The cloud hovering over her head was boiling, she was sure.

“We can't disclose the location of the venue ahead of time,” she said. “To prevent tampering. We will notify the respective Underlords when the venue has been prepared, and then give them time to travel there.”

These were standard procedures when the representatives of two great clans or families dueled with real stakes, but since both Underlords had personal pride in this, the Skysworn had to have an Underlord of their own to ensure parity. That was a large part of the reason her Captain was in such a foul mood lately; he hated having to waste his time supervising a fight between children.

That, and he had to deal with Eithan Arelius.

Lindon turned to the others, and even on his contentious face, there was a look of uncertainty. Yerin walked up and tapped him on the chest with her fist. “Your path's as straight as a good road,” she said. “Kill him if you can. Try not to die.”

The words sounded casual, but Renfei detected a tremble in Yerin's spirit. For the briefest instant, her madra was disrupted in its flow.

A smile pulled at Lindon's lips, as though Yerin had said something touching, but Orthos bulled in a second later. “Destroy him!” the turtle said, through a mouthful of gravel. “Scatter his ashes around the arena! Crush your enemy, drive him before you, hear the lamentations of his—”

“I will do what I can, Orthos,” Lindon said, resting his hand on the turtle's head.

The sacred beast snorted, pulling back. “Cycle Blackflame and say that to me again.”

Lindon complied, his spirit going from a tranquil pool to a rolling chaos of dark fire in an instant. Renfei pulled her awareness back slightly—destruction was a difficult power to sense too closely. It always reminded her of insects swarming over their prey, and gave her a headache.

His eyes now matched Orthos', giving his features a sinister cast. He had a solid build, such that he looked older than he really was, and the eyes gave him a menacing edge.

“I will do what I can,” Lindon said again, but Orthos snapped at the air between them.

“No! The dragon destroys! Victory is not good enough, you have to finish him.”

Lindon straightened himself, his Blackflame madra suddenly boiling. “I'll send his ashes back to the Jai clan in a jar.” His dark eyes faded, and he smiled sheepishly. “...if I can.”

Orthos snorted. “We need to have a Soulsmith make you a spine.” He wandered away, muttering to himself, and Fisher Gesha approached next.

“All right,” she said, slapping her palms together. “To business, hm? Which would you like to take?”

To Renfei's surprise, she led Lindon to a huge trunk at the corner of his cell. Renfei hadn't noticed it before; she had been too preoccupied watching the people. That was a mistake, and she chided herself for it. She had worked for the Skysworn long enough to know that it was the detail you missed that killed you.

The Fisher threw open the chest, pulling out devices of bright color: constructs and weapons. The products of a Soulsmith.

“Well, hurry it up,” she said. “Tell me what you want.”

“Everything,” Lindon said. He sounded much more certain than when he had spoken with Orthos.

Fisher Gesha's eyebrows shot up. “Everything? You want to fight with your pockets bulging like a squirrel's cheeks?”

“Everything,” he said again.

When he was finally ready to leave, he turned to the Skysworn with a bright blue band around his head, a purple bracelet on one wrist, a black bracer on the other, three rods of varying length and color at his waist, a gelatinous red mass that pulsed like a heart stuck to his chest, a bright green dagger in an ankle sheath, and—sure enough—his pockets swollen, spilling multi-colored light into the air.

He looked like a clown. More weapons did not mean a more prepared warrior, and everyone present had to know that.

She looked to the others as though they would stop him, but even Yerin looked resigned. Eithan beamed as though watching his proud son leave for the first day at a School of sacred arts.

“We will send a messenger to contact you when the fight is ready to begin,” Renfei said. “Each Underlord is of course allowed a retinue, though we hope that you will conduct yourself with honor, as befitting your respected rank and station.”

Eithan turned back to his painting. It depicted a tall, lonely mountain, jutting from the surrounding landscape like a gray spear. The top was flat, as though the summit of the mountain had been sliced off, and it was capped by an ancient stone building supported by columns.

Renfei stared at the picture. She was afraid her mouth might be hanging open.

“See you there!” Eithan said.

***

On the top of a gray mountain, Lindon waited, cycling Blackflame madra to fight off the chill of the relentless wind. The gusts shoved at him, stronger than he would have thought possible—even with his Iron body reinforced by Lowgold madra, he had to bend down and grip the edge of a nearby boulder to stay in place.

The power of wind was strong here, covering his spiritual sight in green swirls. A Jade wouldn’t be able to survive alone under these conditions; they would eventually exhaust their madra fighting against the wind and be shoved off the sheer edge of the nearby cliff.

Lindon had grown up in Sacred Valley, surrounded by mountains, and this mountain was a strange one. It had been sliced off at the top as though by a sword, so it now terminated in a flat plane. A vast stone structure had been built at the center, squat and ancient, supported by granite pillars.

It was impossible to reach this place without flying, and even the Skysworn who had carried them here on their Thousand-Mile Cloud had been forced to fight their way up. Sacred eagles with emerald talons had harassed them all the way.

Lindon didn’t even know where in the Blackflame Empire he was. South, they said, but he had no reason to tell.

He had traveled with the Skysworn for a full day, spent the night huddled in a tiny valley, and then taken off again the next day at dawn. When they finally reached this barren peak, the two green-armored Truegolds had stuffed him into a room carved into the base of the mountain for two more nights, leaving him to marinate in nerves.

Today, of all days, they’d taken him out only to abandon him on the edge of the cliff while they checked inside the “sanctuary,” as they called it, for potential tampering.

The Blackflame madra warmed his spirit and his flesh, protecting him from the cold of the wind, but he shivered anyway.

The day had finally come.

He hadn't seen Jai Long for months, not since the Skysworn had taken him away to prevent him from causing a panic with his identity as a Blackflame. At first, he had almost been relieved, thinking that his imprisonment meant the duel would be canceled.

Then Eithan had shown up and told him otherwise.

Eithan had brought Yerin and the others to him more than ten times, and each time the Skysworn either moved him or increased security. It never seemed to matter.

Lindon stared up at the stone columns, wind whipping at his hair and his outer robe. Though his heart pounded and his breath was coming faster, he felt a strange calm.

The others, especially Yerin and Fisher Gesha, had done everything they could to prepare him for this day. He was as ready as he could be.

There were still no guarantees, of course. But this was just another obstacle he had to overcome. Just one more step.