The Arena of Tyvin was full of buzz.
Like I said, it was lively and grand. It held many bloody games and ritual fights such as the Ultimatum. Devoid of wine, gin, and other liquor, the people of Holy Oberin became fond of these things. Death in this place was an everyday occurrence, and most of them were gruesome.
Though, the Ultimatum was a special event, because, instead of the common rabble, mercenaries, slaves, and other warriors of fortune and fame, the ones who fight in the Ultimatum are high in the social pyramid. They were mostly knights, lords, ladies, princes, princesses, and other rich bastards.
The only difference is that a fight of Ultimatum rarely ends with death, and it is more of a proving ground whether which dumbass had the less wrong claim towards each other through the show of combat prowess.
Tyvin White-Eye was partly to blame for the shitshow—partly.
The First Saint of Light.
The Knight Crusader.
The man who rose above them all, not despite his blindness but because of it, some said. They told stories of Tyvin as if he were a god himself, about how he could step onto a battlefield blind and yet leave it a legend. His silver armor was never silver by the time the battle ended—always red, always brown with the blood of those who underestimated him. He fought like he could see clearer than anyone else, and maybe he could.
The Silver Sun was his legacy, a chapter of crusaders meant to serve only Oberin, one of the gods they worship in Tearh.
No king, no mortal man.
But that was long ago.
Now they stood at the side of the king like loyal dogs, their bright armor gleaming as they guarded the crown they'd once been sworn to ignore.
Tyvin hadn't envisioned the Ultimatum as some aristocratic pissing match, either.
When he created it, he'd meant it to be a test of strength, a proving ground for those rich, perfumed bastards who wanted to join the Silver Sun. He didn't want them. He'd despised the privileged, the ones with soft hands and softer hearts. He'd seen through their fancy clothes and honeyed words and hated them for the vain fools they were. The irony, the bitter taste of it, was that now his legacy had become a theater for those very same aristocrats to flail at each other.
He would've wept if he could've seen what his crusade had turned into.
Maybe he did.
Blind eyes or not, he would've felt the betrayal in his bones.
So when Henry Savoy looked up at the royal platform, squinting against the sun glinting off their polished armor, he wasn't surprised to see four of the Silver Sun knights standing there, beside the king and his princes. One of them, the charming one that broke the fight between him and the Saint yesterday, caught his eye—a nod, a smile.
Henry smirked, cocky as ever, and then the king's raised hand came down, slowly, like a hesitating gavel.
And so—
"Let the Ultimatum commence!" the announcer bellowed.
The word "commence" stretching long and loud that came out as COMMENCEEEEE!
Before Henry could even catch his breath, Lady Keirin's crystalline whip lashed out, cutting the air with a crack that sent a chill down his spine. Aimed right at his neck—she was efficient, that one, always aiming to finish a fight before it even started. Get the whip around your neck, and it was game over. She could choke you out, or worse, pump you full of magick until you were fried from the inside out.
Henry Savoy, half-drunk but not stupid, saw it coming.
The wine slowed the world around him, but his mind was sharp in that muddled, dizzy way drunks sometimes get.
But of course, this was not a simple buzz, it was partly because of the magick it had.
A smirk came on his face and he slapped the part of that glowing rope after it billowed. If he did that to the part that it did, he knew that it would hurt. He was a drunk, but drunks are not all fools. They were just prone to bad choices.
It was simple physics.
What Henry Savoy did not account for was that this was a world of magick, and many of the natural sciences that he knew of did not apply to this one.
For example, he did not consider that the whip of Lady Keirin was connected to her due to it being a product of her mana, ergo she fully controls it. So, the tip of the whip that came for his neck, once Henry Savoy hit before it, wound back and caught the wrist of his hand.
"Shit," he sighed.
Lady Keirin grunted and pulled Henry Savoy, but he rooted himself on the ground like bad grass. It was hard to fight this lady. She was extremely strong. If Henry Savoy did not have that powering drink, he might've been done for already. He was now locked in a literal tug of war.
The Arena of Tyvin erupted in cheers, and he could hear the announcer narrating the whole thing as if this was a Pay-per-view MMA match.
The crowd roared more, stomping their feet in sync with Lady Keirin's effort to yank Henry across the arena. Dust kicked up around him as her crystalline whip shimmered like midday stars.
Henry, however, wasn't going anywhere.
He dug his heels in much deeper this time, his body swaying slightly from the effects of that magick wine still thick in his blood—the boosts and the normal dizziness you get from it—but his instincts were sharp.
"Yield, Henry Savoy," she sneered, giving the whip another vicious tug, trying to throw him off balance.
"No," Henry only spoke.
A stubborn mule through and through.
He adjusted his grip on the whip, twisting his arm against the pull, feeling the resistance.
His mind raced—he wasn't just going to stand there like a fool and get yanked around. He scanned the arena, the shifting faces of the crowd, the king's bored expression, the other aristocrats sitting on the edge of their seat, and the ever-watchful eyes of the Silver Sun knights standing stoic by the royal family.
Henry Savoy realized that, even with magick in him, he will not win this with brute force.
He'll win this with finesse, and he had a lot of that—thanks to the wine.
With a sudden lurch, Henry let himself stumble forward, catching Lady Keirin off guard. Henry Savoy made sure that every step he took left a blinding dust of sand.
She faltered, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance, and Henry used the momentum to his advantage.
He ran forward, more and more, closing the distance, the Arena of Tyvin becoming silent as no one really saw what was happening because of the smoke of sand now blocking their view.
Then he twisted his body, pivoting on his heels, and with one swift motion, he swung to the right, but he never stopped, he ran around the Saint of Oberin, tying her with her own weapon. And all through this, Lady Keirin didn't do anything because she was too stunned by the sand that blinded her.
When the sand settled, the people were surprised by the view of the Saint of Oberin bound by her own weapon, and at her back, very, very close to her, hugged the Chosen One. They roared once again, louder this time.
When the people nearest stood up to see more closely, the other ones at the back did as well, and they looked to Henry Savoy like billows of a serendipitous sea.
The announcer's voice wavered, caught between narrating and gasping.
"And it appears that... Lady Keirin has... found herself in a rather... compromising position!"
Henry Savoy snickered, and Lady Keirin struggled as a reply.
"You don't only look good, my lady, but you smell good, too," he sniffed jokingly.
But of course, there's a nugget of truth in that.
The lady did smell great. She smelled both sweat and flowers, the kind you might get when you frolic in a plain of Jasmine the whole day before coming back home. The aroma of the sun and the sweetness of the fragrance just stuck with you. And to Henry Savoy, that's a nice balance of rough and gentle.
"You might want to take that offer you gave me earlier, babe, because the people are really enjoying this view. It's one hell of a sight after all."
Her face contorted in a battle between rage and humiliation, her pride clawing at her like a cornered beast. It was an impossible choice; to yield was disgrace, more so for her, but to keep fighting meant being further humiliated by this stranger.
Lady Keirin glared at Henry one last time, her pride warring with the visible frustration etched across her face. Though, there was something more in it. The quiver on the lips, the eyes that seemed to shine more than it should. She was holding back a feeling she did not understand.
Somehow, she enjoys this.
Finally, she spat out her answer in a venomous tone.
"I yield."
Then, in a single wave, the crowd erupted, stamping and cheering louder than ever, as if they had just witnessed the impossible.
Henry Savoy removed his hands around Lady Keirin, letting her fall on the ground to her knees.
She spoke and did nothing after that, merely looking at the ground and thinking how humiliating this is, and why it felt so damn good.
The Vorhan Empire was a place for the devout, and many of the people here had been swayed and taught, from the moment of their birth until the exit of their light, to stray from evil thoughts and actions.
One of them, although unknown to her, was the kind she was feeling.
At least, one decreed by those who have twisted the Codex Oberin for control.
The announcer's voice boomed again, practically trembling with excitement.
"Victory... for the Chosen One!"
"Chosen One," Henry sneered, spitting the words like a bad aftertaste. "Sounds nice, doesn't it? But to me, it's just another sucker's title. Chosen One, hero, same crap, different pile. It's a red herring, and I'm not getting tangled up in it."
He glanced at the Saint of Oberin, laying his hand on her shoulder, something almost kind in the gesture.
Almost.
"I'm not the one to say what you should and should not do, I'm a fuck up that makes drinks for a living and gets hard on it. But let me tell you this—whatever you think you're doing here, this isn't it. This whole thing? It's bullshit, and deep down, you already know that. Tomorrow, I will be gone like the wind, and your lackeys and these knights might follow me, but that won't matter. I'll make my way home; you won't follow. Not where I'm headed. The Walking Stick, she needs her mixer," he said, voice muffled by the sound of the many men and women shouting and cheering as they were the ones who won.
"Why," started Lady Keirin; "Knowing that I will do what I must, for the greater good. Why are you telling me this?"
Henry paused, a breath caught on the edge of a laugh, bitter as an old man full of old gin.
"Hell if I know. I just wanted to."
And with that, Henry Savoy walked out of the Arena of Tyvin.
But as he did, many eyes followed him, especially that of Lady Keirin who kept thinking on the last part he said.
"I just wanted to," she whispered, tasting the words like ash on her tongue, struggling to comprehend the ache of desire—the simple, raw need to want in a world that demanded she serve.
And nothing more.