**TW: Bullying, Violence. See author’s comment for chapter summary.**

Far across the other side of the barracks, Lieutenant Mevralls found himself bristling at the unwelcome party of priests and soldiers begging for admittance to their facilities again. They’d been banging on the heavy gates off and on since dawn, and he’d had to discourage their return twice today already. If Jaycen had said it once, he’d said it a thousand times that the Solanai weren’t interested in partnering with the holy house in any capacity, let alone to help them find some “illegal ether user.”

The honorable high cleric, Lord Vythorne himself, had sent yet another missive requesting entry into the barracks in hopes of locating some “degenerate filth” that had been detected lately in Merchant’s Quarter. As the barracks were the only large structure between both Merchant’s Quarter and Cheapside, it was perfectly reasonable in Vythorne’s opinion to search high and low for the criminal.

“But sir, we do beseech you,” a balding priest wearing crisp linen vestments with fine gilded trim beckoned. “It’s our esteemed lord’s opinion that there is still a Deceiver lurking among us. We’re asking for the help of your—order—to ensure her speedy capture.”

“And I say again that you’ve no right nor privilege to enter this camp under any circumstances,” Lieutenant Mevralls snarled back at the demanding priest. He’d long since tired of these self-righteous “bastions of faith” knocking at their wooden gates and demanding favors from the Solanai. They knew better than to bother the Dark Army, and yet, here they were again, with hands out and demands freely falling from wagging tongues. “Now, get out of here before I fetch the major…”

That did it. The holy priest’s face blanched at the mention of Tazanni Barshaw. He was old enough to remember the early days of the First Territory Wars, and how much damage the woman had left in her wake. There were patches of soil outside the High Walls that were still stained with blood where the Dark Army had scoured the lands and poisoned them until no crops would grow there. Instead of protesting further, his holiness opened and shut his mouth repeatedly without a voice to try and come up with a retort, but turned away with his soldiers when none came to mind.

Finally, Lieutenant Mevralls sighed to himself, I thought they’d never leave. Bloody Vythorne, sending more of his mangy hounds…

The lieutenant’s relief didn’t last, however, when he noticed a growing number of off-duty soldiers and initiates gravitating towards the center of the camp. This impromptu assembly of men and women was heading straight for the bright light of the training circle, and their growing numbers piqued his curiosity. Mevralls managed to grab a passing Outsider’s jacket as he strode by and stopped the initiate to ask what was going on.

“A fight, sir. An absolute blowout, but the sounds of it,” the initiate replied. “They said that one of the officers is beating some half-breed outcast to tatters in there.”

Lieutenant Mevralls gasped as he recognized the lateness of the hour. He was supposed to meet Khazmine at the training circle almost fifteen minutes ago now but was distracted by the untimely arrival of those insufferable priests. A rush of air filled his lungs as panic set in. In a flash, Mevralls charged off to the training circle at his best speed to save the young etherling from annihilation.

---

Pain, fear, and a ghastly ringing in her ears—that’s all Khazmine could feel under Mister Hallem’s oppressive shroud of darkness. Every time the outcast moved, a new source of agony was discovered, from battered limbs to a shattered rib. Each move also broadcast her position to this unseen enemy, who used her shaky footsteps to reacquire her position within the shroud. Khazmine tried to steady her ragged breathing and minimize any noises she made, but it was useless. Mister Hallem pressed every advantage and punished every opportunity with unrelenting cruelty.

Even without moving, Hallem could still acquire her position somehow. It was a horrifically unfair match, and yet he continued to bash the outcast repeatedly with the hard wooden practice sword. Another blow caught the backs of her legs and nearly forced poor Khazmine to topple over from the stinging strike.

Come on, d*mmit. Figure it out. Khazmine wracked her brain silently to determine just how Hallem was able to maintain his fixed certainty of her position within the shroud. Another flurry of strikes sliced the air directly in front of the outcast, barely missing her battered body by inches. FOCUS, d*mn you.

A volley of blows coming too close for comfort merely fueled the outcast’s rage. Khazmine had prided herself on her ability to slip past prior foes with great stealth, but her tactics were ineffective against Mister Hallem. Even gritting her teeth was enough of a siren’s song to lure the brutal tyrant close enough to strike the young outcast. Despite his repeated hits, she simply couldn’t allow Hallem to beat her to a pulp without a fight.

“Have you had enough, half-breed?” Hallem taunted from the shadows, clearly satisfied with how mangled his target must be by now. Khazmine sneered at his self-assured attitude and narrowed her eyes at the only benefit his comment had provided. By speaking within the shroud, Hallem had given away his position, illustrating how unconcerned he was with being struck by the outcast’s blunted ironwood blade.

It's now or never, the half-breed clenched her jaw and pressed the only opening she’d had for the entire match. Calling on the meager store of ether that a relaxing meal with Lieutenant Mevralls had earned her, Khazmine sprung high into the air and towards her target with a fierce determination to rend her tormentor. A bracing spike of pain shot through her entire body as Khazmine’s broken rib made an insistent plea for her not to strike. One hit, just one d*mned hit, is all you've got.

*CRACK!*

“AHHH! You lousy mongrel!” Hallem screamed at having been taken by surprise from above. “When I get my hands on you…”

Khazmine’s sword had bashed into Mister Hallem’s shoulder, sending splinters of ancient ironwood in all directions on impact. If it weren’t for his fancy armor, Khazmine could have fragmented his bones then and there.

Shocks of agony radiated around Khazmine’s torso when she landed away from Mister Hallem. The rib he’d obliterated with repeated blows demanded immediate attention, and each breath Khazmine took came with a painful reminder of that fact. Wheezing and dripping with sweat, Khazmine’s balance weakened, and she jolted to avoid crashing to the ground below.

Hold on. You have to hold on, Khazmine thought to herself as she struggled to remain conscious. She clenched the hilt of her practice sword tight enough for her knuckles to turn white and braced for another attack. You can’t pass out now. He’ll kill you, and not one of these miserable b*stards will pay your fare to the Great Hereafter…

Something inside of the half-breed warned her to duck an impending strike, and Hallem’s blade sliced through the darkness again, narrowly missing her head. She didn’t have many more dodges left in her pummeled body, and tried in vain to make peace with the notion that this was her last day under the warmth of the twin suns.

Exhausted and badly beaten, Khazmine thrust her sword into a soft patch on the dried ground of the training circle to prop herself up. For a brief moment, the ringing in her ears quieted enough for Khazmine to hear the garbled pleas of some distant voice urge the outcast to do something, but she couldn’t make out what they’d said.

---

High above on the steps of an overlooking perch, Lieutenant Mevralls gave up on screaming to warn Khazmine of another barrage from Mister Hallem. His voice was scratchy and hoarse from trying to carry over the sounds of cheering onlookers and battle noises from within Hallem’s shroud. Once more, the lieutenant scaled higher up on the wooden stairs to reach the summit and finally met the only other person who could help.

“Major, PLEASE! DO SOMETHING!” Lieutenant Mevralls begged for her to hear his desperate appeal. He’d managed to race all the way to the upstairs observation deck of the training circle, only to find his superior officer standing there with crossed arms and an unflappable countenance. “Don’t you have a shred of decency? He’s going to kill her!”

Another thunderous crack fanned out from the darkened training circle as the initiates winced from the force of another strike. Lieutenant Mevralls snapped his head towards the sound and sent another ether spike to ping the circle for insight. Each ether spike sent an “echo” of the darkened battlefield, much the same way a Fordaad Island cave bat would click to navigate the dark recesses of its home. A returning echo gave the lieutenant a complete blueprint of the training circle for a fraction of a second.

There were two spirits inside, one malevolent, one dwindling, and he didn’t need to guess which belonged to his pupil. He could sense that neither one of them had dropped their weapons, and therefore, no one had conceded the fight.

Oh gods, Mevralls realized as horror seeped into his expression. You won’t intervene, will you? You’ll just let her die down there… His viridian eyes boggled at the senselessness of the whole affair, and he swallowed hard as the major deigned to look down on him. Her pained, narrowed eyes told the lieutenant that this was a fight that the outcast consented to, and she had no right to interfere, at least, not until Khazmine conceded the match.

That’s it! That’s why… Lieutenant Mevralls finally pieced together the whole puzzle. Khazmine had pulled a sword from the Challenger’s Rack without knowing what it meant. He knew, all too well, that any soldier, at any time, could draw a sword from the red rack and consent to take on a challenger, regardless of rank. And Hallem knew it too. The difference was that Mister Hallem was too barbaric and ruthless to inform the outcast what she’d be signing on for.

No one but the “approved” challengers would be permitted inside the circle until a fighter conceded or one of the combatants died. And Khazmine didn’t know that all she’d have to do to surrender was drop her sword, and the training circle would nullify any ether inside to stop the match immediately. Instead, she clung to the blasted weapon for dear life, unaware that its release was her only salvation.

“It’s not a fair match!” Mevralls found his voice again. “Major, the half-breed can’t concede! SHE DOESN’T KNOW THE RULES!”

Another ping returned unexpectedly from Lieutenant Mevralls’s ether spike, forcing the air out of him like a kick to the chest. If what he “saw” was true, Hallem had Khazmine by the hair, and was dragging her limp body around the arena, throwing her to the ground to force her to yield. The returning spike warned of fading signs of life, and that a healer would be needed immediately if there was any hope of the outcast surviving. Mevralls was about to shoot one last desperate plea to the major, but he was too late for a final appeal.

Major Barshaw was already dropping from the observation deck with a pillow of ether underfoot to soften her heavy fall. An ether storm raged in all directions as she made landfall, threatening to break the borders of the training circle’s containment grid. The crowd of soldiers around her dispersed in a panic as Major Barshaw sprinted to the Challenge Rack with resounding footfalls that kicked up dust and grit as she dashed forth.

As soon as another sword was drawn from the rack, the training circle’s illuminated borders flashed an intensely bright red light in all directions, signifying another challenger entering the arena. Mister Hallem was too invested in his current pleasures to pay much heed to his surroundings and was unaware of the imminent consequences of prioritizing inflicting pain on poor Khazmine.

“There now, filth,” Mister Hallem oozed his hateful speech inches away from Khazmine’s face as he tugged her head closer to his. He’d allowed the half-breed to drop to her knees, but he couldn’t get her to drop her weapon, no matter how hard he tried. A quick glance told him that she was too badly beaten to even lift the ironwood blade anymore, yet she still defied him. “I say it’s about time we end this little spar.”

Still only a feather’s length away from Hallem’s ugly mug, Khazmine felt the warm dance of tears cascade down each cheek before she launched a mouthful of spit at the wretched human’s smug face. If this was truly the end, then Khazmine’s last act was to be one of defiance, and Mister Hallem would know that he could snuff out her miserable life, but he’d never break her spirit.

The sensations of the world around her faded as Khazmine’s mind reeled and readied for release. Some heavy force or pressure squeezed around the shattered half-breed like a great hug, comforting the outcast with unexpected warmth and gentleness. She slumped over, sword still in hand, unaware of the savage retribution taking place overhead.