"I need a boat to get out of the city without being seen."

Rook looked up from the ledger she'd been examining, one eyebrow rising toward her hairline. She closed the book with deliberate care and studied Morgana across the cluttered desk.

"We provide information," she said mildly. "Not boat-lending services."

The Copper Lantern was quieter during early daylight hours. A few patrons nursed drinks in shadowy corners, conducting business in hushed tones. Morning sunlight filtered through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes and the smoke from Rook's pipe.

"I know that," Morgana said. "I need information on who to contact for an extraction. Someone reliable, who can move at a moment's notice. Once I've done what I need to do, I'll need fast transport to Karsova."

"Karsova?" Rook rolled the word around her mouth like she was tasting it. "The port city on the edge of the Free Territories? Interesting choice."

She tapped her pipe against the side of an empty cup, knocking loose ash.

"What you're planning is a bad idea."

"Do you have a better one?" Morgana leaned forward. "I saw him, Rook. I saw what they've done to him."

"And?"

"And I need to get him out."

Rook snorted. "Buy him, you mean? With what? The Fallen Star brings in more gold for Thorne than any ten fighters combined. The man wouldn't sell him for all the riches in Sundar."

"I don't need to buy him." Morgana's fingers drummed against the wooden desk. "I just need access to him. I need to let him see me, recognize me. He'll do the rest."

Rook gave her a flat look. "You've grown into a pretty woman, I'll grant you that. But do you honestly think any level of beauty could make a man just decide to—"

"It's not about beauty," Morgana cut in. "It's about hope."

She explained what she'd seen in the arena. How Bedivere's Fluid had flickered and dimmed. How the source of his power had been hope, and how that hope had been all but extinguished.

"When I called his name—his real name—something changed. Just for a moment, but I saw it. He remembered who he was."

"And who is he to you?" Rook asked. "Really? Not just your father's right hand."

"He was like an uncle to me," Morgana said softly. "When my mother died, he was the one who sat with me at night when I couldn't sleep. Told me stories about the old wars, about my grandfather. He taught me how to ride a horse, how to hold a sword." She looked up. "And he was there the night my father was murdered."

"What exactly are your intentions here, Princess? What's the plan, long-term?"

Morgana didn't flinch at the title. "Vengeance. I'm going to kill the Sundarian Emperor for what he did to my father."

Rook stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair. It creaked under her weight. Finally, she nodded.

"Sure."

"Really?" Morgana blinked.

"Why not?" Rook reached into a drawer and pulled out a small wooden box, intricately carved with symbols Morgana didn't recognize. "You know, when I was young, my parents raised me to believe in something - someone - they called the Architect. Some chosen one who would appear and restore some semblance of balance to the world."

She opened the box, revealing a small pendant—a stylized compass rose made of tarnished silver.

"My parents were part of a group called the Order. Used to be they actually tried to make the world better. Help people, spread knowledge. Then they got obsessed with prophecies and signs and politics and power." She picked up the pendant, letting it dangle from her fingers. "I'm forty-three now, and there's still no Architect."

Her eyes fixed on Morgana's. "So I figure, why wait for someone else to fix things? Take your goddamn destiny in your own hands. You want vengeance? Go get it."

She tucked the pendant back in the box. "I've got contacts in the harbor district. Smugglers who can move you out on short notice. It'll cost you, but they're reliable. Won't ask questions."

"I can pay."

"I'll reach out to them." Rook closed the box with a snap. "They'll be ready when you need them."

Morgana studied her. "I didn't take you for the religious type."

Rook chuckled. "I'm not, not really. My parents were true believers, but the Order lost its way long before I was born. Started hoarding knowledge instead of sharing it. Started believing their prophecies more than the evidence in front of their eyes."

She shrugged. "For a while I believed what they taught me—that this Architect would come and usher in a new era of peace and understanding. Used to dream about being there when it happened."

She gestured at the tavern around them. "Now I deal in information and survival. Less disappointing than waiting for saviors who never show up."

"And the pendant?"

"Sentiment," Rook said, tucking the box away. "Not faith. Now, about getting you access to The Fallen Star..."

*****

Morgana stepped out of the Copper Lantern, sighing deeply. The folder with Bedivere's information felt heavy in her hand. Getting to him was one thing. Getting him out of the city afterward--especially with Thorne's men hunting them--was another challenge entirely.

A wyvern screeched overhead, its wings casting a momentary shadow over the narrow street. One of the city guards rode on its back, scanning the crowds below. The beast's long neck stretched forward as it banked sharply around a tower.

"Even with a boat," she muttered to herself, "how do you hide from those?"

She needed a distraction. Something big enough to occupy the entire city guard while she smuggled a famous gladiator to the docks. But what?

The murmuring caught her attention first--hushed voices and a poorly concealed "Shhh!" from her right. She turned to see two familiar figures huddled in the shadow of a nearby alley.

Raz and Kafi.

The brothers were watching her, heads bent together in urgent conversation.

"I think she saw us," Kafi hissed, not nearly as quietly as he thought.

"Act natural," Raz replied, straightening up and smoothing his vest. "Pretend we're just... discussing business."

"That is opposite of natural."

Morgana studied them for a moment, head tilted. Then, slowly, an idea began to take shape. Two locals who knew the city inside and out. Who clearly needed money. Who had already proven resourceful, if annoying.

She approached them, and Raz immediately stood, a practiced smile spreading across his face.

"The lady returns!" he said with an exaggerated bow. "How may we be of service this fine day?"

"Is this where you live," Morgana asked flatly, "or are you following me?"

Kafi glanced at his brother, who answered smoothly, "We decided to camp here. Thought you might return and need our services again."

"How very... entrepreneurial of you."

"We prefer 'strategically positioned,'" Raz replied with a wink.

"And how did you know I'd need your services?"

Raz gestured toward the Copper Lantern. "People who walk out of that place generally need helping hands afterward. For things they might be planning to do."

"Breaking things, stealing things, killing things," Kafi added helpfully, ticking points off on his fingers. "Sometimes hiding dead bodies."

"Kafi," his brother warned.

"What? Is true."

Raz shot his brother an exasperated look before turning back to Morgana. "What my tactless brother means is that we offer a variety of specialized services to discerning clients. Navigation, acquisition, negotiation... discretion."

His eyes traveled down her form appreciatively. "Though I should note that personal companionship would be at no charge in your case."

"Raz!" Kafi elbowed his brother hard in the ribs. "Stop hitting on clients!"

"I'm not your client," Morgana said.

Raz's grin widened. "Not yet."

She studied them both silently for a moment. The younger boy, eager and quick-witted. The older one, trying too hard to be charming while hiding something harder beneath the surface.

"Why do you do this?" she asked finally.

"Do what?" Raz seemed genuinely confused.

"This." She gestured between them. "Following strangers, offering 'specialized services.' Why not find honest work?"

The brothers exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them.

"You're not from Vethia," Raz said, all pretense of charm suddenly gone. "So let me explain how this city works. There are three kinds of people here: those who own things, those who serve the ones who own things, and those who take things."

"We the fourth kind," Kafi piped up.

"Which is?"

"Survivors," Raz said simply. "Our father died when pirates attacked his merchant ship eight years ago. Mother lasted until the Blue Plague swept through the lower city. Authorities sealed off the district--wouldn't let anyone out, wouldn't send help in. Said it was to 'contain the contagion.'"

"Half the lower city died," Kafi added, his usual energy subdued. "Other half... you learn fast when no one coming to help."

Raz leaned against the alley wall, arms crossed. "So to answer your question: honest work? You mean like in the shipyards, where men drop dead from exhaustion after fifteen-hour shifts? Or the tanneries, where the chemicals eat your lungs by the time you're thirty? Or maybe the pleasure houses, where--"

"I understand," Morgana cut him off.

"Do you?" Raz's eyes hardened. "This city takes everything it can from people like us. So we take back what we need to survive. And if that means following rich-looking foreigners who might pay for our 'services,' then that's what we do."

"We saving up," Kafi said earnestly. "One day, have enough to leave. Go somewhere better."

"Where?" Morgana asked.

Raz shrugged. "Does it matter? Anywhere but here."

There was something raw and honest in his voice that resonated with Morgana. For all his practiced charm and swagger, when it came down to it, Raz was just trying to protect his little brother in a city that would devour them both given half a chance.

She made her decision.

"I need to create a distraction," she said. "Something big enough to occupy the city guard while I... take care of some business."

The brothers exchanged another look. Raz's expression shifted from surprise to calculation in an instant.

"What kind of distraction are we talking about?" he asked cautiously.

"The kind that doesn't harm innocent people," Morgana clarified quickly. "But does keep eyes looking in one direction while I move in another."

"And what's the payout?" Kafi asked bluntly.

Raz cuffed him lightly on the head. "What my brother means to ask is what compensation you're offering for such specialized assistance."

Morgana named a figure that made both brothers' eyes widen.

"Half now, half when the job is done," she added.

"And what exactly is the job?" Raz asked, his interest clearly piqued despite his efforts to appear casual.

"I need to get someone out of the fighting pits. Then out of the city."

"Someone... from the pits?" Raz's eyebrows shot up. "You mean a slave? A gladiator?"

"Yes."

"Which one?"

"Does it matter?"

"Considerably," Raz said. "Some are worth more than others. Some have better security. Some have owners who are more... vindictive... than others."

Morgana hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it. "The Fallen Star."

Kafi gasped. Raz let out a low whistle.

"Thorne's prize fighter?" Raz shook his head. "Are you insane? Do you have any idea what he'd do to anyone who touched his property?"

"I don't care."

"Well, you should. Because Thorne doesn't just kill people who cross him. He makes examples of them. Public, messy examples." Raz's voice had lost all its flirtatiousness. "We've seen what happens to people who steal from Thorne."

"I'm not stealing," Morgana said. "I'm liberating."

"Tell that to the man who'll be skinning you alive." Raz ran a hand through his hair. "Look, lady, I appreciate the offer. That's a lot of coin. But what you're talking about isn't just risky--it's suicide."

"Then I'll find someone else."

She turned to leave, but Raz caught her arm. Unlike the man at the tavern, his touch was light, almost hesitant.

"Why?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. "Why risk everything for a fighter? He probably killed dozens in that arena. What's he to you?"

Morgana looked down at his hand until he removed it.

"That's my business."

"If you're hiring us, it becomes our business too," Raz insisted. "I need to know what we're really getting into. Is this personal? Political? Are you working for someone?"

For a long moment, Morgana considered walking away. But something in Raz's eyes--the wariness of someone who'd been used and discarded before--made her decide to give him at least part of the truth.

"He saved my life once," she said softly. "A long time ago. I owe him."

The brothers exchanged a glance.

"Family?" Kafi asked.

"Not by blood," Morgana replied. "But yes, in the ways that matter."

Raz studied her, something shifting in his expression. Then he sighed heavily. "Double the price you offered. And we need specifics. When, where, how long the distraction needs to last."

"So you'll help?"

"Against my better judgment." He grimaced. "But it beats huddling in alleys waiting for rich tourists to get lost."

"I'm not a tourist."

"Whatever you say, lady." Raz grinned suddenly, his charm slipping back into place like a well-worn mask. "Now, about that payment..."

"But how exactly are you planning to do this?" Morgana asked, crossing her arms. "What kind of distraction could possibly occupy an entire city guard?"

Raz glanced at his brother, then turned back to her with a confident smile. "The bell."

Morgana waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she raised an eyebrow. "And?"

He looked at her like she was missing something obvious.

"And what?" she prompted.

Raz sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The Grand Bell in the Sentinel Tower. It only rings for three things: royal births, invasions, or fire in the market district."

"Bell very loud," Kafi added helpfully. "Whole city hear."

"When that bell rings," Raz continued, "the entire guard mobilizes. It's protocol. They seal the gates, establish perimeter zones, and sweep the city sector by sector."

"But there won't actually be a fire," Morgana said.

"No. There will be smoke. Lots of it." Raz's eyes gleamed. "We have a compound that produces thick black smoke but minimal flame. Set it off in three locations around the market district, and every guard in the city will be too busy evacuating merchants and protecting goods to notice one gladiator slipping away."

"Meanwhile," Kafi said, bouncing on his toes, "west gate guards always check smoke from tower. Position always empty for three, maybe four minutes."

"That's our window," Raz finished. "Get the Fallen Star, we move through the west gate during the confusion, reach the harbor before they realize what's happening."

Morgana nodded slowly. "And by the time they've determined there's no actual threat, we'll be on the water."

"Exactly. We'll already be far away."

Morgana glanced between the brothers. "Why can you speak Imperial so well when your brother can't?"

Kafi shrugged. "Not enough practice. Not many Sundarians talk to street boy like me."

"I made sure he learned the local trade languages first," Raz explained. "More useful in the docks and markets. As for me..." He grinned. "I spent two years working as a translator for a Sundarian merchant. Before he tried to cheat me and I relieved him of his purse."

"Imperial language will come with time," Kafi said confidently. "Already learning more words each day."

"He picks up languages quickly," Raz added with pride. "Just needs more people to practice with."

"I like it," Morgana said, returning to their plan. "But there's one problem. What's this 'we' you keep mentioning? I'm leaving with the Fallen Star. Just the two of us."

Raz barked out a laugh. "You think we're just going to set this up and stay behind? Do you have any idea what happens to people who ring that bell without cause?"

"They make examples," Kafi said solemnly. "Public examples."

"This isn't just stealing from a merchant or picking a noble's pocket," Raz continued. "You're putting the entire capital of a kingdom on emergency alert. People will lose business. Ships will be delayed. Goods will spoil. And someone will have to pay for that."

He leaned in closer. "Anyone connected to this will be hunted. That includes us."

"So that's your price? Passage out of the city?"

"That's the second half of our payment," Raz said. "The coin you promised, plus two spots on that boat."

Morgana considered this. The brothers were right—anyone involved in this scheme would have to leave Vethia immediately. And having local knowledge might prove useful until she reached Karsova.

"Fine," she said finally. "You can come."

Raz's face broke into a smile. Kafi let out a small whoop and did a quick spin.

"But," Morgana added, raising a finger to quiet their celebration, "I leave you at the next port. I continue alone with the Fallen Star from there."

The brothers exchanged a glance.

"Fine by us," Raz said with a shrug. "We just need out of Vethia. Where we go next doesn't matter much."

"Anywhere better than here," Kafi echoed their earlier sentiment.

"Then we have a deal." Morgana extended her hand. "Half now. Half as the passage to the next port."

Raz clasped her hand firmly. "Deal."

His palm was calloused, his grip strong but not aggressive. The hand of someone who'd worked hard his entire life.

"One more thing," he said, not releasing her hand. "What's your real name? If we're risking our necks together, I'd like to know who for."

Morgana hesitated, then decided a half-truth was better than a lie. "Mora."

"Mora," Raz repeated, as if testing how it felt on his tongue. "Pretty name. Suits you."

"Raz," Kafi groaned. "Stop flirting. Need plan details."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Right, right." Raz finally released her hand. "Let's find somewhere quieter to talk. There are too many eyes and ears here."

As they moved deeper into the alley, Morgana found herself wondering if she could actually trust these brothers. They were survivors, opportunists—exactly the kind of people who might sell her out if Thorne offered a better price.

But she needed them. And sometimes, the only way to build trust was to take a risk.

"When does the Fallen Star fight next?" she asked as they walked.

"In two weeks from now," Raz replied without hesitation. "Main event. They're billing it as 'The Rematch of the Century'—him against some desert warrior who nearly killed him last season."

Morgana felt her stomach tighten.

"Then we work fast," she said. "Tell me everything you know about the pits, the security, and exactly how that smoke thing of yours works."

"Not ours," Kafi corrected. "Need to steal first."

Morgana stopped walking. "What?"

Raz shot his brother an exasperated look. "He's getting ahead of himself. We don't steal the compound—we know someone who can acquire it for us. Discreetly."

"For right price," Kafi added.

"And you trust this person?"

Raz's smile was sharp. "I trust coin. And so does he."

It wasn't the most reassuring answer, but it would have to do. Morgana nodded for them to continue leading the way.

*****

Two weeks later, Morgana returned to the arena. The same leather half-mask covered her face, hiding her distinctive blue eyes from casual observers. Her stomach twisted with nerves. Everything they'd planned came down to today.

A stall near the arena entrance caught her attention. The colorful red and gold awning stood out among the more muted colors of Vethian merchants. A group of dark-skinned traders in brightly patterned tunics arranged wares that were unmistakably Sundarian.

"Finest imports from Sundar!" called one of the merchants. "Spices, silks, and sweets from the Imperial heartlands!"

"Oh, nice." Morgana paused. She hadn't expected to see anything from her homeland here.

"You have a good eye," the merchant said, noticing her interest. Then he tilted his head, studying her more closely. "Ah, you're Sundarian yourself, aren't you?"

Morgana tensed slightly. "What makes you say that?"

"Your accent," the man said with a warm smile. "The way you hold yourself. One always recognizes one's own." He bowed slightly. "We are the Wangara, a new merchant guild from the central provinces. The Emperor opened trade routes for us last week, and we've been establishing ourselves here since."

"I see you've brought quite the selection," Morgana said, scanning the foreign goods.

"For a countrywoman, we offer our finest," the merchant said, his smile widening. "It's good to see another face from home."

Her eyes landed on something familiar—a copper pitcher containing a milky beverage she recognized immediately. A sweet, cooling drink her father used to have served on hot summer days in the palace gardens.

"Is that rose-milk?" she asked, the familiar sight making her unexpectedly homesick.

"It is indeed! Made with the authentic imperial recipe, cardamom and all." The merchant was already pouring a cup. "For you, countrywoman, two copper rather than three."

"Thank you." Morgana handed over the coins, taking the drink with a grateful nod. "It's been a long time."

"The taste of home can be a powerful thing when one is far from it," the merchant said knowingly.

The first sip hit her with a wave of memory—sweet, floral, with that hint of cardamom that always made her think of home. Despite everything, her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Perfect," she said quietly.

"May it bring you comfort," the merchant replied. "Will we see you again? We're here every market day."

"Perhaps," Morgana said noncommittally, though the taste of home was tempting. "Good fortune to your guild."

"And to you, countrywoman. Safe travels."

She continued toward the arena, sipping the rose-milk as she walked. Right now, Kafi would be placing the smoke compounds at three strategic points around the market district. The youngest brother had argued fiercely that he should handle this part—he knew every alley and hiding spot in the district, and could disappear in a crowd better than anyone.

Raz, meanwhile, would be making his way toward the Sentinel Tower, timing his approach to coincide with the changing of the guard. He'd explained that timing was everything. Too early, and he'd be caught in the handover. Too late, and the new guards would be settled in, alert.

"Five minutes," he'd told her during their planning session, holding up five fingers. "That's our window. Five minutes when the old guards have mentally checked out and the new ones haven't fully checked in."

Morgana checked the position of the sun. Still an hour before the main event. Still time for the brothers to get into position.

She approached the ticket seller, already pulling out the coins for a premium seat.

"You again?" The man recognized her despite the mask. "Must really like the bloodsport, eh?"

"Just the one fighter," she replied.

"The Fallen Star." The man nodded knowingly as he handed over the ticket. "Word is he's in rare form today. Been training different. Somethin' lit a fire under him."

Morgana said nothing, but her heart beat faster. Had their brief eye contact two weeks ago really made such a difference? Had Bedivere somehow recognized her, despite the years and the mask?

She made her way to the VIP entrance, showing her token to the centaur guards. The private corridor felt familiar now, the sounds of the gathering crowd growing louder as she approached the arena proper.

Box Three was where she'd sat before. She hesitated, wondering if she should choose another location, but decided familiarity was an advantage. She knew the sight lines from there, the exits, how quickly the guards could reach it if needed.

As she took her seat, she realized someone was already there—the corpulent merchant from two weeks ago. Today, he sat alone.

"Well, look who's back!" He beamed at her, his gold teeth flashing. "The mysterious Lyra returns. I had a feeling I might see you again."

Morgana nodded politely, taking her seat. "Where's your wife today?"

"Home with a headache," he said, not sounding particularly concerned. "Too much wine last night. I told her those eastern vintages are stronger than she's used to."

Morgana's attention drifted to the preparations below. Arena workers were raking the sand smooth, checking the iron gates. In thirty minutes, the first match would begin. In two hours, Bedivere would fight. And shortly after that, if all went according to plan, chaos would erupt.

"I see you've discovered the Wangara," the merchant said, gesturing to her drink.

"Hmm?" Morgana glanced down at the rose-milk. "Oh. Yes."

"Remarkable, aren't they? Only been here one week and already dominating the luxury trade." He leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. "Between you and me, I've invested heavily in their operation. Going to be the next big thing in Vethia."

"Impressive," Morgana said without much interest, her eyes on the arena below.

"They're bringing in this new device from Sundar," he continued, undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm. "Some sort of communication tool. Lets you talk to someone across great distances—instantly! Can you imagine?"

This actually caught Morgana's attention. "What sort of device?"

"They call it a 'whisper stone' or some such. Uses a special kind of crystal that resonates with its pair. Speak into one, and your voice comes out the other, no matter how far apart they are." He tapped the side of his nose. "Even non-mages can use it. That's the brilliant part."

"Sounds useful," Morgana said, her mind already drifting back to the plan.

"Useful? It's revolutionary! Think of what it means for trade. For politics. For war, even." He studied her. "You're from Sundar, aren't you? That accent's unmistakable."

She tensed slightly. "Yes."

"Thought so. I've always admired Sundarian craftsmanship. Those people know how to make things last." He patted his belt, where a Sundarian-made dagger hung in an ornate sheath. "Had this twenty years, still sharp as the day I bought it."

A horn blared, signaling the start of the games.

The merchant shifted his attention to the arena floor, where the announcer strode out in his crimson robe. Morgana half-listened to the introductions, her thoughts on what was to come.

Kafi should be finishing placement of the smoke compounds now, hiding them where they'd go unnoticed until activated. Raz would be approaching the tower, counting down the minutes until the guard change.

The first match began—two women wielding curved swords that trailed electrical energy as they swung. The crowd roared as they clashed in the center of the arena, but Morgana barely saw them.

Her hand tightened around the cup of rose-milk. Everything had to go perfectly. If Kafi got caught placing the compounds, if Raz was spotted entering the tower, if the timing was off by even a few minutes—Bedivere would remain in chains, and they'd all likely join him.

"Not as exciting as a minotaur tearing a man in half, I'll grant you," the merchant commented beside her, mistaking her tension for disappointment in the match. "But these sword-witches are quite skilled. Watch how they—oh! There, you see? The way the lightning arcs between their blades? Fascinating technique."

Morgana nodded absently. She checked the sun again. The main event was still an hour away. Time seemed to crawl.

"You know," the merchant continued, seemingly determined to engage her in conversation, "I've been coming to these games for fifteen years. Seen fighters from every corner of the known world. But there's something special about the Fallen Star. A quality you don't see in the others."

"What quality is that?" Morgana asked, if only to be polite.

"Reluctance." The merchant's voice dropped, becoming unexpectedly thoughtful. "Most gladiators—they fight because they love it, or because they're desperate, or because they're too stupid to do anything else. But him? He fights like a man who knows exactly what he's doing and hates himself for doing it anyway."

Morgana glanced at him, surprised by the insight.

"Don't look so shocked," he chuckled. "I'm a merchant. Reading people is how I stay alive and profitable."

Below them, one of the sword-witches fell, clutching a wound that sparked and sizzled. The victor raised her sword, accepting the crowd's adulation.

"Oh, that was rather quick," Tiberius remarked, sounding disappointed. "Usually they put on more of a show."

The matches continued one after another. A man who could transform parts of his body into stone fighting against a pair of twin assassins. A massive orc against what appeared to be a child but was actually a halfling with poisoned daggers. Each victory was bloodier than the last, the crowd growing more frenzied with each death.

Morgana felt time slipping away. The sun had moved across the sky, shadows lengthening. Soon, very soon now, Bedivere would enter the arena.

The announcer strode onto the sand. The crystal in his hand glowed brighter as he raised it high.

"CITIZENS OF VETHIA! FOR OUR MAIN EVENT!" The crowd noise dimmed in anticipation. "THE REMATCH YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR!"

Morgana felt her heart hammering against her ribs. This was it.

"FROM THE EASTERN DESERTS, THE MAN WHO CAME CLOSER THAN ANY OTHER TO ENDING OUR CHAMPION'S REIGN! THE BLADE OF THE SHIFTING SANDS... ASHKARI THE SCORPION!"

The eastern gate rose. A tall, lean man emerged, skin bronzed by desert sun. Unlike most gladiators, he wore minimal armor—only a metal breastplate decorated with a red scorpion. In each hand, he held a curved blade that gleamed wickedly in the afternoon light.

The crowd's reaction was mixed—some cheers, some boos, mostly a tense murmur of anticipation.

Ashkari raised his blades, acknowledging the crowd with a cool nod.

"AND HIS OPPONENT!" The announcer's voice swelled. "UNDEFEATED FOR EIGHT YEARS! VETHIA'S CHAMPION! THE MAN WHO CANNOT DIE! I GIVE YOU... THE FALLEN STAR!"

The western gate opened. The crowd erupted, stamping feet and chanting.

"STAR! STAR! STAR!"

Bedivere emerged from the shadows. Morgana leaned forward, searching his face. He looked different than two weeks ago. Still gaunt, still scarred, but his eyes...there was something there now. Not quite hope, but perhaps the memory of it.

He carried a sword and round shield, both well-worn but serviceable. His white beard had been trimmed, his hair pulled back. He looked more like a warrior and less like a prisoner.

"Last time these two met," Tiberius whispered beside her, "Ashkari nearly took Bedivere's head off. Left a scar you can see from here." He pointed to his own neck. "Word is, Ashkari's been training specifically for this rematch. Studying the Star's every move."

Morgana barely heard him. Her eyes remained fixed on Bedivere.

In twenty minutes, the bell would toll. Kafi's compounds would be activated. The arena would empty. If Bedivere could just survive that long...

"FIGHTERS! TO YOUR POSITIONS!"

Bedivere and Ashkari faced each other across the arena. Ashkari twirled his blades, a flourish meant to intimidate. Bedivere simply stood, weapon and shield ready, watching.

The gong sounded.

Neither man moved.

Then Ashkari attacked.

Bedivere blocked with shield and sword, each impact echoing through the arena. The fighter from the desert pressed forward relentlessly.

Bedivere gave ground, defending but not attacking. His movements were precise. Every block, every parry just enough to keep Ashkari's blades from finding flesh.

"He's being too passive," Tiberius muttered.

Ashkari, it seemed, had no intention of dragging the fight out.

The desert warrior feinted left, then spun right. His blade slipped past Bedivere's guard, opening a shallow cut on his arm. The crowd gasped as first blood was drawn.

Ashkari's Fluid ignited around him—bright yellow, like sunlight through amber. His speed increased, blades moving so fast they seemed to leave trails in the air. Bedivere's own Fluid flickered to life, but it remained dim, barely visible in the bright arena.

Another exchange. Another cut—this time across Bedivere's thigh. The crowd shifted, murmuring with concern.

"He's slower than last time," Tiberius observed. "Something's wrong."

Morgana gripped the railing. The plan needed Bedivere functional. They couldn't escape with a severely injured man.

"Come on," she whispered. "Fight back."

As if hearing her, Bedivere launched his first real offensive. A swift combination of shield bash and sword thrust that forced Ashkari to retreat. For a moment, it seemed the tide might turn.

Then Ashkari slipped under Bedivere's guard and delivered a vicious kick to his wounded thigh. Bedivere went down on one knee, barely getting his shield up in time to block the follow-up strike.

"Finish him!" someone shouted from the crowd.

"STAR! GET UP!" screamed another.

Bedivere struggled to his feet. Blood soaked his leggings where Ashkari's blade had cut him. His breathing was labored, face pale beneath his beard.

Ashkari circled, confident now. "You've grown weak, old man," he called. "Last time you were lucky. Today, luck runs out."

He attacked again. Bedivere blocked most, but not all. A cut appeared on his cheek. Another across his shoulder. The sand at his feet turned red with blood.

Morgana checked her pocket watch. Eight minutes until the bell was scheduled to toll. Bedivere needed to hold out just a little longer.

But Ashkari had no intention of waiting. With a move too fast for most eyes to follow, he slipped past Bedivere's guard. One blade sliced across the knight's wrist. The sword fell from Bedivere's numbed fingers, landing with a soft thud in the bloody sand.

The crowd gasped.

"This doesn't look good," Tiberius said, leaning forward. "I've never seen him outmatched like this."

Bedivere backed away, shield held defensively. Ashkari followed, a predatory smile on his face. He knew he had won.

"See how the mighty fall," the desert warrior said loud enough for the front rows to hear. "The legend of the Star ends today."

He launched a flurry of attacks against Bedivere's shield. Wood splintered. Metal bent. The shield, already worn from countless fights, began to give way.

With a final powerful strike, Ashkari shattered it completely. Fragments of wood and metal scattered across the sand.

Bedivere stood unarmed, bleeding from a dozen wounds. The crowd fell silent, sensing the end was near.

Ashkari raised his blades for the killing blow. "Any last words, Star?"

Morgana couldn't wait any longer. The bell was too far away. In one fluid motion, she stood, ripping off her mask.

"SIR BEDIVERE!"

Her voice cut through the hush like a blade. Heads turned. Tiberius looked up in shock.

"SIR BEDIVERE! KNIGHT COMMANDER OF THE STAR KNIGHTS!"

Ashkari hesitated, his blades still raised.

Bedivere's head snapped up, eyes scanning the crowd, searching for the voice.

"BY THE OATH OF THE SILVER FLAME, I CALL YOU TO SERVICE!"

The ancient oath of the Star Knights. Words she had heard her father receive a thousand times. Words only a member of the royal family could invoke.

Bedivere found her then, his eyes locking with hers across the distance. For a heartbeat, there was only confusion in his gaze. Then recognition dawned—slow at first, then blooming like dawn over the mountains.

His lips formed a word. Her name.

"Yes!" she called. "I'm alive!"

Tiberius rose silently from his seat and slipped away, wanting no part of whatever was happening.

Below, Thorne was on his feet in his private box, pointing up at Morgana, shouting orders to his guards. Men were already moving toward the staircases leading to the VIP boxes.

But Morgana had eyes only for Bedivere. The old knight stood straighter now, his wounds seemingly forgotten.

"Princess?" he called, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"It's me!" Tears streaked down her face. "I've come to take you home!"

Something changed in Bedivere then. It wasn't dramatic—no sudden burst of light, no magical transformation. But it was unmistakable. His shoulders straightened. His jaw set. And in his eyes, a flame that had nearly died now rekindled.

Ashkari, sensing the shift, attacked without warning. His blades slashed toward Bedivere's neck in a killing arc.

But Bedivere was no longer there. He moved with a speed that belied his age and injuries, ducking under the blades and driving his fist into Ashkari's stomach with enough force to lift the desert warrior off his feet.

As Ashkari stumbled back, gasping for air, Bedivere's Fluid flared to life around him—not the dim flicker of before, but a brilliant blue that lit up the arena like foxfire.

Ashkari recovered quickly, attacking again with both blades. But Bedivere caught his wrist in mid-strike, twisted, and the sword clattered to the sand. A swift kick sent the desert warrior sprawling.

The crowd was on its feet now, roaring with excitement at this unexpected turn.

Bedivere snatched up Ashkari's fallen blade. Now armed again, he advanced on his opponent with the measured pace of a man who had all the time in the world.

Morgana saw guards forcing their way through the crowd toward her box. She had maybe a minute before they reached her.

Below, Ashkari launched himself at Bedivere in a desperate attack. The knight sidestepped, hooked a foot around Ashkari's ankle, and sent him crashing to the ground. Before the desert warrior could rise, Bedivere's borrowed blade was at his throat.

"Yield," Bedivere commanded.

Ashkari spat blood onto the sand. "Never."

Bedivere pressed the blade harder, drawing a thin line of blood. "Yield, and live."

For a long moment, Ashkari stared up at him with hatred. Then, finally, he nodded once.

"I yield," he said through gritted teeth.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Bedivere paid them no attention. His eyes were on Morgana, who now had guards closing in from both sides of her box.

Bedivere turned toward the magical barrier that separated fighters from spectators. It shimmered with protective energy, designed to contain the violence within the arena.

He raised the sword.

The first strike sent a ripple through the barrier, like a stone dropped in still water. BOOM. The sound echoed through the arena.

The crowd's cheers faltered, confusion replacing excitement. This wasn't part of the show.

The second strike hit the same spot. BOOM. Cracks appeared in the magical field, spreading like frost on a window pane.

People began to move toward the exits, sensing danger.

The third strike shattered the barrier completely. The magical field collapsed with a sound like thunder, fragments of energy dissipating into the air like glowing embers.

Panic erupted. Spectators pushed and shoved toward the exits, screaming in terror.

Bedivere drove the blade into the arena wall and began to climb, using the embedded sword as a foothold. His movements were those of a much younger man, his injuries seemingly forgotten in the moment.

The guards reached Morgana just as Bedivere hauled himself over the railing of her box. He stood between her and the guards, sword raised.

"Step away from her," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The guards hesitated, clearly not prepared to face a champion gladiator at close quarters.

Bedivere looked at Morgana, really looked at her, for the first time in eight years.

"How?" he asked simply.

Before she could answer, the Grand Bell began to toll.

GONG. GONG. GONG.

The sound reverberated through the building, so loud it seemed to vibrate in their bones.

"Fire!" someone screamed from outside. "The market district is burning!"

The guards looked at each other, torn between their orders and their duty to respond to the bell.

"I'll explain everything," Morgana said. "But right now, we need to run."

She grabbed Bedivere's arm. "This way!"

The guards lunged for them, but Bedivere knocked the first one back with a shield-like push of his forearm. The man tumbled into his companions, creating a tangled pile of limbs and curses.

They ran toward the VIP exit, pushing through the panicked crowd. The Grand Bell continued to toll, its deep resonance vibrating through the stone. The planned chaos was working—guards abandoned their posts, rushing toward the supposed fire. Spectators streamed toward the exits, shoving and yelling.

"Where are we going?" Bedivere asked, keeping pace despite his injuries.

"The west gate," Morgana said. "Then the harbor."

A guard appeared in front of them, sword drawn. Bedivere didn't break stride—he simply lowered his shoulder and barreled into the man, sending him crashing into the wall. He snatched the fallen guard's sword as they passed.

The corridors were a maze, but Morgana had memorized their route. Left, then right, down a narrow passage that most guests never noticed. It would bypass the main exits where guards would be controlling the flow of people.

"Princess," Bedivere said as they ran, "I thought you were dead. Everyone did."

"Later," she promised. "We need to focus on getting out of here."

They burst through a service door into blinding daylight. The street outside was chaos—people running in all directions, guards shouting orders, smoke rising from the market district in thick black plumes. The bell continued its relentless tolling.

"The west gate is that way," Morgana pointed. "We need to move fast before they realize what's happening."

They pushed through the crowd, Bedivere's size and demeanor creating a path as people instinctively moved out of his way. Blood still seeped from his wounds, but his eyes were clear, focused. The years of captivity seemed to fall away with each step toward freedom.

A shout from behind. "There! The gladiator and the woman!"

Thorne's men. At least five of them, forcing their way through the crowd.

"Run," Bedivere said, pushing Morgana ahead. "I'll hold them off."

"No! We stay together." She pulled at his arm. "We can outrun them."

They sprinted down a narrow alleyway. Behind them, their pursuers knocked pedestrians aside, gaining ground.

"This way!" Morgana yanked Bedivere around a corner, into an even narrower passage between buildings. They emerged onto a broader street—and froze.

A dozen guards blocked their path, weapons drawn.

"Back," Bedivere hissed, pulling her into the alley. But Thorne's men were closing in from that direction.

Morgana looked up. "The rooftops." She pointed to a wooden balcony above them. "Can you climb?"

Bedivere nodded. He cupped his hands, boosting her up. She grabbed the balcony's edge and hauled herself over, then reached down to help him. For a man his size, he scaled the wall with surprising agility.

They clambered up onto the roof just as their pursuers converged in the alley below.

"Up there!" someone shouted.

An arrow whizzed past Morgana's ear.

They ran across the rooftop, jumping to the next building. The gap wasn't wide, but Bedivere's landing sent tiles skittering down to the street. His leg—still wounded from the fight—nearly gave out.

"I'm slowing you down," he said, face tight with pain.

"You're doing fine." Morgana scanned the horizon. The west gate was visible now, maybe half a mile away. "We just need to stay high as long as possible."

A screech from above made them both look up.

Wyverns. Three of them, circling lower, their riders pointing in their direction.

"That complicates things," Bedivere muttered.

They continued across the rooftops, staying low when possible. The wyverns swooped closer, their riders shouting commands. One broke away, diving toward them.

Bedivere pushed Morgana behind a chimney stack, then braced himself, sword ready.

The wyvern's talons raked the roof where they'd been standing seconds earlier. As it passed overhead, the rider swung his blade at Bedivere, who blocked it with a resounding clang of metal.

The wyvern banked sharply, preparing for another pass.

"We won't make it if they keep this up," Morgana said.

Bedivere's eyes tracked the circling beast. "When it comes again, stay down."

The wyvern tucked its wings and dived. Bedivere stood his ground, sword raised. At the last moment, as the beast extended its talons, he threw himself to the side. The wyvern's momentum carried it past him—but not before he swung his blade in a perfect arc across its wing.

The creature shrieked, its flight suddenly unbalanced. It crashed onto the roof, sending tiles and debris flying. Its rider was thrown clear, tumbling over the edge with a scream that ended abruptly.

The wounded wyvern thrashed, its good wing beating frantically. Bedivere approached from behind, avoiding its snapping jaws. With a single powerful thrust, he drove his sword through the base of its skull.

The beast shuddered once, then lay still.

"We need to move," Morgana said. "The others will be more cautious now, but they're still coming."

They continued their rooftop journey, ducking behind chimneys and water tanks when the remaining wyverns passed overhead. The west gate grew closer.

"There!" Morgana pointed to a building near the wall. "We can drop down there. The guards should be gone by now."

They made their way to the edge of the roof. Below, the street was relatively clear—most people had fled toward the center of the city, away from the supposed fire.

Bedivere lowered Morgana down first, then dropped beside her with a grunt of pain. Fresh blood soaked his leg bindings.

"Almost there," she said, pulling a cloak from her pack and throwing it around his shoulders. "This will make you less visible."

The hood shadowed his face, hiding his distinctive white beard. At a glance, he could pass for a laborer or dock worker.

They hurried toward the gate, trying to look inconspicuous. As Kafi had predicted, the guard post was empty—its occupants drawn to the emergency in the market district.

"Clever," Bedivere said as they passed through unchallenged. "This was all planned."

"Not just by me," Morgana admitted. "I had help."

They merged with other citizens fleeing the city, staying close to the crowd. The harbor was visible now, ships bobbing in the afternoon sun. Somewhere among them was their escape vessel.

A wyvern's cry made them both duck instinctively, but it passed overhead without slowing, its rider focused on the smoke rising from the market.

"Which ship?" Bedivere asked as they reached the docks.

"That one." Morgana pointed to a nondescript trading vessel moored at the far end. "The one with the green pennant."

They moved quickly but carefully along the waterfront. Dock workers and sailors barely spared them a glance, too busy watching the commotion in the city.

A shout from behind caught their attention. "The west gate! Check the harbor!"

Thorne's men had figured out their escape route.

"Run," Morgana said, abandoning caution.

They sprinted the last hundred yards to the ship. No gangplank was visible—the vessel appeared unattended.

"How do we board?" Bedivere asked.

Morgana whistled a short pattern. A rope ladder tumbled down the side of the ship.

"Quickly!" she hissed.

Bedivere insisted she go first. She scrambled up the ladder onto the deck, then helped pull him aboard. His strength was flagging, wounds taking their toll.

"Find the cabin in the stern," she instructed. "I'll pull up the ladder."

Bedivere staggered toward the back of the ship while Morgana hauled up the rope ladder. Just in time—Thorne's men appeared on the dock, pointing and shouting.

She ducked out of sight and hurried to join Bedivere. He'd found the small cabin and was leaning against the doorframe, breathing heavily.

Inside, two figures were sprawled across crates, chests heaving.

"Took your time," Raz said between breaths, not bothering to sit up. "Thought maybe you'd changed your mind about escaping."

Kafi, lying on his back beside his brother, lifted a hand in weak greeting. "Big boom worked good."

"You nearly set half the market on fire," Morgana replied, closing the door behind them.

"Only small fire," Kafi protested. "Very controlled. Just much smoke."

Bedivere looked between the brothers and Morgana, confusion evident. "These are your accomplices?"

"Hired help," Raz corrected, finally sitting up. He eyed Bedivere. "You're bleeding all over our escape boat."

"I'll survive," Bedivere said flatly.

The ship lurched beneath them. Outside, sailor's voices called orders. The vessel began to move, pulling away from the dock.

"Right on schedule," Raz said, sounding satisfied. "Rook's smugglers know their business."

Morgana helped Bedivere sit on one of the crates. She pulled medical supplies from her pack—bandages, healing salve, needles and thread.

"Those need cleaning," she said, gesturing to his wounds.

"Princess," Bedivere said quietly, so only she could hear. "I need to know what's happening."

Morgana hesitated, then removed her mask completely. Face to face now, without barriers, she saw recognition fully bloom in his eyes.

"It is you," he breathed. "All these years..."

"It's a long story," she said, unwrapping a bandage for his leg. "Are you ready to hear it?"

"Yes," Bedivere said, his voice steady despite his wounds. "Tell me everything."

"Princess?" Raz's eyebrows shot up. He looked between Morgana and Bedivere. "You're a princess?"

"Did we rescue royalty?" Kafi asked, suddenly sitting up straight. "Is there reward?"

"Let's talk about this later," Morgana said, cutting off Bedivere before he could respond. She continued wrapping his leg wound. "For now, we're heading to Karsova. Everything else can wait until we're safely away from Vethia's shores."

Outside, shouts echoed from the docks, growing fainter as the ship picked up speed. The Grand Bell's tolling had finally stopped, but columns of black smoke still rose from the city.

Morgana tied off the bandage and looked up at Bedivere. For the first time, she saw something familiar in his eyes—not just recognition, but resolve. The same steady determination she remembered from her childhood.

The ship slipped past the harbor mouth into open water, leaving Vethia behind.

*****

At the same time, in Arkhos...

"It's not working," Adom said, turning the dented bowl over in his hands.

"Have you tried undusting it?" Biggins asked, peering over his spectacles.

"Yes, it's clean now, isn't it?" Adom held up the bowl, which did indeed look considerably less grimy than before. The runes along the rim glowed faintly blue where his mana had touched them.

"Perhaps try the underside?" Biggins suggested, tapping a claw against his chin.

Adom sighed and continued wiping, his frustration growing. "I've cleaned every inch. I've put mana in the runes. I've even tried—"

His words cut off abruptly as the bowl began to vibrate in his hands. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the seam between bowl and lid.

"Ah," Biggins said, stepping back. "There we go."

The wisp became a tendril, then a column of dark blue smoke that shot toward the ceiling. Adom craned his neck, looking up... and up... and up.

The smoke coalesced, forming broad shoulders, muscular arms, and finally a head with glowing eyes and a face that seemed carved from storm clouds.

The djinn filled the entire shop, his massive form somehow fitting within the confines of the space while still conveying impossible size. He looked around slowly, gaze finally settling on Adom.

"You have freed me?" The djinn's voice rumbled like distant thunder.

"Uh, yes?" Adom replied, still holding the empty bowl.

The djinn's face split into a smile that revealed teeth like lightning bolts. "Then you shall have three wishes."

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