count every beat that arrives out of order," he said, rolling Overdue in his grip.

"I will count them loudly until your ears start to hurt," Cassen answered.

"You have a good second," Dorian told him, "it is a shame he will only watch you lose."

"He'll be counting," Riven said, "he's very thorough about it."

Overhead the clouds parted around a single gold thread, falling straight from the sky into Dorian's open palm. Riven felt its light on his skin like a polite hand gently pressing the whole arena into shape.

The Weaver's thread on his own cuff pulled toward the sky once, then went cold.

[ Dorian: Regard full | Patron: the Weaver ]

[ Hindsight: unlimited | cost to the user: none ]

"Ysabel says to hit him twice for her," Nix whispered through the thread, "and once for the bakery."

"I'll invoice him for both of them, with interest."

Regard poured into Dorian from every direction, thirty thousand hopes bending into one bright lamp that lit him from within. A bracelet of braided gold shone at his wrist, softly ticking once like a pocket watch whenever the lamp pulsed.

"By Article Nine the loser forfeits his Route," Keld read, unrolling the Founders' Rule, "and no witness may interfere."

Dorian's bracelet ticked twice in quick succession, a sound nobody else in the arena seemed to notice. Riven noticed, because every tick left the air out of place, like a picture hung slightly crooked.

"Begin at the bell," Keld said, lowering the scroll, "and may the better story win."

The bell rang across the sand, one clear note, the gold thread above Dorian pulling taut as a bowstring. He lifted his sword with a graceful flourish that no amount of rehearsal could produce in an ordinary man.

"I already know how this ends," Dorian said softly, "I've seen it eleven times this morning."