Sweat stings my eyes. I huff to blow it away, but only fill my helmet with more heat. The cheering crowd creates a low metallic hum in my ears. I wish I could take this metal obstruction off, but tournament rules stand and I’m the prince of Earthenwood.

I wave at the onlookers surrounding the wooden barricades of the arena. A humid breeze kicks up dust and hay from the field. The Great Forest stretches out behind the crowd. I salute the covered pavilion where nobles and royalty watch the games on raised seats. Banners from across the kingdoms wave in the breeze, heralding the contestants. The banner next to mine is embroidered with a dark cloud and a bright blue feather I have never seen before. My next opponent must be a newcomer and a rather good one.

I search past the banners for pale blue hair with lavender ends, skin as white as the snow capped mountains he sometimes calls home. I don’t see him. He should be here. Rumors of his return did not escape me. I had hoped to see him at one of my fights and this is the last one today.

Sweat beads down my back and soaks into my linen undershirt. My chain mail clinks under a cotton tunic featuring a winding Great Tree embroidered in gold and green, my family crest. The metal adds unnecessary bulk. If this were a real fight I’d much prefer relying on my senses. The chain mail, much like the tournament, is for show and to make Mother less anxious.

I stifle a yawn, even if no one can see. Tomorrow marks the tournament’s end and I have yet to feel challenged.

The cheers shift to a low rumble as my opponent takes the field. We shake hands to ensure an honorable fight. At his clutch a cold shadow races over my skin, stilling my sweat. Our eyes meet through the slits of metal helmets. His are stormy grey and empty. The cold deepens. He releases my hand and the chill falls away replaced by the heat of the midday sun.

The hairs on my neck stand. I do not look away from my opponent. A trumpet heralds the start of our fight. We draw our blunted blades. I step back making room to gauge his movements. He saunters left then tumbles right, but never topples. His feet fall heavy and random, like a drunk puppet twisting on strings.

The oddity of this man sways my confidence. I wait for him to make the first move. He rewards my patience with a broad swing of his blade. I deflect it. His shield rams into my side. I quickly regain my footing.

Jeers and hoots roll across the field melding into the steady huffs inside my helmet. I listen. My opponent shuffles in the dusty field. His body unsteady under the weight of his armor.

I raise my sword in time to catch another blow. I block his shield with mine and keep my ground. He rolls backwards, like a dancing clown.

I breathe in the noise, the salty sweat, the uncertainty. I let it fill me. The stimulation settles my nerves. I advance my blade.

Our swords meet. We roll away only to meet again. He blocks with his shield. I block with my sword. We come together and push apart in a dangerous waltz.

His blade is heavy as an ax. Swaying without purpose, or form. It makes him unpredictable and dangerous. I’ve been up against untrained fighters in previous tournaments. Their rage filled their swords. But this man is empty.

I shove his sword away with my shield. My blade grazes his chain mail ripping a hole in the storm cloud embroidered on his tunic. Cheers roar around us. He pulls away on wobbly legs. I swing and catch empty air.

He’s fast. I turn. Our shields lock together like rams. I press my weight into my stance and hold. His shield suddenly feels like a mountain weighing me down. I stumble back from the force. He doesn’t look strong enough to throw this much weight behind him.

A shadow looms over me. The gleam of a blade flashes towards my head. I dodge, and pull my shield out from under his. My opponent stumbles forward, dragged by the weight of his swing. I step around him and shove with my elbow. He manages to slip away before impact. I swing my sword at his head. His helmet clatters to the ground.

The crowd is thunderous. The wooden barricades creak from their force.

My opponent stumbles and sways like a top. Blade drawn. He barrels into me, knocking my shield from my hand.

I fake a swing to his right. He rushes in with his sword. I grab his wrist and pull him to me. He tugs against my grip. I press into his tendons. His sword falls from his hand. My opponent struggles in my grasp. I tighten my grip. He rams his head into my chin. The force sends stars through my vision. My helmet falls.

I flinch in the brightness of the sun and the chaos of the noise.

He shoves against my chest, knocking me off balance. His hand twists in mine and our holds switch. His gloved hand presses into my tendons. He pulls me to him. His head comes next to mine. His hollow voice hisses above the noise.

“Lilith has risen! Earthenwood falls with you, young prince.”

Lilith? My thoughts storm. I break away, but it’s too late. My gut burns like a hot poker is twisting inside. I glance down at my abdomen. The hilt of a small dagger is lodged firmly through my chain mail.

This is a tournament of honor, not death.

Cold numbness fills my stomach and creeps past my wrists. I no longer feel my grip on my sword. A few guardsmen enter the field. I raise my sword signaling them to halt. If they interfere I forfeit the tournament. If they interfere, this man, with no regard for tournament rules could attack them too.

I keep a hand on the dagger, hiding it from view and securing it from causing further damage to my organs. Lesser men have bled out after pulling blades from wounds. I am not a lesser man.

My opponent scrambles away. I swing an unsteady blade and manage to land two blows as he attempts escape. He falls to the ground. The crowd erupts in applause.

I can’t feel my toes or the bottoms of my feet. Sweat falls into my eyes. My skin chills. Brown and gray spots cloud the edge of my vision. The man huffs and squirms in the dirt. I shove my full weight at him pinning him against the ground with my knees.

The rage in his bloodshot eyes shows no sign of surrender.

Creeping numbness and fear shiver through me. He has to surrender or I need to knock him out to end the fight and maintain my status as champion.

I push my knees into his chest. His face contorts with pain. His body convulses. My legs are numb. I can’t feel the dagger in my gut or my hand that I hope still holds it steady. I slump forward. He heaves and coughs under me. The whites of his eyes glow with unnatural light. Black blood drips down his chin.

Magic, I am almost certain.

The noise of the crowd slows.

The advancing guards slow.

My breath slows.

My heart slows.

Every.

Thing.

Slows.

A cloud of dizziness swirls my senses. My sword is in my grasp, though I no longer feel its weight. I force my arm up above the man’s head. My elbow tingles. I strain against the oncoming darkness. Aim for the top of his head. Drop the pommel. And hope I don’t actually kill him.

His eyes roll back at the impact and he goes still.

I lodge my sword into the dirt and pull myself up against it. I pull, but my body is heavy. My legs refuse to get under me. Cheers rush like waves against the beats of my slowing heart. I swing my arm, hoping it settles their minds.

Trumpets pound through my head. The fight has ended or an alarm has been sounded. I can’t tell.

I slip off my sword and roll to the earth onto my back. Dust clouds around me as guardsmen race to my side. I gasp for air that seems to be gone before I can catch it. My vision grows dark like the skies overhead.

Thank the Phoenix Styre didn’t see this pathetic display, I think before silence and darkness overtake me.