GRYTHER THE WHYTE heard the commotion going on in Calipsos from the far reaches of his dwelling. The Moor of Wilheim was no small distance away but he could still hear the thunderous roar from the capital. It had interrupted his meditations one time too many.
Gryther had been living among the serene pasture for half a moon. During that time, he heard the roars persistently and asked Elrina about it as she returned from one of her discreet trips to the market stalls. She had told him then about the crude tradition of the arena. Gryther was shocked. He had thought Syveria a land civilised, with all its wealthy cities and territories; but here they were, engaging in bloodsport.
Elrina went about her activities calmly, all the while avoiding his eyes. Their age difference aside, Gryther was still a man and she was very much a woman. They had been living together on the Moor for quite some time. Their breakfast was the roast of rabbits running about and sometimes, a porridge of stew, on the rare occasions he portaled her to the markets.
Elrina had learnt to maneuver the streets so as not to attract the attention of the Blue Cloaks. A soft word of magic whispered into the air brought her back through a spinning doorway to the Moor.
She performed the cooking for the both of them. Aside that, their days were peaceful, spent under a blessed sun and country evening, wind in their hair and soft grass under their feet.
She tried her best not to be aware of the half-elf male sitting beside her everyday.
"These battles?" Gryther asked. "When is the final challenge?"
Elrina turned from her position by the stokes of a cooking flame. Her hand stirred the pot as she replied.
"Today I think, Ser."
She hadn't stopped calling him 'Ser' either as much as Gryther objected. She figured she had to address him with respect. Everything they used for comfort he had conjured up from thin air. The soft straw beds, the woolen linens, the pots, even the fine bed of grass at their feet. All these he had made with magical words. Elrina could not see how she was meant to just call him Gryther. The man was a demigod.
"When exactly?" Gryther asked.
"They should be starting about now, Ser," she replied.
"Do you know the warriors in this unholiness?"
Elrina smiled then.
"They are called gladiators, Ser," she said, her lips twitching. "...and it is called the Death Games. The champion is a beastly man called Vandal the Titan and the challenger is some mysterious entity known only as Silverheel."
Gryther nodded then.
"Thank you," he said and Elrina gave him another smile, this one however pinkened her cheeks.
Something wasn't right. Gryther could sense it.
A loud roar from the capital echoed again to the Moor and his staff rattled from its place under the oak tree. It was a sign, Gryther knew it. He rose to his feet and walked the small distance to the tree. Picking up the Wytchwood staff, he turned back to Elrina. She still stirred the porridge before her.
"I'll be back," he called. He turned to walk away but Elrina stopped him.
"Wait!" He turned back to her. "Please be careful, Ser," she muttered.
Gryther gave a slight nod at her, then his hand was up in the air, spinning the breeze into the silver cloud of a portal. The doorway shined out, hovering in the air and Gryther climbed in. Elrina's eyes went a little misty as he disappeared into the light. He vanished from sight, along with the light and she was left alone. She discovered she was becoming attached to the beautiful aged mage.
Gryther reappeared on the uppermost tier of the rounded arena. All the seats were filled with screaming laughing people so he stood, at the furthest corner, hidden in the shadows. His dark robe blended into the darkness and his cowl hid away his white hair and pale eyes.
He looked around and gasped at the massiveness of the arena. It was a stadium wide as four miles round. The centre was filled with sand. Lots and lots of brown sand. Some places were blotched with what he assumed to be dried blood. From the previous fights, he mused.
His gaze went over the circular ring of seats until he spotted a high canopy. He didn't need magical eyes to know that the family under the tent was the royal house, House Pierran. A man in a flowing golden robe stood to his feet and the crowd went as silent as a graveyard. It was so different as opposed to their earlier shrieking. The man's golden hair glinted in the sun and Gryther presumed this dressed man to be the king himself, Arlon.
The man lifted his hands and gave a small clap. It was light but in the silence of the arena, it echoed louder than the clash of steel. The king sat back down and it was then Gryther took a closer look at the sands. He gasped when his sight zoned in on the warrior at the centre.
His eyes shone bright silver in his face and he was glad for the covering of the hood. His staff kept rattling by his side until he subdued it with a whispered sorcery. It was clear that the silver-helmed warrior standing gallant on the sands was none other than the boy from the prophecy.
Gryther wondered how he had come to be a gladiator.
He was the Silverheel Elrina had spoken of; the mysterious fighter. When his opponent marched out of the opposite gate, Gryther mourned for the boy.
He had just met the child of prophecy, and yet before his eyes, the boy was about to die.