It was deep in the night when the four of them reached a small inn. It was rather humble. A small restaurant and bar connected to guest rooms behind. The return journey was exhausting and they were all dying of hunger. They quickly made their way to the restaurant which was also serving something Illaria had never tasted before - alcohol. In the South, pubs existed but this was very wild. Passed out men laid motionless on hay bales, serving women wearing clothes that made their chest shoot up, men shouting compliments at them. One man was sitting in a corner and multiple women were swarming over him. Illaria was startled.
Marcus shot her a concerned look, “It is unlike the South I know but they aren’t all bad people.”
Illaria, “...”
“Let’s just get something to eat and leave.”
As they made their way towards an empty table, two drunken men thought it would be amusing to mess with them. They passed a crude taunt at Amarin and started laughing — but their laughter was short-lived.
Illaria moved with the jagged calm of someone who’d been waiting to be insulted. She landed a quick punch at the taller one. She had done it, she had started the fight. The shorter one lunged; she stepped aside and his momentum carried him into the table. The longer one, now recovered from the punch, threw a jab. Illaria calmly responded with a forward step left duck, and countered with a back-hand spinning elbow which met his jaw. The fight was over in less than a minute. Everyone was watching her. She couldn’t tell what the eyes were finding more weird - A woman fighter or her bright golden hair which was now visible due to her hood coming off during the fight.
She shot her friends an apologetic look. Marcus stepped forward and shot her a I-told-you-not-to-do-this-and-you-did-exactly-that look, “Well, well my younger sister here is quite a rebel, she does exactly what I tell her to not do.” He glared at her as he continued, “I told her it’s not womanly for women to fight and she learnt how to fight. I told her brown is the best hair colour and she went ahead and dyed it golden.” The crowd didn’t look happy and neither was Illaria with Marcus’s attempt at saving her.
Amarin stepped forward and said, “Brother, Actually I disagree with you. This man here threw me a rude comment and your sister answered with fists rather than acceptance. I think your sister is quite commendable. It is unusual for women to fight, but her spirit is true.” The mood seemed to have changed a bit positively.
“And I would let’s celebrate your sister by breaking another unusual thing - a woman drinking. Let’s all drink to celebrate her glory, all drinks on me!” The crowd roared with wild excitement.
“Drinks! Drinks! Drinks!” people shouted as they banged the tables. Illaria saw barrels being rolled in from a distance.
Marcus shot an impressed look to Amarin who calmly replied, “From someone who has a way with people instead of the sword - remember, negative reinforcement never works with society. You have to align with people’s desire, which in this case is free booze.”
Marcus, “Yeah, that was so well handled.”
Amarin, “But Illaria, you can’t lash out like that. We are lucky this is a desolate inn.”
Illaria, “I am sorry.”
Amarin, “Well, no sorry you gotta make up for it. And I think Rigor should also make up to Marcus for cutting him up earlier.”
Marcus, “Well that was nothing actually it is fine even if he –”
Amarin cut him off saying, “Both of them who avoid alcohol like the plague will now face-off each other in a drinking competition. C’mon if I am paying for the drinks, my friends should have fun.”
Illaria and Rigor, despite their wishes, were now pulled into a face-off. They were made to stand on top of barrels, the first one to step down would lose. The flasks came to them. She had never drunk before; in the South, she’d always treated wine like a lesson — admired at court, avoided in practice. But the energy in the room was contagious. She took the cup, shot Rigor a look and without ceremony, chugged the whole thing down.
Rigor quickly followed. The room cheered. The first sip did nothing dramatic; the second made her mouth go slack. The third made her internals feel weird but she was still good to go. After just lying down paralyzed during the fight she was in no mood to give up. Illaria passed Rigor a sly smile.
A thunderous voice interrupted the room, “You dare drink with another woman behind my back!!”
Amarin, “Oh Damn, Rigor is dead now.”
Illaria turned to look aside. A woman, about her age dressed in flashy and revealing clothes had just entered the room. She also carried a sword. From her appearance it was obvious she was no commoner. She shot Illaria an irritated glance and charged towards Rigor.
Rigor, “Princess, no I mean, Amayra it’s not what you are thinking.” But this lady named Amayra was in no mood to listen. She had already pulled Rigor down and instead took his spot on top of the barrel now ready to battle it out with Illaria.
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“I am gonna tell this shrimp of a girl who his real girl is.” Amayra hissed. Illaria didn’t feel like correcting her. Somehow, she wanted this face-off. And so they started. Glass after glass.Neither ready to back down. Rigor, Amarin and Marcus all kept their distance, watching with amusement which masked a bit of anxiousness.
Illaria could feel the room spin and as time passed in an unknown way and somehow the room, it spun faster and faster -- until the world blurred. Illaria didn’t notice the last cup being set down. The last thing she remembered clearly was Amayra’s laugh, sharp and delighted, and the way Marcus’s hand briefly brushed her shoulder with a gentleness that felt like a future she’d not allowed herself to imagine. Then the floor folded, and everything went away.
When she woke, it was to a chorus of small violent noises: voices low with concern, the rustle of a blanket, someone’s breath sharp in her ear. Marcus hovered near the bed, hair mussed, sleeves rolled. He had a mug of hot tea in his hand and a look on his face like a man who’d just been pulled from a shallow grave.
“You drank like the men you were judging yesterday” he thundered down on her before she could speak. “Do you really plan on dying on me before we complete this mission?”
She blinked. Her head felt like a drum. Her memory returned in stops: the fight, the barrels, the challenge and most importantly Amayra – who was standing behind Marcus beside Marcus and Rigor. Embarrassment flushed hot and then cooled into that peculiar, hollow calm that follows humiliation.
Footsteps and voices pooled outside. A short moment later Amarin, Rigor and Amayra also joined them.
Amayra said, “Well, you are quite a fighter, sorry I overreacted a bit yesterday. Well Rigor is my guy, so I just lost it but c’mon we had fun you all. Anyways, I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself so here it goes - I am Amayra, daughter of Varlen, granddaughter of Draven Sevenith, the emperor. Basically I am the Princess of the Western Kingdom.” Amayra said with that bright charming smile of hers. Illaria sat up feeling drowsy.
Amarin pitched in next, “Call me Amarin. I am supposed to be the future leader of the Royal Family of Tyria. But as we have established I am my might is sharper than my sword. A fact my dad highly dislikes. So one day he just left me in the woods we came from to learn how to fight. Well, guess what, I couldn’t and had almost died when Marcus ironically saved me by throwing me down the waterfall. I lived, and ever since that day I have been accompanied by Rigor, who is my closest friend and bodyguard.”
Amayra, “And Rigor is also the youngest captain of one of the emperor’s units because he is one of the brightest talents in the West. His fighting skills are to die for, which is why he is mine. Heheh.” Amayra smiled at him gleefully as Rigor looked away as he replied, “You can’t stay stuff like that, you are the Princess while I am low born.”
“I am the Princess, I can do whatever I want. How dare you talk back to me.” Amayra teased. Illaria felt they were cute.
Amayra continued, “Now that we know about each other, I got to know from these guys here what transpired yesterday. To be honest I think it’s time we all have a discussion.”
Marcus pitched in, “Well, like I told you, neither the North nor the South want war.”
Amayra, “And neither do we. As much as we would like to take down the North, our numbers are far too less. We don’t have the ability to take down a kingdom that size.”
Illaria, “And yet it seems you are preparing for war.”
Rigor, “Even we are confused about that. Strange things have been happening. A Banshee being spotted in the West, and our lab that keeps gathering attention.”
Illaria, “When Marcus’s family came to the South, we were attacked by a Western General. He said that you have almost achieved some terrifying magic. What’s that about? And there is this masked man who is operating the whole thing.”
Amayra, “We don’t know. The lab is a highly classified area. On the surface things seem cold but the whole west is on high alert. Something is brewing and only a handful know. Even my dad, the son of the emperor, doesn't know. But well that’s on dad kinda too, he and grandad have bad blood due to my now deceased aunt being grandad’s favourite child but well that is separate. The only people who know what is going on are the people in that lab and the emperor. Which means there are only two places filled with info - grandad’s chambers and the lab. I will dig around the palace but what to do about the lab?”
Amarin leaned forward, eyes bright with a plan that smelled of risk and opportunity.
“Festival of Aris,” he said, as if he were revealing a secret window in the world. “Day Four, the Trial of Flame. A contest open to all. The final victors – a man and a woman who are then crowned god and goddess of war. They get more than honor. They are invited, cajoled and outright asked to join elite armies – including the emperor’s own army. Generals take them on as banners. Nobel families invite them to lead their guards. Winners get Travel. Favor. And most important for us, possible access.”
Marcus whistled softly. “Audacius, I like it.”
Amayra grinned. “True. If you both are crowned the goddess and god of War, you can easily infiltrate the army. We still might not get direct access to the lab but the army is responsible for patrolling the lab. With Rigor already a part of the army and whispers all along the West, we can figure out what is going on. ”
Illaria considered this. There was logic to it. There was danger in exposure at such a large forum but this was the fastest way to gain knowledge on a kingdom even Prince Lyn couldn’t touch. If the Trial of Flame could get them close enough to watch, to spy, to find the masked man, it was worth presenting themselves to the world — to be visible and invulnerable in equal measure.
“What if no one emerges victorious?” she asked. “Has that ever happened?”
Amayra’s eyes flashed. “Yes, in the women's category no one has emerged victorious in the last five years. In the men's category we generally have a winner. But in that case, the prince and princess assumes the role by right — which means I get to share the stage with Marcus if he wins.”
Light laughter washed around the table. Illaria felt her cheeks burn, “How are you confident he will win?”
Amayra, “Oh he will. He’s the war beast and we share culture so he’s gonna pass the tests. You on the other hand might find yourself trapped. Don’t worry, I will keep Marcus to myself in case you can’t make it. Hehehe.”
Illaria’s smile was small and fierce. She didn’t what dominated more – her desire to win or to not let Amayra or any other woman share that podium beside Marcus. She did know one thing though. She was going to win.
Amayra had found Illaria a hair dye so she could ditch the cloak. They set off the next morning for Nightsong, the city of secrets. The journey was long, but they made it to Nightsong on the first day of the Festival.