Mario stalked before us, decrying us with every step. "You, you are the best Boston has to offer? One of you thinks you’re worthy of the Oracle's gift? The Oracle deserves more than this pathetic offering. It is only through the ultimate mercy and generosity of the Oracle that you might dream that the suit won't be snatched away. Boston doesn't deserve a Sword if this is the best the city can offer. All the time you've spent practicing, training, wasting your pathetic time on mental exercises and advice from those who failed their own tests or fell from grace and had their suits returned to the source. You're pathetic, unworthy. You all forget that piety is the path to the Oracle. It is time spent in worship of the Oracle that is the path to the Oracle's favor."

Mario marched up and down before us, his eyes blazing with righteous fury. Baltizar and the bishop watched. The bishop was nodding slowly, almost mouthing Mario's words as the priest raged at us.

"A Choosing might come only once in a lifetime, might not even come that often, and you squander it! Even the best of you is a shadow compared to the least of the classes I've seen come before you."

I glanced up at the row of faces. Most of my classmates, like me, seemed to wither under his words. Even Katya, who was so detached and unflappable seemed pained. Gideon only glowered more deeply, the lines on his forehead standing out. I could see him seething. This one was all rage.

Lance alone was unaffected by the verbal assault. He watched Mario speaking with total disinterest. His eyes were unfocused, a faint smug smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Lance was above all of this nonsense. The priest’s words rolled off of him like rain on oiled cloth.

In my mind, it felt as though he was speaking just for me. It penetrated me, how true his words were. I could feel my ego fading as I struggled to deny any of it. But I looked again at Gideon. His anger had cost once already today, but here it was a shield. I would be better served with anger than fear.

As Mario continued his tirade, I clenched my fists. This endless pity I felt for myself would do me good. The excuse of a sickly childhood would not lessen the blows from my opponents. I had one chance, probably one chance in my whole life, to do this.

Looking back, I know what Mario was. He was a bully. He was a small man with an ugly personality. He lifted himself by lowering us. Then though, I didn’t understand it so well. His words streamed on. I tried to find the fire to rise above them.

I remember those feelings today, the sting of feeling lesser, unknowing, not the first or the last time a priest would make me feel that way. Are there still priests in your time? Is there still an Oracle? These are things I wish I could know, things I dream about. What would a world look like without either? If you live in a world with them, then my writing may confuse you. Ancient history suggests to me that priests, and their likes, have always been something like this.

In the distant past before the Fall, priests were mouthpieces for apparent deities, imagined magical beings as far as I can tell, entities that did not have the apparent reality of the Oracle. In my time, we could see and feel the evidence of the Oracle's existence—the Griid, the shifting tides of Entropy, the Griidlords, the Towers themselves—all came from the Oracle. The priests made their connection with the Source apparent by their ability to coax effects from it.

As time went on and my studies deepened, secret studies that would have probably seen me executed if discovered, I came to realize that the mysteries of the Oracle went far beyond the understanding of nearly all their class. They toyed on the fringes of powers beyond their comprehension, extracting effects by practicing rituals the meaning of which had been long lost to them. They held their power and status because of the vital effects of these rituals. Without the rituals, no city could survive against another.

And that was the problem.

The priests, with their limited understanding, guarded their secrets jealously, wielding their power to maintain their influence and control. They acted as gatekeepers to the Oracle’s gifts, deciding who was worthy and who was not, based on criteria that were often arbitrary and rooted in tradition rather than true insight. Their rituals, while effective, were shrouded in mystery, and any attempt to understand or question them was met with swift and severe punishment.

There was a break for lunch, and servants brought food to us. Harold had come from home, bearing a basket laden with meats, breads, and fruits. I could barely pick at them; the worry in my gut had deepened, and I could concentrate on nothing but Olaf. I needed to see him fall in the next round. I needed to abandon my tinkering with the beam and focus on winning myself, or it would all be over.

Harold watched as I poked at my food. "Young master, from what I understand, your performance leaves something to be desired. Was Lord Morningstar not of use to you last night? Did you fail to absorb his teachings? Your father will be most disappointed if you return vanquished."

I coughed, spraying crumbs. "Disappointed, Harold? Are you completely daft? If I lose today, then I would be better off not coming home at all."

Harold opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, struggling to find the words to contradict me. "Your father believes in you, Tiberius. He has invested much in your training, and it is faith in you that leads to such expectations."

"Harold, if you expect me to believe that, you're mistaken. My father wants to found a new house in the nobility. He wants to stick Baron or Earl in front of his name when he signs it. He wants to stop his betters from looking down their noses at him. It's a waste of his energy and mine. They'll never accept him; they're obsessed with their bloodlines."

"Perhaps your father would be happy to know that in generations, your family would become part of those bloodlines. By placing you in the suit of a Griidlord, he would be building a legacy that would far outlast his merchant empire."

I snorted. "You know what? You hit the nail on the head. That's what he's thinking about. Don't insult me by trying to convince me that he has faith in me. He just has a need, and I'm the one who can fill it."

As Harold packed up the lunch, mostly uneaten, I sipped water from a gold cup and stared into the dust of the arena. The outcome of these events had been taken out of my hands. I couldn't control what happened with Olaf, and if he won, it felt to me like I would be finished.

As I stared, Lauren passed near me. She paused, uncertain if she wanted to be seen talking to me. Then she said quietly, "Why don't you attack?"

"What?" I replied, my skin flushing and heart pounding, flustered by her proximity and beauty, her huge, deep eyes staring into mine.

"You can hardly expect to win a round if all you do is stand there, parrying and backing away. No opponent is going to just fall on their sword for you. I thought you'd have hunger, coming from the lower class, wanting to climb. I didn't know what to expect from your skill, but I was sure I'd see you trying harder than anyone else."

I wanted to tell her I was trying, that I was doing something different, but I couldn't find the words. She seemed to reconsider what she'd said, maybe afraid she'd been unkind. She absently said, "Well, good luck in the next round, Tiberius." Then she glided away, floating it seemed on graceful wings.

I stared after her, hating myself for not finding the words, chilled at the evidence that my performance so far hadn't inspired her. I thought back to Lance's cruel comments about not being able to touch a noblewoman like her, and I found another reason to stay in the competition. As the next rounds continued, I couldn't find a reason to care. All I could think about were my own matches and Olaf's. When my turn came, it was Lauren that was summoned to go against me. I gulped at the thought of having to strike at her.

As the helm came to rest on my head again, the voice came back, giddy. "Your beam is a 0.3. That is really remarkable, not to mention your level. That is utterly astonishing. It has been so long since I've smelled one as interesting as you."

I hissed quietly, "And you won't be smelling me for much longer. I'm a round away from being out of this thing."

The voice answered, "That's tosh. You only need to not be last. You said so yourself."

I searched my memory, unsure if I had even uttered that out loud.

The voice said, "If you master the beam, if you can bring yourself to a 1.0, then you will be able to employ something that the others here can't approach."

I scoffed, whispering, "I'll need to. I can't compete with them."

The voice paused, then shed its excited, almost mocking tone for a moment. "You don't know what you can do yet. You were born different from them."

I snorted. That much had been made very clear to me so far.

The voice said, "Keep flexing your beam."

I said urgently, "I can't keep doing that. I need a win, or I'm doomed."

As Lauren stepped her lovely, long-legged form into her suit across the circle, the voice said, "And are you going to attack her? Even if you did, do you think you're ready to bring her down? She might be the best one here."

It gave me pause. I didn't know how I was meant to raise my sword against Lauren. Already, my heart pounded at being so close to her, her attention undivided from me. The round began.

Lauren and I faced each other in the circle. She seemed to either be toying with me or holding back. I couldn't find the gusto to really go after her. After a time, I fell back into my pattern of flexing my beam muscle, parrying and backing away, more aware of the perimeter after the last round's disaster. Lauren tested me, probing with attacks that seemed to lack intensity. Did she pity me? Was she playing with me? Whatever the reason, the round went longer.

My 0.3 became a 0.4, then a 0.5. I had so much time to practice, but it felt futile. She was obviously beyond me. I had no chance of winning this round, so if Olaf won his, then I would be essentially finished.

Lance suddenly shouted, "Come on, Lauren, stop playing with your food. There are others here waiting their chance to up their numbers."

Mario immediately hissed at him to be quiet.

The voice said, "You're doing it! You're doing it! If she keeps this pace up, you'll have the beam at your disposal, and that will be your path to beating her."

Lauren seemed to either lose patience or take fire from Lance's words, because her attacks became more insistent. I redoubled my efforts, barely defending myself, concentrating on making the digits go up. I rose to a 0.6, a 0.7.

Then Lauren's attacks became truly pressing, and I needed every wit I had to defend myself. Unconsciously, I kept flexing my beam muscle out of habit as I defended myself, but in another minute, she had dismantled my defenses, methodically and with ease, finishing me with a spearing thrust that hit me in the chest, sending me spinning to the dust. I landed on my face, tasting the arena floor.

My spirit was broken as the other fights continued. As the last fight began, Theo, Lance, Emilia, and Katya won their rounds, leaving only Gideon and Olaf to face off. My enthusiasm lifted a little; Olaf would have no chance against Gideon, so at least we would both enter the final round on zero wins, which meant I still had a chance.

Gideon and Olaf stepped into the circle. There was less interest in this fight. After me, Olaf had shown the least aptitude. There was no expectation that we would see a good fight here. Olaf one of the worst, Gideon one of the best.

Olaf played Gideon as he had played Katya; passively. He let Gideon dictate the pace and flow of the fight, working only to defend himself. Once Olaf seemed to panic and lunge at Gideon. But Gideon was in control. His whole form rippled with restrained anger. But he was in control of it. He parried Olaf easily and struck him in the chest.

The kinetic impact would have floored any of the rest of us. But Olaf was bigger. His body absorbed the blow. He staggered back, but kept his feet. I watched as he only barely kept his boots inside the ring.

I needed Olaf to lose this. If only one of us were to be eliminated today, then it would be or him.

Gideon attempted an ambitious lunge. He had Olaf on the ropes and he let loose the reigns of his aggression. He surged at the bigger man. But his feet betrayed him. I’m sure that he would have been perfect outside of the suit. But his feet, unsure of their movements in the suit, tangled. We all gasped as Gideon tried to recover, but his momentum carried him forward. Olaf turned his body, just sidestepping the staggering lunge, and like that, Gideon was outside the circle.

Mario's voice rang out. "MATCH!"

My heart completely fell out of me. Olaf had won. I was finished.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. Olaf would have a score in the win column. I was essentially beaten.