I.

Somewhere in an endless white void sits Weaver, making tapestries of worlds on her loom. She had made many tapestries sitting on the stool in her void at her loom, in fact, that’s all Weaver ever did and, as far as she knew, would ever do.

On occasion, Weaver would look out into the world of dragons, spiraling mountains, solemn wizards, and a herd of stampeding centaurs hurrying through the valley that she wove into another tapestry and think, I hate my job. This was common among people who had been working the same job a while, they either become complacent in the everyday motions or eventually hate their jobs, but Weaver wasn’t like people, she wasn’t even sure if she was people.

Sure, she looked like the human girls in some of the tapestries, though her skin was paler and her eyes and hair were dark like the night sky, otherwise she was a regular lass in a lovely sapphire gown made for weaving. She existed and so the supplies for weaving appeared and she just knew what to do. She only called herself Weaver because that’s what she did, weave worlds.

On other occasions, Weaver would take a break from her loom after finishing a tapestry and imagine herself as part of the world and who she would be in that world. A princess, a maid, a warrior, or something beyond her imagination. For a moment she wasn’t lost in an endless void next to her loom and tapestries until she opened her eyes.

On this occasion, a thought came to her head. A thought she had never had before. Perhaps a fresh story, she thought. An origin of her own.

II.

Each year the Kingdom of Retsabala held a fighting tournament in the capital of Ynobe for a grand prize worth more than any citizen could imagine. This year every high and low ranking noble came to the capital for the prize was the right of marriage of the Over King’s daughter Princess Ailemac with which the winner had the right to marry her or marry her off to anyone they wanted in the law of Retsabala tradition. Many great warriors of the Higher Royalty were competing: Kyrneh the Golden Axe, Recnal the Crimson Swordsman, Borthos of the Triplets, and the returning champion Anrak, the Princes Ailimac’s own brother, who slayed the frost trolls of the north, bested Ris Kaller the Serpent Swordsman in a duel where one hand was tied behind his back and the golden son of the Over King himself. If someone were a gambler, and many of the poor in Retsabala were, you would bet on Anrak.

Nomis, son of Under Duke Egroj of the lower Meadows, traveled with sword and shield many a mile to reach the sparkling capital and got in line at the Hall of Elders. The line was for the Under Royalty, like Under Dukes, Lower Barons, Bottom Earls, Lower Marquis, and occasionally the title fewer sons of Under Duke’s, like Nomis, was long. Over Royals, on the other hand, walked in and out in minutes, they walked into the Hall of Elders left waving their certificate to a cheering crowd.

A tap came upon Nomis’s shoulder.

“Hello,” Said the man behind him. “Are you here to compete?”

The questioner was a large man in height and girth and wore armor two sizes too small.

“Yes,” Nomis said.

The man laughed at that. “They expect me, Nollid the Grand, to fight in the same tourney as you.”

An entourage of men in similar armor, with varying degrees of scoundrel in their expressions, appeared from behind Nollid’s grandness. Nomis turned away from the men, but another tapping came on his shoulder.

“You would ignore, me at your own peril, boy,” Nollid said, his breath of onion and cheese spouting into Nomis’s nostrils.

“Yeah,” One of his entourage agreed. “At your own peril.”

“I have nothing to say outside of the arena,” Nomis said.

“Fool,” Nollid said and swung with an open hand to hit Nomis, but froze midair when he felt a blade under his chin.

“You are the only fool I see,” A man, wearing black garb and matching durag mask, held his rapier to the throat of Nollid.

The Grand one was sweating. “What do you want Over Man?”

Nomis now noticed the sigil of Higher Marquis on the man’s robes. Nomis kneeled.

“Stand warrior,” The Man in Black said. “You have no need to worry. I’m certain our friend is done with this interaction, yes?”

Nollid nodded and the Man in Black sheathed his sword.

Nomis gulped. “I thank you, Marquis—

“I hear some reluctance in that thanks,” The Man in Black gave a whimsical smile.

“I do appreciate your assistance of the lower class, but I could’ve dealt with him.”

“I’m sure,” The Marquis patted Nomis’s shoulder. “I hope to face you in the tournament friend.”

Then he left into the Hall of Elders.

Nomis’s savior had long left to the cheering crowd with a certificate in hand and Nollid and company left, probably out of fear of facing the mysterious Marquis, and the crowd itself had dissipated by the time Nomis entered The Hall of Elders to meet one of the hooded men.

The Hall of Elders was, as to be expected by things that begin with The Hall of… a large and ornate, but studious looking building with many pillars, stairs, and shelves upon shelves of books on various subjects varying among magics, swordsmanship, and the proper ways to act in the class you were born too. There were many tiny offices in-between the pillars, stairs, and shelves laid with books were the office cubicles of the Hooded Men.

The Hooded Men were the law of the Kingdom of Retsabala in both theory and action. They were one in all, for once a man or woman chose the path of the Hooded Man, a hard path, one loses all identity from their past and becomes nothing else. Nomis had heard as many stories of the scientific and magical advancements of a Hooded Man as he had heard of stories of them defeating monsters and dispensing of great evils, they were not to be trifled with carelessly, but to look at the one across from him, in a tiny cubicle under the stairs to the privy, holding a scroll, and wearing large reading lenses he couldn’t help but think of them as more than fancy chain wearing librarians.

“Name?” The Hooded Man asked from under his brown robes.

“Nomis, son of Under Duke Egroj, for the tournament.

The Hooded man remained motionless for a moment. “An Under Duke’s son?”

“Yes,” Nomis confirmed.

“Why do you wish to enter the tournament.”

“Why do you ask?”

“We have to see if your reasons are noble.”

Nomis frowned. “Why?”

The Hooded man sighed, annoyed to explain this for the umpteenth time. “Unlike Over Royalty, the lowers like yourself can’t truly prove their nobility from birth alone, you must share your reasoning for entering the tournament.

“Oh,” Nomis nodded. “But couldn’t a member of Over Royalty lie?”

The hooded man shuttered at the thought. “You’re reasons for competing?”

“To win the right of marriage for Ailemac and bring honor to my house,” Nomis said, putting on the voice his father always said was appropriate to use in royal gatherings and in the halls of the Temple.

“Hmm…” The Hooded man looked him over. “Fine. You understand what’s at stake here?”

Nomis nodded. “I do.”

“Very well.”

Nomis came out waving his certificate in the air as if the crowd were a million people instead of a few stragglers and a sausage vendor. He will fight and he will win, not for that posh he told the hooded man, but for the fact that he could.

III.

Weaver paused a moment to see her tapestry. The characters were in place. Nomis, the underdog protagonist, in his hand-me-down purple armor that carried nothing but his family’s sword, shield, and the honor of an Under Duke’s son. The mysterious man in black, a Marquis, Nomis’s savior from Nollid and rival in the tournament, What an exciting mystery, Weaver though. Then the mention of the shining prince Anrak, who will be quiet the character himself. All in the setting of a fighting tournament for Right of Marriage of Princess Ailimac. Weaver loved stories underdogs, mystery men, princes, and prizes, but she must not forget to include herself. Hmm…

She remembered one of her old tapestries with the story of a child born of noblewoman and peasant boy, higher and lower, and a jealous lover that was angered by the thought of the noble lowering herself to the peasant boys affections, but there was a twist, the boy was a prince was noble all along. So, the evil man, who had bought a poison, that only killed non-nobles, from a mysterious vendor, and poured the liquid into the peasant's wine, but when he didn’t die they knew he was… A twist, Weaver thought, and suddenly knew just what to make. That’ll be great.

IV.

For the first round, the fighters were separated into mini-arenas, the spectators crowded the ones with higher nobles while only stragglers, the curious and true gamblers watched the lower bouts. Nomis had some time so he decided to catch the first fight of Prince Anrak the shining sword. He found a spot atop a sausage vendors hut away from the massive crowd and watched.

Arena 5, a large barren circle with a square stage in the middle, though not as splendorous as the Grand Arena of Retsabala, was definitely one of the nicer mini-arenas. One of the hooded men from the Hall of Elders walked out and stood in the center of the square.

“Welcome citizens of Retsabala,” He said more animated than the Hooded Man Nomis met earlier, but not loudly, but with an underlying magic that allowed us all to hear. The crowd was cheering too much to wonder how, but Nomis was intrigued to experience a Hooded Man’s magic for the first time.

“We are here for one of many of the first matches of the day, but this one is special,” The crowd cheered harder. “Let us meet our fighters!”

The crowd cheered louder still.

“In this corner,” A gate opened up from the right of the arena. “We have the defeater of raiders, the destroyer of the evil orb Ybnol, the captain of the great ship Nogrog, the High Duke of Boros, Kyrneh the Golden Axe.”

A tall bald man in golden armor that glistened in the sun walked out holed an ax the size of Nillod the Grand’s stomach.

“For Retsabala,” Kyrneh yelled holding his weapon in the air to an assortment of woos and boos. The Golden Axe of Boros has always been a touchy subject in Retsabala, being of foreign birth, some call him a hero, others pirate.

“And in this corner,” The Hooded Man yelled as a gate opposite to the other opened. “We have the Sun Lion of Retsabala, the slayer of the dragon Guamseht, and heir to the throne, Over Prince Anrak.”

The Prince walked out in a heavy metal Lion mask that covered his face, but otherwise light red and gold armor, his long red hair matched his cape, but he did not walk, his shining spear and shield at his sides, like other nobles who put on the façade of properness, he walked, spear and shield at his sides, with unquestioning certainty, that he was a man who bested other men, for he was born better.

The Prince and High Duke walked to the center of the stage and the Hooded Man walked to the side. “Ready…

Kyrneh looked the unwavering Anrak up and down, to the High Duke the Prince looked small and weak. The crowd looked at Anrak and wondered how long the Prince would take to defeat the Golden Axe, and a few wondered if he even could.

“I’ll give you a chance to surrender now,” Anrak said, not threatening or bragging, but blunt, but to men like Kyrneh all talks in battle seemed like foolish gloating.

The Golden Axe smirked. “I have a question, Prince.”

“Yes?”

“If you were to win this tournament,” He yelled and pointed to the cheering crowd with his ax for emphasis. “Would you find a good husband for your beautiful sister? Or keep her for yourself?”

The crowd gasped and the Hooded Man signaled for the medics to have a gurney ready.

Prince Anrak sighed. “I resend my previous offer.”

“Good,” Kyrneh gripped his ax ready to fight.

“Begin!” The Hooded Man yelled.

Kyrneh swung his golden axe the size of a log, the axe that had slain many men: raider, soldier, and noble alike, the axe that destroyed the evil orb of Ybnol freeing the island from a thousand years of darkness, and the axe that only the High Dukes of Boros could wield that proved his heritage during Kyrneh’s formative years in the fighting pits of Boros. The warrior was already smiling, for surely after his years of trial and triumph, he would be the one to slay the shining Prince.

Kyrneh looked down to see Anrak’s glowing spear piercing his stomach. The Over Prince’s weapon was made of pure starlight, so it won’t kill Kyeneh, but he certainly isn’t getting up soon.

“Farewell,” Anrak said, removed his weapon and walked away.

“The winner is Anrak,” The Hooded Man yelled, but the crowd was already cheering. Nomis, on the other hand, was solemn as a rock, if he was going to win this, he will probably have to face the Prince, or something much worse.

“Hey,” A voice came from below Nomis. “Get down from their!”

The sausage vendor had come out to see what was making the racket on his roof and he shooed Nomis away with a broom. He didn’t mind, Nomis had to get to his fight anyway.

Arena fifty-seven, the arena which Nomis was assigned to for his first bout, was not as big or nice as the arena the Prince and Kytneh fought in, in fact, the grass circle was muddy and the square stage was made of wood instead of stone, but the place was an arena for the songs in Nomis’s eyes and he was ready to fight. The crowd was scarce and the bald announcer wasn’t even a Hooded Man, but Nomis had sword and shield ready.

“In this corner,” The announcer yelled to the crowd of five. “We have Nomis son of an Under Duke.”

Nomis waved his sword to the small gathering, but he was no shining Prince and got little more than a few claps.

“And in this corner we have—

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the pipsqueak,” Nillod the Grand walked to the opposite side of the ring. “Don’t have your Marquis to protect you this time.”

“I don’t need him,” Nomis said.

After the announcer yelled begin they fought like dogs over the last piece of meat. Nomis was no shining Prince, but he wasn’t shabby either, he parried, blacked and dodged Nillod’s mace and ax continuously and the man’s grandness began to sweat like it did when the Marquis’s rapier was to his throat.

“Gravity rush,” Nillod yelled, and almost everyone, the crowd, and announcer, in the vicinity, fell to the ground. Nomis could feel that a spell was cast.

Nillod laughed. “Didn’t know we could use magic, did you? That’s my gravity spell so now you can’t—

Nomis knocked both of Nillod’s mace and the ax to the ground with a swiftness like before as if the enhanced gravity didn’t affect him at all.

Nomis then held his short sword to Nollid’s throat. “Yield.”

“Mercy?” Nollid said. “I would rather—

Nomis knocked him out with his shield and Nollid fell to the ground. Nomis did not have time for a fool’s rantings, he had a tournament to win.