Paragon of Destruction

Arran read the letter in his hands, then tossed it aside. It held an invitation from a novice named Zehava, but it contained no time or other details, just mentioning the name and an address.

Although Arran thought he could probably afford to ignore it, there was little point in offending a novice he didn’t yet know. He would pay the novice a visit the next morning, he decided.

After he got into bed, it took him some time to fall asleep, and as he lay awake, he thought about his forbidden Realm. Well over two years had passed since Master Zhao had sealed it, and still, the seal remained in place.

Partly, this was a testament to Master Zhao’s extraordinary skill. Although the lesser seals on Arran’s Wind and Fire Realms had been torn away when Arran took ten Realm Opening Pills at once, the seal on Arran’s forbidden Realm remained as strong as the day it was created.

Yet the greater part of the story was that Arran had been lazy in trying to open it. During the past two years, his attention had been focused almost entirely on Body Refinement and spells using Wind and Force Essence. What little time he had spent on Shadow seals, he had spent learning to form lesser seals.

That he had all but ignored the seal on his forbidden Realm was not just due to laziness, however. Perhaps more importantly, he was glad just to be rid of it, and as long as the seal remained in place, it was easy to pretend that the Realm simply did not exist.

Yet it did exist, and even if he would rather dismiss it, neither the danger nor the power it held could be ignored. Whatever power the forbidden Realm held, he was currently unable to touch or even study, and if the seal somehow failed, he had no way to restore it — not without learning how it worked, first.

Decision made, he began to study the seal.

Once more, he found himself awed by the thousands upon thousands of strands of Shadow Essence from which the seal had been crafted, woven together in a pattern so intricate that just trying to study it left him lightheaded.

He continued regardless, knowing that this was just the first step in a journey that could take years. Perhaps if he spent all his time studying the seal it could be undone faster, but he simply did not have that luxury.

Instead, he would have to use what little free time he had to work on the seal, and he would have to do so without neglecting his training. Just the thought of it filled him with weariness.

Forcing himself to continue, he spent some hours studying the seal, carefully analyzing the ways in which it resembled and differed from the lesser seals he already knew.

It was tiring work, and at some point during the night, sleep overtook him even as he studied. The sleep that followed was troubled, filled with dreams of shadows twisted in impossible patterns.

When he awoke, much of the morning had already passed, yet he felt little more rested than he had the previous night.

After a quick breakfast, the first thing he tried to do was find Darkfire. With the tournament only days away there was much they needed to discuss, but ever since they had arrived at the Governor’s palace, Darkfire had barely shown his face.

He asked one of the Governor’s servants where Darkfire was, and was unsurprised to hear that Darkfire had gone out to some social function with the Governor’s daughter. Briefly, he considered waiting until his friend returned, but he soon decided he had neither the time nor the patience for that.

Instead, he would visit the novice who had invited him. He would have to go sooner or later, and perhaps he would be able to glean some new information.

He left the palace without delay, asking the guards for directions to the address that had been in the letter. To his relief, it wasn’t far, barely half an hour’s walk from the palace.

The address in the letter was in one of the wealthier areas of the city, but when he found it, he saw that the mansion itself was neither lavish nor excessively large. Built out of bare stone and three stories high, it looked sturdy and sober, seemingly built with little care for appearances.

He knocked on the large wooden door, and it opened a moment later, revealing a broad-shouldered man with several facial scars, short hair, and a sword at his side.

The man did not speak. Instead, he merely looked at Arran, indifferently waiting for the visitor to introduce himself.

"I was invited," Arran said. "By a novice named Zehava."

The man nodded. "Come," he said.

Arran entered the doorway, following behind the scarred man. As he looked around, he saw that the interior of the mansion was much the same as the exterior — sober and functional, without even the slightest bit of decoration. It resembled a barracks more than a mansion, he thought.

The man led Arran through several hallways, and he saw that there were more people inside — a few dozen, at least, all of them with the appearance of battle-hardened soldiers and mercenaries.

Finally, they arrived at a closed wooden door. The scarred man opened the door without knocking, then turned to Arran and said, "Enter."

Arran did as the man said, and beyond the doorway, he found a large but bare room. On the side of the room stood a plain bed, and in the corner were several wooden chairs, stood around a small table.

In one of the chairs sat a young woman, thumbing through some notes with a bored expression. She had tanned skin and long golden hair, and although she was sitting down, Arran could see that she was probably at least as tall as he was.

As Arran entered the room, she looked up. "Ghostblade?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Arran nodded. "And you must be Zehava."

"I am," she said. Then, she went silent for several moments, looking at Arran intently. As she studied him, a thoughtful expression came over her face.

"I see why the others are so interested in you," she finally said. "Have a seat."

Arran sat down in one of the wooden chairs, then asked, "So why did you invite me?"

"If Amaya and Stoneheart are interested in you, then so am I."

"I only had a short conversation with Amaya," Arran said. "Hardly reason to think she’s interested in me."

"A public conversation," Zehava corrected him. "At the Governor’s palace. For Amaya, that’s as good as claiming you as her own."

Arran furrowed his brow in thought. He never would have expected that the single conversation he had with Amaya would draw such attention — if he had, he might have chosen to eat his meal in silence.

"Of course, if Amaya wants you, then Stoneheart cannot let her have you," Zehava continued. "And if Stoneheart wants you, then Amaya will not allow it."

"But I haven’t even fought in the tournament yet," Arran said. "Why would they care?"

"They hate each other," she answered plainly. "Even if they weren’t on opposing sides, they’d do all they could to hinder each other. With the current situation, they have plenty of opportunities to do so."

"Opposing sides?" Arran asked. Although he knew a little about the conflict, he was curious to hear what Zehava’s take on it would be.

"There’s a minor disagreement within the Sixth Valley," Zehava said. "But for the time being, that’s no concern of yours. What you should be worried about is what happens after you pick a side."

"And what would that be?"

"Whichever of them you choose, the other will not accept it," she answered. "And beyond the border, they will have plenty of chances to act on that. Even if you join someone else, you would risk offending both of them. Unless, of course, you choose someone with the ability to protect you."

"Someone like you?"

Zehava’s attempts to influence Arran could hardly be called subtle, and he had long since figured out what her intentions were.

"Perhaps," she said, "if you prove yourself in the tournament. Unlike Amaya and Stoneheart, I only recruit those who are worthy of joining the Society."

"I suppose we’ll find out in a few days, then," Arran said, standing up from his chair. "For now, I think I’ll need to focus on my preparations. Thank you for the advice, and perhaps we’ll meet again."

"I assume we will," Zehava said, although she looked startled at Arran’s sudden move to depart.

A few minutes later, Arran once more found himself outside the mansion, and he breathed a sigh of relief at no longer having to suffer through Zehava’s clumsy attempts to win him to her side.

If not completely useless, the meeting hadn’t been particularly useful, either. That there was bad blood between Stoneheart and Amaya was something Arran had already gleaned from Stoneheart’s comments the previous day, and that novices were eager to recruit strong fighters was plain as day.

When Arran returned to the Governor’s palace, Darkfire was still nowhere to be found. After a thought, Arran asked a guard where to find the steward, then told the steward to inform Darkfire that they had urgent matters to discuss as soon as he returned.

The steward looked somewhat irritated at being ordered around by a guest, but he did not complain, although the polished elegance of his voice did have a hint of annoyance to it when he agreed.

Darkfire arrived some hours later, looking less weary than the last time Arran had seen him.

"How did the meeting with Zehava go?" he asked as he entered Arran’s room.

"You know about that?" Arran asked, slightly puzzled that Darkfire knew about his activities.

"What? Did you think I spent these past few days in bed?" Darkfire asked with an indignant look.

"Yes," Arran replied honestly. "That is exactly what I thought."

"Well, I suppose I did," Darkfire admitted. "But I also attended a hideous number of banquets, dinners, brunches, and other gatherings. And while you were running in circles, I actually gathered some useful information."

"And what would that be?" Arran asked.

"For a start, you managed to get yourself entangled with the three most influential novices in the city," Darkfire said. "Quite a feat, really — you could’ve fought a hundred rounds in the arena wearing only a sock, and still drawn less attention to yourself."

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