The palace armory was not an exciting place. It was a vast, cold warehouse of perfectly maintained blades, pikes, and functional armor, devoid of the flashy excess found in the royal living quarters. Yet, for Low, the scent of oil, leather, and polished steel felt like coming home.
Low—dressed heavily in the padded underclothes of her "Grom" disguise—had separated from the others early, claiming she needed a new primary axe, her stone one had been destroyed in the last round.
The armory attendant, a spindly, elderly man named Marek whose spectacles magnified his eyes to comically large proportions, greeted her with an excited, nearly reverent bow.
"Master Grom Stonehand! It is an honor, sir, an absolute honor!" Marek practically squeaked, adjusting his spectacles. "I watched your match! That throw was stroke of pure genius!"
Low grunted, leaning against a rack of ceremonial swords. "The berserker hit iron where he expected bone. I need a new primary weapon."
Marek clasped his hands together, his face alight with enthusiasm. "A new axe? For the Quarter-Finals? Sir, you have come to the right place. We stock weapons meant for war, not show. We have a shipment of axes from the north-western mountain passes—heavy, balanced, pure steel."
He hurried down a row of racks, returning a moment later with a weapon wrapped in oiled canvas. He presented it to Low with the flourish of a proud father.
"This is the Iron-Heart Forged Broadaxe," Marek whispered, pulling off the canvas. "Forged by the Ironclad Guild. It's too heavy for any of the Royal Guard, but for a dwarf of your...caliber? It is perfection."
The axe was magnificent. It was significantly larger than her previous one, the head a broad, perfectly curved moon of dark, unpolished steel, ending in a sharp, silvered point. The ash haft was thick and slightly bowed, promising a powerful swing and incredible reach.
Low hefted it. The weight was immense, almost laughably so, which was precisely what she needed for the illusion of "Grom." The sheer heft would make her curse less noticeable, misinterpreted as pure brute strength.
"Good balance," Low mumbled, using her deepest, gravelly baritone. "The edge?"
"Razor sharp, sir. Guaranteed. And the price? A gift," Marek said, waving a hand dismissively. "We charge the Royal Guard, of course, but for a champion of the people, a star of the Sunstone Tournament? To have one of our weapons wielded by the great Grom Stonehand in the Quarter-Finals—that's better than any gold coin, sir! Think of the exposure!"
He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "Frankly, sir, the Royal Guard are all pomp and polished chrome. Their blades spend more time on parade than in practice. To see true craftsmanship used in true battle is its own reward."
"A gift, then. I'll make sure to put on a good show for your axe," Low said, giving the attendant a stiff, deliberate nod of thanks. She slung the new, heavier axe across her back.
"May it bring you victory, Master Grom!" Marek called after her as she lumbered toward the exit.
Low exited the armory, the cold steel of the Iron-Heart Broadaxe a solid, reassuring weight. She was going into the deadliest phase of the tournament with a fresh piece of Northern Mountain steel, free of charge, thanks to the oblivious admiration of a palace functionary. It was a minor victory, but one she would gladly accept before walking into the Quarter-Finals.
The fourth day of the Sunstone Gauntlet dawned with none of the ceremonial bombast of the days before. The previous rounds had culled the weak; the Quarter-Finals were reserved for the unnaturally resilient. The remaining eight competitors, seated in the low, austere fighter's barracks beneath the Coliseum of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, were visibly worn. They carried the physical scars of their recent triumphs—Zola's limp, Adebayo's heavily taped ribs, the dark shadows beneath Low's eyes—and the heavier, unseen mental wounds inflicted by King Rega's mind games the night before.
The atmosphere was heavy, choked with the certainty that every victory from this point on would be earned with blood, total exposure, and a costly draw on one's spiritual essence. The prizes were closer, but the risks were exponentially higher.
The arena itself reflected the mood. It was the smallest yet, a tight circle of deep, dry earth surrounded by granite benches, built for close-quarters confrontation. The crowd was different too—fewer common folk, more nobility, and an unnerving number of silent, black-clad royal guards, their eyes fixed not on the fighters, but on the King's box.
A brass gong tolled—a slow, deliberate chime that seemed to swallow the light.
The first match was imminent: Grom Stonehand versus Adebayo, the Mgba Champion.
In the narrow, torch-lit tunnel leading from the palace to the tournament, Low and Adebayo found themselves walking shoulder-to-shoulder toward the harsh glare of the daylight.
Adebayo, despite his taped ribs, moved with a solemn, noble gait. His dark skin was painted with ochre and cowrie shells that chimed softly, a musical counterpoint to his heavy steps. He was the embodiment of honor, tradition, and the powerful, unyielding àṣẹ of the Earth.
"Grom Stonehand," Adebayo said, his voice a deep baritone, courteous but charged with anticipation. "I have been looking forward to this match since the Day of Culling. To face a warrior of such... unorthodox power is an honor."
Low, dressed in her bulky, rough-spun dwarf mercenary clothes, had to crane her neck slightly to meet his gaze. She tried to project the gruff, unruffled confidence of her "Grom" persona, but inside, her twelve-year-old heart was thrumming a frantic rhythm. Adebayo was magnificent—a walking shrine of tradition and spiritual strength. He was everything her chaotic, improvised style was not.
"You might regret that, big man," Low drawled, adjusting the grip on her massive, battered axe. "The last guy who was 'honored' to meet Grom ended up in a heap of shattered rhythm. You Earth boys are all the same: too focused on the ground."
Adebayo chuckled, a genuine, booming laugh that softened the tension. "The ground is where life is made, little one. The foundation. But you speak truth. Your chaos is a gift. You fight like Eshu himself, turning the sacred path into a maze." He stopped just short of the sunlight, turning to face her fully. "I pray to my ancestors to give me the wisdom to see your next turn. May the strongest àṣẹ win."
"Keep your prayers. I'll take the win," Low retorted, unable to resist the jab. She gave a theatrical smirk, but her mind was already calculating the distance, the weight ratio, and the exact moment she would need to break his Mgba wrestling stance.
The final bell chimed. They stepped out of the tunnel and into the deafening roar of the Coliseum.
High above the noise, in the royal viewing box, sat King Rega, flanked by the unnerving silence of Njiru. The other remaining finalists—Leonotis ("Lia"), Amara, Zola, Silas, and the two other fearsome champions, including Neema (the Egyptian grappler) and Nurabia Kabirui (the spear-woman)—were seated together in a segregated, velvet-cushioned section known as the Contender's Perch. The arrangement was ostentatious, luxurious, and completely isolating.
Leonotis sat stiffly beside Amara, his heart pounding an anxious rhythm against his ribs. The forced intimacy of the past twenty-four hours had solidified their small group, but it hadn't lessened the internal tension. He kept his spine straight, his movements minimal, projecting the silent austerity of "Lia of Greenwater."
Zola, despite the thick, heavy brace on her leg—a grim souvenir from her brutal victory. Her light aṣẹ shimmered faintly around her, a slow, radiant healing process at work. She leaned toward Leonotis, her gaze fixed on the arena below.
"I'm glad to see Grom go first," Zola murmured, her voice lowered so only those nearby could hear. "It will clear the air. Adebayo is a mountain, but Grom is a wildfire."
Amara, seated on Leonotis's other side, didn't comment immediately. She was watching the two fighters as they stood at opposite ends of the small, deep earth ring. Her hands rested gracefully in her lap, but her dark, intelligent eyes were moving, assessing, her analytical mind visibly dissecting the match before it even began.
"A wildfire is unpredictable, yes," Amara finally said, her tone cool and measured. "But a wildfire requires air, and it requires fuel. Adebayo's strength is that he is the Earth. His aṣẹ is the ground itself. Grom's chaos will simply be absorbed by his stillness."
Zola frowned. "But Adebayo fights with honor. He stands firm. Grom doesn't fight fair; he fights smart. He will bait him, make him miss the ritual step, and then, while his aṣẹ is correcting his stance, he will strike where he is undefended."
"He will attempt that," Amara agreed, without taking her eyes off the ring. "But you miss the fundamental spiritual contrast. Grom's aṣẹ is improvised, a prayer to the moment of action. Adebayo's aṣẹ is a continuous prayer to his ancestors, a constant current of Earth magic. To disrupt his rhythm, she must move the earth itself, which is his domain. To fight a man with Earth aṣẹ, you cannot touch the ground."
Leonotis, forced to comment, tried to adopt his "Lia" persona's slightly shy, slightly ignorant tone. "I… I don't know. Grom is very strong. And he is fast."
Amara chuckled softly, a dry, knowing sound. She shifted slightly in her seat, and the move brought her subtly, dangerously closer to Leonotis. He felt the familiar surge of heat and panic, remembering the intense time together in the bathhouse.
"Strength is a common weapon, Lia," Amara purred. "And speed is merely time compressed. But what about intent? Adebayo fights to uphold his ancestors' honor. Grom fights, I suspect, to keep something hidden. That kind of desperate, focused intent is a powerful form of aṣẹ. It is very hard to break."
Leonotis stared straight ahead, a knot tightening in his chest. She knows I'm hiding something.
Jacqueline, seated behind him, leaned closer, speaking to him beneath the rising noise of the crowd. "She's good, Leonotis. Better than good. If she can read the difference between Adebayo's honor and Grom's hidden agenda, imagine what she sees when she looks at Silas."
Silas himself was seated a few benches away, his perfectly tailored black tunic making him look less like a fighter and more like a court bureaucrat. He was utterly still, his eyes blankly observing the arena, betraying no thought, no emotion, and, most chillingly, no aṣẹ signature other than the cold, consuming void that Amara had described. He was the only person in the entire Coliseum who seemed unaffected by the drama unfolding.
"Silas is next to fight, after this match," Zola murmured, her hand instinctively touching her knee. "Whoever wins here may face him next. It is almost a death sentence."
Amara shook her head, her gaze finally drifting from the ring to Silas. "Not a death sentence. A test of the theory. Adebayo's pure Earth power will be consumed by Silas. But Grom's unpredictable… it might be the only thing that cannot be absorbed. Chaos has no pattern to copy."
Leonotis felt a terrifying surge of pride for Low, mixed with a chilling dread for the immense target Amara had just painted on her back. If the King's observers had heard that analysis, Low's future was now cemented: she was the key variable they needed to understand, or eliminate.
In the arena below, Adebayo and Low had reached the center of the ring.
Adebayo stood like a statue of iron and clay, his feet wide, his shoulders square—a perfect stance. He began to chant, the words a low, rhythmic plea to the Orisha of the Earth, their syllables causing the sand around his feet to subtly compact and darken, drawing on his Earth aṣẹ. He was becoming one with the arena floor.
Low's breathing was sharp and focused. If she fought him on the ground, his power would crush her. She had to break his connection before he finished his rooting chant. She spun her axe in a quick, showy circle, drawing the crowd's attention.
High Seer Jabara, standing on the perimeter, raised her wind-chime staff. The small bells began to ring, slow and mournful, calling the Orisha to witness the Quarter-Finals. The sound rose, merging with the distant thrum of the royal drums.
Low shifted her weight, preparing to dart forward the moment the sound stopped.
Adebayo opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on her. The chanting ceased. The Earth aṣẹ around his feet pulsed, ready to explode.
The chime of the staff reached its final, sustained note, hanging in the breathless air. Every fighter, every noble, and the King himself watched, waiting for the signal to fall silent.
The fight was about to begin.