“Your name?”

“Sar-” Her voice cracked. Her eye twitched, cheeks flushing. A hand lifted up, asking for a moment, before she cleared her throat with a decisive, shuddering cough. “Sorry. Sarnai. From Dranabris.”

The attendant looked at her, eyes sliding from the crossbow slung over her shoulders to the decidedly peasant garb she wore. For a moment, Sarnai saw doubt, suspicion. Then, it was glazed over by apathy. Initiates came from all over Lacorron to try their hand at becoming a Warden. What was one more starry-eyed commoner?

He tilted his head in the direction of the painted targets off to the west, the furthest of which barely poked out from a distant hill and yet was already studded with bolts, arrows, and…were those metal cards? The attendant’s voice was decidedly flat. “Make sure no one’s down the range when you’re shooting. Doesn’t matter how good you think you are. Understood?”

Sarnai nodded. She didn’t think he’d say that if she looked like a proper Hahralian Bowman, but she wasn’t going to claim she was all that good either. A nod of her head, and the young woman stepped into yet another part of the world she had never been.

---

It had almost been a month since she had left the Milky Toast Lizard, left her parents behind. She hadn’t told either of them, only left a letter on her bed, but got caught by her mom anyways, just ten steps away from the tavern doors. But her mother understood a desire for adventure, even if she didn’t understand the thoughts swirling in her daughter’s head, so she just gave her blessings, a couple extra coins for the road, and watched Sarnai leave.

Three weeks and four days later, the barmaid arrived at Atutania with those coins still sewn into the inside of her dress. The journey had been eye-opening and nerve-wracking, familiar dunes and patches of greenery replaced by sheer cliffs, suffocating canopies, and sweeping vistas of diverse humanity. Her work as a camp labourer, running chores for cheap in exchange for being able to travel with a merchant caravan, kept her hands busy, but the dread crept onwards as time separated the familiar from the unfamiliar, eating away at her insides.

It was homesickness.

She had trod through Atutania’s roads, the merriment of the festivities like hammer blows against her diaphragm, each foreign permutation of the Day of Heroes reminding her just how alone she was. Break a leg, and there was no one who’d carry her to a clinic to mend it. Get sick, and there was no one who’d boil wheat porridge for her to recover. She had seen nineteen Days of Heroes back in Dranabris, and the twentieth looked wholly foreign. She managed to fumble her way into the proving grounds, but now that she was here?

Nobles, decked in glistening arms, their blades carving graceful trajectories through the sky. Warriors, tattoos stretched over taut muscles, roaring as they broke apart wooden dummies like twigs. Mages, proper, educated mages, calling forth the elements from the aether with a practiced boredom as they looked down upon the simpletons making a racket. Blade-dancers, longbowmen, whale-hunters, the mountain-bred. Even those that Sarnai could pinpoint as commoners similar to herself looked impressive, the evidence of their efforts displayed in the crispness of their movements, the straightness of her spine.

And what about herself?

What had she actually done, before she had decided to fling herself here? Who would have approved of this, if they had known she’d do this? Didn’t she keep all this to herself, because she knew that no one would approve? That it’d be a funny joke, that they’d laugh along and then she’d laugh too, like a tittering bird trying to match the mood?

Sweat beaded down her pale forehead. Her legs felt weaker, her stomach weaker. She stood out too much. Could feel other initiates turn their gaze in her direction, see everything that she was and wasn’t, and then use her pathetic state as fuel for pride or indignation.
Sarnai kept her movements smooth, but only just barely. She strode for a corner, for a stump to sit upon. Swept her dress behind her back as she sat down. Took in one shallow breath, then another. Looked at her hands, callused from fifteen years of labour but insignificant compared to those who she’d have to compete against.

Clenched them. Unclenched them. Then, as if struggling to grasp something, clenched them again, fists pressed against the bridge of her nose.

Her lips opened and closed, as if in silent prayer.

But it wasn’t silent, and it wasn’t prayer.

_{“Tie your boots. Roll up your sleeves. Tighten your belts. Check the lamp oil. Buckle your pouches. Loosen your corset. Count your bolts. Count your strings. Inspect your crossbow. Tie your boots. Roll up your sleeves. Tighten your belts. Check the lamp oil. Buckle your pouches. Loosen your corset. Count your bolts. Count your strings. Inspect your crossbow. Tie your boots. Roll up your sleeves. Tighten your belts. Check the lamp oil. Buckle your pouches. Loosen your corset. Count your bolts. Count your strings. Inspect your crossbow. You can do it you can do it you can do it. C’mon Sarnai, just stand up and go on five, four, three, two, one…two, three, four, fiv-”}

---

Atutania was a paradoxical city. There was, without doubt, nowhere else in Lacorron quite like it; nowhere was grand in the same idyllic way, as tempered and bountiful in equal measure, as poised and peaceful. And yet, at the same time—and at especially this time—everywhere in Lacorron was exactly like it. Or, rather, Atutania was exactly like everywhere else. After all, a shield to the world, welcoming all behind it, could not help but reflect the peoples it protected. And so, on the Day of Heroes, Atutania was also Giellnal, Hahral, Ienarich, Itenaire and, perhaps, just a little bit, Viridian. City and Kingdom and Confederacy all at once, like everywhere and nowhere else.

Had Ionna not grown up on its streets, she might have gotten lost in the strangeness and clamor. The roads bristled with eager, uncertain traffic, carts and wagons and palanquins moved in staggered lines, carried by all manner of hoofed things. Guards ferried powdered nobility, merchant lords, eyed each other with mixtures of respect and unspoken challenge. Impromptu markets sprung up in the byways, parks became rest stops and meeting and greeting grounds. Confederate salesmen bartered with pelts and crude but unimpeachably sturdy tools; Hahral vendors hocked oils, wooden toys, beautiful paintings of places lost to the sands between the cities; Itenaire bravos offered expensive but assuredly crucial last-minute training to nervous initiates avoiding the trial grounds; here and there, street magicians wearing Giellnal colors drew small crowds to fill their hats with coin. Some, Ionna recognized, were Atutanian natives, but what did that really matter in the face of good fun?

And, she thought, good food.

The air was overwhelmed with foreign aromas, with smoke, fish, honeyed pork and roasting beef, with boiling oil, candied apples, chocolate and salt-and-caramel. In some places the tangle was so thick and unplaceable it could spoil the appetite, but from where Ionna walked, all she could smell was nostalgia.

She’d had almost all these foods once or twice, if not during the Day of Heroes, then in the lands of their origins, served at host tables or shared around communal, roadside campfires with other travelers. She thought of stories, and songs, and dances she’d learned. It was all she could do not to take a plate of curried chicken or steaming pilaf with her, but she couldn’t indulge yet. Today her meal had been quite utilitarian, and while she’d given herself time to wander and take in the quasi-familiar sights of her home, she still had a duty to fulfill.

So, dutifully, she bought only one modestly-sized packet of Hahral hard candy, and then pried herself from the cultural collage to follow a stream of hopefuls anxiously moving towards the proving grounds. The city officials were making good time processing them all, but by now Atutania had the Day down to a science, and the line hardly stalled enough to stand still in. Before long, she was ushered towards one of the sign-in desks, to an attendant who didn’t even bat an eye when she teasingly told him her name was ‘Ionathan’, but who suddenly found his sense of humor when he saw the Rielle crest on her shoulder-cloak.

“Will you be needing an explanation, milady?” he asked.

“Nah, I’m sure I can figure out a way to embarrass myself,” she said, and placed one of the candies on his ledger, before heading onto the grounds.

She popped another into her mouth as she walked, smiling at the memories its sweetness brought her. The trials were only just beginning, but already the range, the dummies, and the ring were teeming with competition. Ionna wasn’t averse to it, but by the end of the day there would be no shortage of bruised egos and broken dreams, people who had come from far and wide that wouldn’t make the cut, and would have to carry themselves home, hoping their drive would survive until the next Day of Heroes. That was the underside to all this celebration, the sobering realization that not everyone could be a hero.

But, Ionna liked to think, many people could—even those who doubted themselves. Especially those who doubted themselves.

For now Ionna wandered, observing the various trials, cheering on the meekest contestants, giving enthusiastic congratulations to the winners and rallying consolations to those who lesser performed. She offered candy to anyone who happened to make prolonged eye-contact with her, or who lingered too long within candy-offering range. Some accepted happily, others declined like she might have been offering them poison. She went on mingling anyway.

There would be time enough for trials, but in the back of her mind, Liura reminded her that she should never miss an opportunity to make some friends.

---

What a festive, and ever so crowded, time to be wandering through the streets of Atutania. He had been forewarned by the mercenary mentor of his, Dame Garnnett Riese (or Teach as she had required until their parting), that he would have to move with a sense of purpose to make it through the streets in a timely manner. How right she had been, the throngs celebrating the very order he was seeking out, and the hero that started all of this. He knew the history, no one who considered themselves even slightly versed in the historical texts of the world wouldn't be at least familiar with the saga, and why it was so greatly celebrated. At home it was a much more muted affair, at least in his household, recognizing that for all the heroics, it was Giellnal that had associated with the catalyst. Some, like his sister, celebrated the triumph, others such as his father remembered the misdeeds, but that was neither here nor there. Both were long behind him, it had been an exhausting trek to make this year's trials on time and in good order. Riese had seen to that, more than once awaking to a steel tipped sabaton in his ribs to pack, they marched at dawn. Compared to the jostling crowds and sheer noise, however, it was a small nuisence.

It was not hard for Toma to make his way to the proving grounds, anytime he even felt like he was drifting off the path it only took a slight question to get immediately shuffled off the right way. People here were all too willing and cheerfully able to guide would be initiates to the proving grounds, something that did not take nearly as long as he would have feared. Quite the line had already formed, mind, but experience and practice kept them moving at a very brisk pace. Truly an eye opening variety of people here from just about every walk of life imaginable to him. He could have swore he even saw a pitchfork shouldered somewhere ahead of him, and if someone wielding such an implement of...'destruction' could make an honest attempt he felt slightly better about his odds already. Before long though, he was already being questioned by one of many attendants processing the influx of would be wardens.

"Name?"

"Toma, of House Morriss."

---

"You sure you want to snub the old lord like this, lad?"

Toma was stuffing his pack, his mentor and teacher for the past year and a half leaning against the doorframe of the boy's room. His older sister was waiting out by the servant's gate, only her and father had the keys to leave the estate at this time of evening. Lady Morriss was also present, a thin smile on her face as she watched her youngest pack what worldly belongings he saw fit to take with him. It wasn't much, clothing, a few journals, and enough coin to make it on his own if things did not work out for the best. Toma, glancing back at Dame Riese, resisted the urge to scoff. Last time he did that he had bruises for weeks from the intensive training he had gotten in return for such a thing. He was ambitious, not foolish, however and replied quietly, as if expecting his father to be waiting for him to vocalize in no uncertain terms his plan.

"I will not wait for him to talk down to me again as he allows me to depart under my own terms. He won't raise a hand to Mother or Sis, and I heard how he treated the last Morriss to depart like this. Wasn't it you that said that waiting to strike is how you get struck?"

Dame Riese cocked an eyebrow briefly at the boy's return of an early lesson she had beaten into him, mostly literally, but it proved that for all the scholarly knowledge and Morriss stubborness, he was paying attention the whole time. She glanced at Lady Morriss, who was funding this last part of her contract personally so that Lord Morriss could only complain so much, who shrugged idly as she stood and walked over, embracing her youngest son one last time. She was confident that, much like her middle son, she would not see him again. Not in a way that she would know, and would not let Toma go like she did the last. Not without one last hug, and a whispered few words of encouragement for him. She would not let him falter and be mistreated like her second child, even if it meant braving the anger of her husband. Especially if it meant that.

"Dame Riese will see you to the edge of the Grand City, that is as far as she is willing to go. I ask not why the limit, but if you cannot make it through such a pleasant place I fear all is already lost. Go do the Wardens proud."

A quick squeeze of a hug in return, and Toma slung his pack over his shoulder. Even something so utilitarian in design still had the hallmarks of a noble's make, something that would not be so readily escaped until he was truly gone from this life. Dame Riese led him out of the estate proper, having already ensured the guard patrols would not be in their way. Nothing that would brand her criminal, but extra wine rations worked wonders in making overworked and underappreciated guards willing to overlook a late night stroll. After all, they didn't see who it was that was leaving, and if they did, well, they knew better than to tempt the wrath of the lady of the house. It was not a long walk to the back gate, the servant's exit that was locked tight by this time of evening. His sister was waiting, arms crossed, though she pushed herself up fully as the two approached.

"So that's it then T?"

"It was either tonight or put up with Father tomorrow. Don't let him do anything I would have to come back to fix."

That got a quickly stifled laugh out of Toma's sister, who gave him a rough hug before unlocking the gate and letting the mercenary and wayward brother off the estate grounds. The longer they travelled before making camp, the harder it would be for Lord Morriss to track them down. Toma swore he would march until the following dusk, something that he would quietly, but not verbally admit, regret ever saying. Dame Riese took him at his word, and they were long gone before Lord Morriss awoke. Long gone by the time he realized his wayward son was gone and beyond his final reproachful reach. Not that Toma would know what transpired next, with Dame Riese driving his march, he would not be given the luxury of missing his appointed time to reach the Grand City of Atutania. No mercenary worth their coin would allow any less to occur, no matter how taxing it was on the boy. He would have time to rest before the day of trials itself began, that would have to suffice for him.

---

"...Suffice indeed, may we meet again under better circumstances Teach..."

Toma had been given instructions on the layout of the while his mind raced through the past, something that he had been catching himself doing the past few days. More so than he had the entire trek here, and with a nod of gratitude he set himself onto the proving grounds proper. He was almost immediately offered some piece of candy, something he politely but firmly turned down. Old habits and all, but he wouldn't put it past someone to taint treats for the sake of an edge in the trials. Rather he saw some working through the training dummies, going through martial drills with their chosen weapons. He could do that, certainly, but there was nothing flashy or eye catching about his method of wielding a flanged mace. Dame Riese saw to that, flashy got you killed, eye catching got you killed faster. Good for soldiering, bad for standing out, so he continued walking the proving grounds, passing the archery targets next.

That would not be a terrible idea, Toma was much more dangerous and stand out with his magic than he ever was with a mace. Hurling barrages of frigid ice shards down range would demonstrate strength and precision of magic, as well as longevity in his reserves, but that alone would not be enough to prove himself in one smooth motion. Of course one could argue that it was not the point of this whole contest was not to simply prove oneself in a single attempt, but Toma could not shake the need to stand out in a notable way. That left, of course, the practice ring in the center. Greater risk, especially since sparring with unknown quantities could lead to him being horribly embarrassed, but he would sooner stand tall in the ring than simply swing at inanimate objects. After all, an inanimate object would never prove anything other than 'yes, this person can hit something that doesn't fight back real hard', and that would never suit someone like Toma. So he entered the practice circle, leaving his pack on the edge of the ring. He spoke clearly, letting his voice carry naturally, to all who might be nearby.

"If anyone wishes to spar, I would welcome the opportunity. Far better way to shake off the stiffness of a long trip than swinging at dummies." Toma had his mace in hand as he made his open offer to anyone willing to take him up on his offer while, in the interim, he started going through the training regiments and practice drills that had been not so figuratively beaten into him. A form of 'fighting one's own shadow' as he went through blocks, deflects, turning momentum into strikes before resetting his stance and resuming again. It was a good way to warm up, and he hoped that anyone who took him up on the offer only saw a cocky noble with a glorified stick who thought too highly of themselves. Of course if no one stepped up to the offer he would have to consider his options from there, but perhaps a willingness to face the unknown in such an offer would be worth something in its own right.

---

Lina was skipping.

Not exactly the most dignified way to move, especially for one of her station. If her family saw her skipping through a place as 'hallowed' as Atutania, their hearts would collectively explode, she was pretty sure. She could almost hear them: This is not how a scion of the Ariesca family should act! Have some dignity and decorum, and remember that while you're there you are representing all of us! And, like, she could, but like...why? She was still a little miffed at her family. She'd never left Itenaire. She hadn't even spent much time out of her family's estate. So when there was a festival all throughout the street like this, well, what was she supposed to do but enjoy it? As she meandered through the streets, eyes wide, it slipped her mind for a moment that she should really get to the trials right about now. The smell of Hahral spices floating through the air! The hustle and bustle of the crowds all around her! It was wonderful, she should really get to the trial but oooooh, was that stall selling meat and vegetables on rolled-up flatbread of some kind? It smelled heavenly! Way better than all the boring meals she'd had back home!

It hadn't taken long for Lina to arrive at Atutania; living in the middle-west of Itenaire as she did, it was a relatively short trip of just a few days and nights until she'd stood before the gate, thrown open to allow for free traffic on the Day of Heroes. She'd gone in with the full intent to immediately head to the Order's training grounds, honest. To present herself as a potential knight with her martial skill. But she'd been cooped up in her family's compound forever, and now she finally had a chance to wander around a real street festival? There was no way she was missing this! Maybe she'd just go down a street or two to see what it was like before she headed up? And that plan lasted exactly as long as the plan to miss it all and just head straight up.

While the small guard her father had sent with her had asked to come inside, she'd dismissed them as she entered the city. They'd all report back to father; which meant that in the end, they'd be just as boring and stodgy as he always was. She'd be yelled at if he was there, but he wasn't! And he wouldn't be for who knew how long? So she wouldn't need to deal with all of his stupid lessons! She was going to become a knight! This was a good day! She didn't need a bunch of sticks in the mud dragging along behind her and pulling her mood down when things were so great!

And so: now she was skipping. Catching a few dirty glances here and there when she needed to dart through the crowds proper, but mostly keeping to the sides, she deftly wove around people as she wended her way further into the festival. Another smell wafted across her path then; and taken a long, appreciative sniff, she ceased her skipping and came to a stop in front of a wooden stall roofed with fabric patched into every color of the rainbow. A pair of Hahral behind the counter were cutting chunks of meat off a large steak and sticking them along with roasted vegetables onto long wooden skewers. Oh man, it looked and smelled amazing! As they turned to her, she placed a few coins on the counter and gave her best bright smile:

"Two, please!"

---

She was still working her way through the second, popping a chunk of roasted pepper into her mouth, when she stepped up to the registration table. Not skipping this time, but certainly not garden-variety walking. Bouncing, almost; a big smile on her face and her toes curling in and out in her boots. The bored-looking mousy woman behind it looked up at her flatly, raising a single eyebrow. Likely at the fact she was still eating, even as she came to the trials.

"Name?"

She swallowed, then gave a bright smile. Her loud voice came out almost as a chirp: "Ariesca! Lina Ariesca!"

The woman's eyebrows shot up in a moment of surprise before she composed her face again; and even after, her eyes remained much more alert, and her back was ramrod straight, like she'd been electrified. Ariesca was quite a well known name in this part of the world, after all, and having one show up to the trials of the Order likely wasn't expected by any measure. Her eyes strayed down to the twin swords on the girl's hips, and she pointed down at a wall of dummies and a big ol' sparring ring. "Uhm--Miss...Lady--over there for close quarters weapons."

Nodding at the attendant with a quick "thanks!", she trotted over to the area in question. Swords, maces, flails, there was even a girl with a pitchfork sticking out like a sore thumb! In no hurry to start swinging, either at dummies or the person who'd stepped into the practice ring (she hadn't even finished her food yet, after all!), she elected instead to stand and watch for a while as she polished off her meat and vegetable stick that the Hahral had called a "kebab." No fun fighting on an empty stomach, after all, no matter what Dad said about it making you stronger, and with food this tasty, why rush?

---

The winds sing between the branches of the great tree. The boundless sky rejoices in its embrace, wrapping all the world below in a canopy of noblest blue. A time to grow, a time to live, a time to thrive, as all the world wakes from the stillness of winter and blossoms once again into life. The bells adorning golden branches ring, reminding all of the memory of those who came before, returning to the roots that they might one day be born anew, and take up the path where their feet left it so long ago.

Flowers bloom atop headstones. The dead become spirit. The spirit becomes life. So the great cycle continues, from the first blossoms of niwlen, until the last leaf has crumbled and fallen.

In such an auspicious season, one would be predisposed to look favorably upon all new beginnings, bearing hope that the year to come would reward every endeavor fruitfully. One might even be inclined to take such a time to celebrate taking that first step, honoring the sacrifices of those who came before while praying for the triumph of those to come after.

Truly, a noble sentiment -- and utterly without merit.

Of course, I had expected nothing, from the very moment I first set out from the by-now distant Viridian Sea. I had always known that the outside world was a rough and graceless place, devoid of the peace and tranquility I had enjoyed in the days of my youth -- such as I was afforded it, anyway. But no amount of cold glances or silent scorn could have prepared me for the indignities of my arrival into human society.

It was a day's walk from my clan's encampment in the Near Woods before I found any signs of the Menfolk or their civilization. It was well that it took me so long, as I spent much of that time cursing my ill-fortune, cursing the elders, and cursing the weight of the armor which they had so generously entrusted to me. It was only in a fit of admittedly justified rage that I first touched the spirits inhabiting it, and so realized its utility -- and after that, the process of acclimating myself to harnessing their power was a difficult one, so much so that I counted myself fortunate not to be seen by anyone until I had thoroughly mastered it.

Wind-walking was not so dissimilar to operating the glider-kites that I had so often used to deliver messages for my master in the past, and as such, came surprisingly naturally to me. Though it was rather difficult to maintain my conception of a nonexistent sail surrounding me, my own instincts better served where reason had failed. Or perhaps I was simply overthinking things to begin with. I am, after all, a prodigy -- once I determined it to be possible, it was only a matter of time before I succeeded in achieving it.

So it was that by the time of my arrival at the menfolk's trading post, I had learned to move so swiftly and subtly that they hardly noticed my presence until I was already at their gates. I gave my introductions, met with the chief among their caravan, handed over the gifts that my master had ordered me to convey, and demanded to be afforded passage along with them on their return journey, that I might seek audience with the supposedly-vaunted "Wardens of the Glade" and earn membership in their order.

This meeting, for the most part, went well -- though not without a few uncouth jokes and jabs regarding my age. Apparently, my manner of speaking gave them the impression that I was a Druid myself, of some hundreds of years -- and although I was admittedly very flattered by this, when I corrected this assumption, they had the temerity to laugh at me.

Just because we do not wither so quickly does not mean we are slow to bloom, yet when I tried to calmly explain this to the man, he clearly did not understand nor appreciate any distinction in such matters. Instead, he merely chided me for "trying too hard to act grown up," and insistently called me "little miss elf" for the rest of our journey. His sickeningly-forced politeness and overly snide, world-wise attitude grated on me far more than I had expected. The elders who had sent me on this fool's errand were fools themselves, but at least they had earned the right to foolish condescension through years of experience. To be lectured by some sapling of a mere 40-some years as though he was a sage himself drove me to such frustration that by the time we arrived at the so-called "Glade" of Atutania, I was quite glad to be rid of him.

Not that my new environs were at all preferable. Clearly, these menfolk knew nothing of the world, to style such an abominable construction a "glade." When I had heard the name of the place to which I was bound, I had held out hope. Even among savages, I might still at least be graced with the company of the spirits, and honored with the noble task of watching over the remains of those who had perished long before in the days of chaos.

Yet what met my eyes was the most sparse, pitiful, debased and desecrated excuse for a forest I had ever seen in all my 18 years. The menfolk's roads of broken stone wound about every which way, choking out what few haggard saplings remained like the coils of an invasive weed. Their towers piled high, blocking out the sun from ever reaching the yellowed grass in their shadows -- where it even still existed. Flabbergasted by this unholy sight, I was forced to conclude that whatever buffoon had contrived this place's nomenclature had never seen a forest in his life, much less a glade.

And as I entered into the stone forest these menfolk called home, I was only further dismayed to see that such ignorance extended even farther than that. Everywhere I went, I found their beady little eyes fixed upon me, always muttering or whispering something, yet retreating the moment I so much as looked at them. One, a mere sprout who might well have been born yesterday for all I knew, even pointed at me and asked his sire what was wrong with my ears!

Unbelievable! Truly unconscionable! Had they ever so much as deigned to venture outside this barbaric cesspool, perhaps they would have known better. To have only just arrived and already finding myself confronted by such unimaginable ignorance, I was forced to conclude that these menfolk must have been a horribly backward people, who knew nothing of the world, if even I, with my meagre upbringing and few years of experience, so vastly excelled them in my understanding.

So much greater my misfortune, then, that I had no choice but to try and ask them for directions. After all, for all my prodigious intellect, I was still a stranger in these lands, and ill-equipped to comprehend the nightmarish and labyrinthine convolutions of their "city." Yet the moment I would try to approach or strike up conversation, the wily humans would simply make some excuse and immediately dart away -- only to resume their staring at me from a safe distance once they thought I had lost sight of them.

And to be fair, sometimes, they did in fact escape my notice. There were simply so many humans all around, lining the streets in every direction I looked, that it became impossible to tell one from another, where one was coming or going, or even at times where I was. They were worse even than the savage monkeys of the great forest, an innumerable troop all staring and circling and hooting and chattering in such a great cacophonous din that it set my ears to curling flat against the sides of my head in a futile attempt to drown out the noise.

It was only by a stroke of luck that the crowd's pushing and shoving happened to carry me close enough to see a man in a familiar uniform, which I recognized from master's teachings. Seeing my opportunity, I swiftly extricated myself from the man-monkeys' midst and approached what it became evident to me was some form of reception desk. Trying my best to ignore the overwhelming smell of meat coming from the red-haired she-monkey in front of me, I at last made my way to the front of the line, and made report of myself.

"I am Sternwyss! Daughter of Adalyr, and apprentice to Sage Ailín. I have come on my master's orders, to participate in your knightly trials! I ask you, where are the entrance rites of the Order of the Glade to be found?"

...As it turned out, the answer to that question was "right over there." An anticlimactic conclusion to an utterly infuriating odyssey -- but by this point I simply welcomed an end to my searching. The sooner I could complete this wretched task and retire myself to any semblance of solitude, the better. This "city" felt fit to soil my very soul, and I desired nothing less than to take part in any sort of community with its uncouth inhabitants.

"Put it over there- there I said, there!"

"It looks better over here!"

"But it will sell better over there!"

Before a squabble between young man and old woman could break out, the latter's daughter rounded the stall with her arms laden with goods. She walked up to Ashraf and dumped several bundles into his arms, which he received with a soft oof instead of a complaint. He peered around the pile as she spoke to him.

"It's been a few days now, you know there's no arguing with her," she sighed, which seemed to rile her mother up all the more.

When Ashraf first set out for the Grand City of Atutania, he'd done so on foot. It was about halfway through the journey that he realized he'd have to pick up his pace or he might not make it for the first day of trials, which would have been very embarrassing for his planned comeback. Then, like the gods were goading him onward, he met a small wagon train on the road. One of the families allowed him to hitch a ride with them, so in return once they'd arrived in the city early that day he lent them an extra pair of hands to set up their booth. By the time everything was unpacked, organized, set up and priced, it was well on into the morning. Then, the family's matriarch pressed a few coins into Ashraf's hands and affectionately told him to scram.

It was a paltry sum, but he wasn't in Atutania to make money in the first place. The last and only time Ashraf had been in this city, it had been for the same reason he was here now. He wasn't well acquainted with it at all, but the sights and sounds he took in while walking the cobbled streets elicited a vague sense of déjà vu. He shook the feeling away.

Things would not go as they did before.

...however, as before, Ashraf did allow himself some leisure time before going straight to the proving grounds. There were numerous initiate hopefuls that fretted so much their minds broke down before their bodies even had a chance to endure what was in store. Ashraf was not one of them. He took his time walking among the merchant stalls all vying for the attention of the holiday crowds, taking a genuine interest in many of the booths. As a festival, it was relatively small and tame compared to those in Hahral. And as a market, it didn't compare to the colorful caravans that still crossed the desert, selling their unique pieces in town and on the road and then disappearing; couldn't compare to the sprawling souqs of Akoth or Atuunis, bazaars stuffed with wares of incredible make both local and foreign... but it was lively, and the pride of everyday people -from chefs to weavers to blacksmiths- was on full display.

After enjoying some warm food and perusing many of the artisan stalls, Ashraf's came away with his coinpurse a little lighter. Not that it had been that heavy in the first place. He ran his fingers gently over two matching bracelets of opposing colors, the tightly woven Atutanian wool soft even under his calluses. Souvenirs for his sisters, though he'd have to post them home. He didn't plan to leave Atutania any time soon, after all.

He put the gifts into his small pack and started to make his way toward the proving grounds. As he neared the area, the festival gradually transformed. Farther away from the Warden's trial grounds the Day of Heroes celebrations reflected what Ashraf assumed was the usual Atutanian festive fair - but closer, and the spectacle of the trials seemed to cultivate a more fervent atmosphere. Heartier, healthier, and more expensive food was advertised to hungry initiates, smiths suggested weapon repair or outright replacement at a premium, and of course charming salespeople offering supposed blessings to the Warden hopefuls.

"Good luck charms for initiates!"

"No need for luck."

"Talismans for safety, compete without getting a scratch!"

"Anyone afraid of getting hurt should grow and come back next year."

"Improve your love life!"

"Oh? Another time maybe!"

When he made it to the queue, though there were still some people lining up behind him, the number of initiates ahead of him and already in the proving grounds made it clear he was one of the last people who was going to sign up. That was fine, it wasn't like being early scored them any points... wait. Did it?

As Ashraf sorted through his memories of two years ago, his attention was caught by a few of those ahead of him. Was that... an elf? Ashraf's eyes trailed over her long ears and ornate armor. He'd never seen one before, and didn't know anyone who could honestly claim they had either. How weird. Short, too, which he didn't expect. Then again he wasn't much taller, so he really couldn't judge. After she'd stormed off, the next name announced happened to be just as surprising. Siada? As in the Siada of Atuunis?

Ashraf leaned over to get a glimpse of the prince whose family tried their best to make every merchant's life in Hahral miserable. The lavish silken, gold-embroidered robes, the ostentatious bow on his back, the entitled speech... The young Siada seemed like a prick, which Ashraf had expected. He suppressed a click of his tongue as the prince entered the grounds. Was this a special year, or something? It wasn't just those two; there appeared to be quite a lot of high profile participants this time, if the unsubtle gossip being passed around was to be believed.

A few minutes and a more than a few people later and Ashraf crossed the threshold into the proving grounds himself. He felt a tingle of anticipation shoot through him from head to toe. He remembered how grueling the first few days had been, and would be, but he was undaunted. Before anything else he observed the other Warden hopefuls first, wondering if he could get a look at any other minor celebrities, but no other faces or names jumped out at him.

After a moment he noted a lady knight's approach. Actually, on second glance it was more likely she was here for the trials herself. Ashraf regarded her with a curious raised brow, up until she offered him a piece of hard candy and his eyes lit up. A very friendly initiate, then. Although the Free Cities were large and drew in people of many cultures, for the children growing up in Akoth there was one cardinal rule of society that must be followed, less one wanted to invite scorn and misfortune... if someone offered you food, you took it. With a smile at that.

He popped the sweet into his mouth, pressing the pad of his thumb to his tongue to clean away the sugary residue. The combination of body heat and a sunny day made the candies a little sticky. Now this was a nostalgic taste, he thought, though his father would probably curse at him for feeling nostalgia at his age. Nowadays Ashraf preferred honeyed fruit or candied nuts, even smooth cocoa or pastries for his sweets, but simple rolled sugar like this was still good. These were well made too, with a nice amber color and clear enough to see the air bubbles inside.

"Thank you," he told the woman, warm smile still firmly in place. "You have good taste. Have you had halva before? Try the sesame kind."

He had no idea if she was well traveled or just happened to pick a random candy, but the suggestion worked regardless. If only he had anything to return the kind gesture with. All he could offer at the moment was some casual chatter, which he gave freely, until they parted. Ashraf bid her goodbye but not good luck. If she made it through the first day he'd find her again.

Rather than go to either the targets or the practice dummies, Ashraf made his way over to the dueling circle. His martial prowess had improved a lot, now he wanted to test himself against his peers. These were the people he would both be competing with and serving alongside, so getting a sense of how strong they were (and how strong he was in comparison) early on would be helpful. The Warden's trial adage had haunted him for the last two years - he needed to know where he stood now. Fortunately there was already someone in the circle, a taller man wielding a nasty looking mace. That would be perfect, the heavier weight of a mace could make up for the shorter reach against Ashraf's own weapon of choice.

He dropped his own pack at the ring's edge and stepped into the circle. Ashraf was smaller than the average man, lean and clearly confident. He was dressed in simple, heat-venting clothes and a necklace of glass beads, and upon his back were a few wrapped poles - one longer than the others. Though Ashraf hadn't arrived early enough to hear the minor noble's offer of a spar, the fact that he was practicing inside the ring was invitation enough.

"Ready to move on from shadows to a real partner?" he asked the other man, golden eyes bright and smile turned toothy. He reached up and took the longer weapon in hand, bringing the butt of it down onto the ground with a satisfying clack. He unwrapped its head, revealing what had been all too easy to guess: a sturdy but plain spear.

K A Z R A N
K A Z R A N

---

Everything Kazran had ever owned jostled around in a single burlap strap slung over his shoulder. He had spun it around to cover his chest upon hopping down from the wagon. He had managed to hitch rides among friendly merchants and farmers for weeks, offering up the meager sum he had saved little by little until a single coin remained.

He was not a particularly appealing sight: he was large, covered in grime, and his hair was slick with grease. The sack was barely large enough to store his more treasured items, a simple wrapped handle clearly peaking through. The only thing on his person that clearly denoted his intentions in Atutania was a polished kite shield strapped to his back. He had cleaned it three times a day since he had gotten it, and it shone so bright you could practically see your reflection in it. Murmurs had followed him since he left Itenaire, but no one dared to accuse the teen of theft.

Especially not when they saw what tool he carried in his bag.

Atutania's festivities meant little to Kazran. He had not the coin nor the time for pleasant festivities. The smells did send his stomach twisting into knots of hunger, but he simply ignored his body's cries for sustenance. His soul needed to be quenched first.

If he failed here, nothing else mattered.

So, Kazran ignored the opulence on display. He ignored the aristocrats and nobles who seemed to watch the common rabble for entertainment. He ignored the greedy stares leveled at the shirld on his back. He ignored all but the target of his journey: the trial grounds.

It was easy to recognize, by the high concentration of armed young adults. Most looked rather well put-together, with a not-insignificant assortment of those with noble blood. Kazran's heart sank at the sight of the others gathered. He knew that only some of those here gathered would even make it past the first steps: what chance did he have of being one of them?

Kazran wandered into the dwindling line in front of the sign-in desks, drawing a few odd looks from hopefuls and attendants alike. He shuffled along, until he was finally ushered before one of the attendants.

"Can I get your name?"

"Kazran... Kaz for short"

"Family name?"

Kazran simply shook his head. "I'm from Itenaire."

The simple statement seemed to be enough of an explanation, as the appropriate information was catalogued and noted. She half-turned towards the proving grounds, motioning towards the various facets. "You are encouraged to demonstrate your skills as you see fit. If you did not bring equipment, some may be provided for you."

Kazran shook his head , untying the knotted rope that drew his sack closed. He loosed the opening, before pulling out the large warhammer. He let the momentum and gravity swing the weapon's head towards the ground, forming a small spiderweb crack in the cobbled stone. The attendant's eyes grew wide for a moment, before clearing her throat. "Ah... well, um, we have some practice dummies set up over there for you. Feel free to find a free space first and set up as you wish."

Kazran nodded, smiling softly as he hoisted the hammer up onto his shoulder with ease. He lumbered through the crowd towards the training area. He searched for a sizable enough rock to take a seat, setting his belongings down in front of him as he did. He looked up to watch the other aspiring applicants go through their routines. His hands absentmindedly fiddled with the buckles and straps of the breastplate he had been gifted. He lifted it up over his head, easily shimmying his arms into their respective holes before sliding it over his chest. The arm guards were much easier, as were the greaves.

As he reached the bottom of his sack, he felt a small metal chain. His heart seemed to speed up as he removed the small locket from the sack, running his thumb over the small crest of the Bonderal family. He couldn't bring himself to open it, instead sliding the chain around his neck. He tucked the pendant under the breastplate, and rose to his feet. He readjusted his old smithing gloves, plucked his hammer and shield from the ground, and strode off towards the melee practice dummies.

He had everything to prove.