The rest of the contests went as I expected. This would be the only round of the Choosing where at least one of us wasn’t guaranteed to exit the competition.

Gideon did well. He was the grandson of a Griidlord and came to the arena wrapped in great expectations. He did not disappoint. Like the others, none could describe his movements as easy of natural, but he was so much surer than I had been. Gideon attacked his fiend with more aggression than anyone else. Oh, he had his misses, like the rest of us, but he backed this thing up and skewered it on his fourth attemp.

The surprise of the series was Katya, the quiet foreigner who had regarded me quietly as the others openly scorned me. She was an actual princess from Miami, the sixth or seventh daughter of the Queen. With no hope of inheriting anything of substance there and with no immediate prospects of becoming a Griidlord for her home city,, she had traveled for the Choosing. We had all assumed her presence in the Choosing was due to her royal connections, but she quickly made it clear that it wasn’t entirely a result of politics. She was lithe and quick, quickly announcing herself as a true contender.

After the contests had finished, and the priests and bishop had lectured endlessly, I wandered away from the arena. The towering stone walls loomed ahead, casting long shadows across the landscape.

The others climbed aboard carriages to leave for their homes in the countryside, or were joined by retinues to return to their lodgings. I walked by myself. I was not alone. I had glimpsed Zeb as I descended the steps. He was always there, watching me. Father had invested too much in me, and too many were too displeased by my presence in The Choosing, for me to go unguarded. Zeb disappeared into the shadows. He didn’t creep or leap, the big man in the dark cloak just walked, with a detached ease, and yet something about his movement seemed to lose eyes that tried to follow him.

Even when I couldn’t see him, I knew he was lurking nearby.

At first, I passed hovels, their inhabitants peering out with curious eyes. Men plowed fields near the walls with horses, their muscles straining with the effort, the rich earth turning under the blades. The evening air was filled with moist living smell of the damp soil. The clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed through the air, rhythmic and steady.

Even as I walked with a distracted mind, my lungs were filled with the cool air, and the scents of the evening grounded me. The wet living scent of the fresh soil, the dying wispy smell of smoke from forges and fires, the enticing aromas of evening meals, all combined to remind me that there was life beyond the arena as well.

I walked past a group of men gathered around a wagon. They were hard working me, they hands black with dirt, their clothes rough and worn. They were discussing the day's work in low, gruff tones. One of them glanced up as I passed, his eyes narrowing in recognition before he returned to his conversation. His recognition was a reminder that even here, in this remote part of Boston, my presence as a contestant in the Choosing was known. I wasn’t anonymous.

As I neared the walls, the Tower of Boston filled more and more of my vision, took more and more of my attention. It bloomed far away, rising above the roofs of the buildings around it. It loomed above the city like a sentinel, its dark surface glistening in the fading light. The sight always seemed to take my breath. I had been looking at that structure for as long as I could remember, but the thing never seemed to be quite a part of reality.

The Tower was the heart of our power. It was the source of our city’s strength. And, ultimately, it was the reason for my struggles to exist.

As I walked through the streets, the contrast between the main cobbled way and the branching dirt paths was stark. The people here were poor, living in the outer sector where the Order was low almost all of the time, especially with Boston's recent struggles. The houses were small. Their walls were often dirt. Many a roof looked unmaintained, or patched. The paths weren’t paved. When it rained the ground would be slick and everything mud-stained.

It occurs to me that I don’t know in what era these words will be read. I have no idea how my plans will unfold or what the state of the world will be like as you read this. Maybe I should spare a few words to explain Order and Entropy in this world, in this time.

The world is cast under a pall of entropy, a pervasive chaos that adds a hard-to-define randomness to the movement of every particle, every mechanism. In most circumstances, technology simply doesn't function here. For example, where I walked at that moment, in the outer sector of the city, a pistol wouldn't fire, a calculator wouldn't even power on. In these realms of lowest Order, man was limited to the technology powered by muscle, wind, and fire. In battle, he would use nothing more sophisticated than a sword or a bow; even a crossbow would be unreliable. Order existed in incremental levels, this was simply the lowest level, but also the most common in the land.

As I walked, I approached the gates that divided this sector from the next. Evidence of the higher Order became apparent. Here, gas lamps lit the streets. Machinery announced itself from far corners, the puttering of steam engines gasping into the night. The guards who walked past me carried muskets instead of swords. Life was only a little better for people here, but to afford to live here meant a great deal.

I continued walking, my mind struggling with the obvious reality that I couldn't compete with the others. I was burdened heavily with thoughts of my father's disappointment. I seethed slightly at his expectations. How could he have expected different? He might have supplied me with the finest tutors that money could buy, but did he think the nobles had done any different with their children? And had they spent their early years confined to bed, attended to by furrow-browed physicians rather than skilled trainers?

I continued up the main thoroughfare towards the gate that would lead to the next sector, the sector of highest Order outside the Tower itself. The Tower controlled the Order, lighting sectors of the realm inside the city walls and beyond with higher Order as needed. It wasn't free; the resources to control the Order were harvested from the Orbs.

I won't even start on the Orbs yet. For now, it might be enough for you to understand that the Orbs are wild resources that our city competes for with others. Griidlords fight and die to win them, the Orbs in turn giving cities the ability to utilize greater technologies for longer periods. Orbs are the true lifeblood of every Towered city on the continent. Orbs mean economic power through the functioning of factories, oil refineries, electric lights, and pumps. But they also mean military prowess. An army standing under an Order field could fire auto rifles against opponents who might have nothing but arrows to send back.

I passed through the gates to the next sector, the guards eying me with recognition and a hint of curiosity. They didn't stop me, but their scrutiny was palpable. This sector was entirely different from the one I had just left. Electric lamps lined the streets. Their light was different from the smoky yellow of the gas lamps. The hum of air conditioning units hummed from windows. Neon signs flickered and glowed, advertising everything from diners to boutiques to ice cream parlors, their colorful lights reflecting off the polished cobblestones. The motors and signs and lights all seemed to add together to add a background buzz to the sounds of the city at night.

People whizzed past on electric scooters, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Guards patrolled the streets with automatic pistols strapped to their thighs. There were more guards here by far than in either of the outer sectors. This was where the true elites dwelled, and the city allocated more resources by far to ensure their peaceful lives than the poorer folks beyond. The atmosphere was so different to the outer sector. Where the faces beyond had been worn and weary, clearly occupied with thoughts of rest, here were people excited for the night to come, their worries less and their means greater.

My father's house, my house as well I suppose, was nestled further up the hill, closer to the Tower, where few could afford to live. Few enough could afford to live in this sector in the first place; the smallest home or apartment here would cost more than a whole street in the sector behind me. Here, residents enjoyed everything that would have been on offer in the world of the 21st century, or so my learning has led me to believe. As learned as I have become since those days of my youth, my knowledge is still based on gathering scraps and ideas from that world so long gone.

As I walked, my thoughts continued to dwell on my seemingly doomed exploit to become a Griidlord. My father's exploit, really. He had trained me for years for this task, from the moment I was well enough to hold a heavy training sword, but maybe there was something to the breeding the others talked about. Maybe a Griidlord couldn't be made; maybe a Griidlord had to be born.

I approached my father's home, a splendid, opulent townhouse that stood several stories high. The house was compact in footprint but made up for it with its height and grandeur. The façade was a blend of stone and wood, intricately carved and meticulously maintained. Large windows glowed with warm light, and the front doors were adorned with ornate ironwork.

As I approached the door, it opened, and Harold, the house's leading servant, stood waiting to greet me. He must have seen me coming. My heart fell somewhat; I had hoped my father would at least greet me on the evening of my first day competing in the Choosing. But in a way, it was a relief as well. Maybe he had as little hope and excitement as I had. Maybe I could slip to my room and be asleep before he would think of me.

Harold bowed slightly and said, "Young master, you need to get dressed quickly."

I looked at him with astonishment. "Harold, are you mad? I've just come from the Choosing."

Harold raised an eyebrow. "Hmmm, did you survive the first round?"

I continued to stare at him, amazed. As outmatched as I had been, it was a slight to even consider I might fail in the first round. The first round was intended as a simple weeding for those completely incompatible with the suits and as a taster. "No, Harold, I haven't failed quite yet."

Harold seemed distracted. "Oh, very good. Hurry to your chamber then, fresh clothes have been arranged for you."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Harold, I haven't the slightest interest in getting dressed. Today was an ordeal. I intend to shower, take my supper in my room, and go to sleep at the soonest—"

Harold cut me off, his tone insistent. "Lord Morningstar is dining with us this evening."

My jaw fell slack. Morningstar, one the most feared Griidlords of the age, was in my house.