“Gratitude,” Lindon said, and she looked confused.

Lindon started to push his way into the tent, but hesitated. “I'm coming in,” he called, waiting for Yerin's response before entering.

She sat in the same position as before, though now she had a loose brown robe wrapped around her shoulders. She stared into her master's sword, its white blade sitting in her lap.

“I heard,” she said. “Nothing like a deadline to push you past your limits, true?” Her tone was supposed to be light, but she was forcing it.

Lindon sat on the edge of the bed and put on a brave face. “Who needs two months? You fought two Underlords at once last night. You'll be breaking through any time.”

Yerin pushed out a smile. “Yeah. Cheers and celebration for me.” Her eyes were sunken, and her face was paler than usual.

She still hadn't looked at him, staring deep into her master's blade. She was gripping the hilt hard...too hard. Her knuckles stood out white, and from Yerin, Lindon suspected that meant she was squeezing hard enough to crush rocks to dust.

He put his hand over hers, partially to comfort her, and partially because he was afraid she would hurt herself. Her grip relaxed, at least a little, and she looked up at him.

He looked into her dark, questioning eyes, and racked his brain for something to say.

What could he say? What could he do?

Lindon's mouth spoke before his brain had entirely confirmed the idea. “...I want to go back home.”

Her expression turned confused.

“After we're Underlords. We won’t be strong enough to fight off a…monster, or a Dreadgod, or a Monarch, or whatever’s coming, but we can hold our own in the world out here. Even if nobody listens to me, we can grab my family and get out. Take them to the Blackflame Empire; Underlords here are treated like kings. We could even wander around, like you and your master used to do.”

The look in Yerin's eyes shifted over a long moment, like a ship slowly turning to another course. “We've got to fight in the tournament.”

“Why? We can advance on our own terms.”

Anything to keep her talking.

“Did that prince chip your head? Steel sharpens steel. You want to toss away a chance to cross swords with the best in the world?” Her grip on the sword loosened further, and she was sitting straighter. “My master lost in the solo matches to Del'rek of the Shann. Said it was the sharpest battle of his life; worth more than ten years of practice on his own. And Del'rek joined up with the Eight-Man Empire.”

“I would miss the prizes,” Lindon said. Though no one had explained what the actual prizes were, they had to be substantial.

“It’ll be a tall cliff to climb, but worth every inch. You make it past the first round, and the Ninecloud Court make a floating castle just for you.”

Lindon started. She actually knew what the prizes were? Why had he never asked?

“If you survive the second round, you get an Archlord weapon that makes that castle look like a pig pen. Third round, that’s a gift from some other faction. One of the ones you didn't come from, if you’re following me. Factions compete over who can give the best gifts, so you'd be looking at the storm phoenix feathers, fruit from the Heart-Piercer Tree, thousand-year spirits...my master got a dream tablet showing a heavenly messenger swinging a sword.”

“And after that?” Lindon asked. He had intended to distract Yerin, but now he was getting drawn in.

“After three rounds, we’ve whittled it down to eight fighters,” she said. “From there, they fight solo matches, one-on-one. Everybody who makes it into the top eight gets the mark of the Uncrowned. It's like a tattoo of a broken crown, and it's unique in all the world. Anchors to your spirit, so it can never be removed. Somebody wants to fight you, you show them that, and they'll think twice. On top of that, you get personal lessons from a Sage.”

“Not a Monarch?”

Yerin's head jerked back as though he'd slapped her. No, if he'd slapped her, she wouldn't have budged an inch. “You think Monarchs are like dirt farmers? If one or two of them show up to watch, and you hear a whisper of their voice, you'll be lucky. Add to that, Sages don't take disciples, so this is a once-in-your-life chance.”

At Lindon's look, she added, “Most Sages. You can’t pass on Sage techniques, but they’re still peak Archlords. With my own eyes, I’ve seen my master turn down land, cloudships, Remnants, secret Path manuals, and a fistful of marriage proposals from Ladies who wanted his word on their techniques.”

Yerin pulled her hand away, setting her sword aside. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and she was moving her hands when she spoke, eyes sparkling. Like the Yerin from yesterday.

She continued without his prompting. “That’s top eight. Now, top four? My master talked about top four, but he scraped himself to the bone making it to the solo rounds at all. The honor and glory from top four are more than nothing; they’d stretch your name all across the heavens.”

“Honor and glory are—” Lindon began, but she cut him off.

“Not your sorts of prizes, that’s a truth. See if this doesn't light a fire in your shoes: the top four each get a gift from all the other teams. Seven gifts, each one hand-picked with your name on it. Not even mentioning that everybody who has ever made top four in the Uncrowned King tournament has ended up as a Sage, a Herald, or ascending to the heavens.”

“What does the winner get?” Lindon asked. He realized he was leaning forward, waiting for the final prize.

Yerin leaned back against the stack of pillows behind her, folding her arms. “You're asking me, but who am I supposed to ask? Sure as the sun rising, they get something worth burning your own soul for, but I don't know what it is. And I'm not likely to find out.”

Lindon's breath stopped. Had she given up? Did she expect to die before the tournament?

“First place is just a dream,” she went on, and Lindon started breathing again. “Akura Fury won one year, and he's a legend. Reigan Shen won, and he ended up as a Monarch, though that was an age and a half ago. First place is for freaks who were born eating Truegolds alive.”

“I’m surprised to hear that coming from you,” Lindon pointed out. “Why fight if not to aim for victory?”

“Victory is making it to the solo fights at all. That's as far as my master made it, and he was older than me when he did. If I pushed that far, he’d be...I mean, I'd...”

She ran a hand roughly through her hair. “Ah, bleed and bury me if I know what I mean to say. Too soon for me to be dreaming about eighth, anyway. I've got a long trail to walk before I'm the eighth strongest anything in this Blackflame corner of nowhere.”

“Underlord is the first step,” Lindon said, as casually as he could manage.

Yerin nodded along. “Yeah, and you've got a wall in front of you, that's sure and certain.”

“Me?” He’d been trying to keep her from realizing how difficult her journey looked; he hadn’t expected her to turn it around on him.

“Somebody stitch your ears shut? That prince and his...crazy bodyguard, or whatever she was...they were after you. Don't want you to make it to Underlord, I'd say, though I couldn't tell you how the prince of another country heard your name in the first place.”