Flagons clang over the sound of celebratory cheers. 11 sits alone at a corner table, sipping on her bubbles in silent contemplation. Altogether, thirty people made it out of the tourney as the victors of the first round. They’re all crammed in the Guild’s dining hall, boasting about their wins over ale and food. The atmosphere is lively. Everyone seems to be making it a point to focus on the present and not the future, where the same people drinking together may end up facing each other in the arena tomorrow.

11 doesn’t ever think she’ll know what burning human smells like. But she does now.

It smelled like fuel, of sorts.

When the knights finally arrived to sort out the mess, 11 managed to stop the bleeding but she couldn't stop Lancer Edge from screaming. The spearhead had fused around his flesh, so when 11 was pulled away from him, it stayed stuck to his neck like the scale on a lizard.

11 couldn’t do anything else then, but watch and listen to his screams as he was carried away.

At least you saved him, were Mother’s last words before 11 shut off communication.

Someone pulls a chair next to 11. A gentleman sits down, holding two glass mugs filled with yellowish ale. It takes 11 a second to recognize Lord Vesslon without his golden armor. He looks different out of the arena, less formidable, but the air he gives is far from ordinary.

“Vesslon Wolfen of the Shaazaw Isles,” he says, extending a gloved hand to 11. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, my lady.”

11 goes through with the formalities. “Elevena Windborne of Ov… Kesrock,” she says, shaking the gentleman’s hand. “I hear the Isles are far from here.”

“I have traveled considerably indeed,” says the gentleman. “It was first to discuss business matters with those beyond my home, but now…” He raises 11’s hand and kisses her fingers, his sharp mustache prickling her skin. “I have decided to stay.”

“Found something more worth your time?” 11 asks, carefully but politely retracting her hand.

“Quite so,” says Lord Vesslon with a bashful smile. "Does my lady care to venture a guess?"

"A woman? That's usually the case, isn't it?"

"Indeed," chuckles Lord Vesslon. “She has caused quite the stir among the people. And continues to do so to this day.” His eyes are sharp as they study 11’s face. "It is the first time I have laid eyes on such a woman and I dare say, rumors do not do her justice."

11 starts to get an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. But she gives nothing away. “Is it the old South Gate captain?” she asks, taking a sip of her ale. "I've met her once. She was pretty but a little... intense."

Lord Vesslon shakes his head. "Yes, but she is nothing," he says. "No matter how much the Lady Knight does for this city, her house is an unknown one with no history in the realm. As soon as she marries, the name Stelias will be forgotten as one of the common folks'." He raises his mug and takes a calculated swig. Putting it down he sighs and says lightly, "Unlike yours, my dear lady Elevena Tigarn."

11 doesn’t know how to react to that, so she busies herself with drinking the rest of her ale. It is weak, likely an intended decision on Censa's part. It doesn't make much sense to have thirty drunken fighters all locked up together inside her castle, no matter how big it is.

Speaking of plans...

11 puts down her empty mug and asks Lord Vesslon, “Is this another of Cen- I mean Lady Thornrose’s tricks? Are you her side-hustle or something?”

The gentleman smiles conspiringly. “A wolf never runs alone,” he says, his dark eyes twinkling. “But do not worry, my lady. No one else here knows about your secret yet. Your house may be a shadow of its former self, but I do say that with you the legacy of the Tigarns might just well be raised again. And all the more glory to you. Everyone likes a story of redemption.”

11 starts getting up. She guesses Censa has something to do with this gentleman. But whatever they're doing here, she wants no part in it. Even though the contract she signed specifies that even after becoming a captain, 11 needs to always be available for Censa to call upon, nowhere does it state that she needs to do that during the tourney.

Hang on a minute...

“It's been a pleasure, my lord,” 11 tells the gentleman. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Did you know the man who you saved?” Lord Vesslon asks, swirling his ale as if he does not even hear what 11 is saying. “Or are you the kind of lady who holds a sword just as well as her people’s hearts? Compassion is a quality many lack these days.”

“I knew him,” 11 admits. “Lars... Lancer Edge tried to rob me as I was going through an alleyway. I threw him into a building.” Then his leader kidnapped my best friend and I’m going to get her back as soon as I find a way out of here.

Lord Vesslon laughs. “Best to keep that part to yourself, my lady. It makes a better story to say you were both strangers.”

“Noted,” 11 says, and leaves for the door.

The entrance to the guild’s mess hall is guarded by four dark-skinned women. These are not the steel-armored knights 11 is used to seeing but are instead the Amazonian warriors Censa always has around her.

11 goes up to one of them. “I want to pop out for a bit,” she says. "Need some fresh air."

The woman gives her a sullen look. “No victor may leave this room without the Lady’s permission,” she says. Her hair hangs in sections down the front of her chest like oily black vines, and in her hand is a battle-ax twice 11's height. “You will be shown to your rooms soon. Wait here until then.”

“Can I talk to Lady Thornrose then?” 11 asks. “She’ll know what it’s about.”

The woman frowns as if 11 is a mosquito that is quickly earning her way to a violent smacking. “The Lady is busy.”

“When is she not?” says 11 with a sigh. She has to admit it’s probably not the wisest thing for her to go charging upstairs again, so with a huff of indignation, she turns back to the party and goes to find someone else to help her.

A small band is playing on the eastern side of the mess hall, and Bilae Austere is dancing to their music on top a squarish table. The boy looks positively wasted. It’s a surprise given how low in alcoholic the ales are until 11 sees why. Grown men have surrounded him, cheering him on and supplying him with more and more mugs of foaming drink. An endless supply of alcohol, which the boy downs one after another seemingly without time to catch his breath.

11 squeezes her way to the foot of the table. She knocks on it to get Bilae’s attention and immediately regrets it. The wood is sticky. She looks around for somewhere to wipe her dirty knuckles and notices Bilae has stopped dancing.

“Whaddyou want?” the boy asks with a scowl.

“To talk,” 11 says, needing to shout to be heard over the noise. “Get down from there first.”

“You’ll have to make me,” says Bilae, tossing an empty mug high into the air, only to be handed another. Egged on by those around him, Bilae throws the ale into his face, earning applause from all around.

They’re doing this on purpose, 11 realizes as she glances around at the people surrounding the table. They want him inebriated so he can't fight tomorrow.

She quickly goes back to tell the guards at the entrance, but the response she gets is less than stellar.

“There are no weapons here,” says the same woman from before. “There’s nothing here that can hurt you.”

“It’s not me that’s in danger,” 11 explains and points to Bilae. The boy can be seen swaying on the table as he belts out lyrics to the tune played by the band. “They’re trying to sabotage him. At the rate he’s drinking, he’ll be too hungover to fight properly tomorrow. Don’t you guys have rules to stop that?”

The guard does not look swayed. “His mouth belongs to him. What he chooses to do with it is none of our concern.”

"But he's drunk."

"I don't see anyone forcing him to be."

11 turns her finger angrily to the woman. “You may be great guards but you're all terrible bouncers,” she says and marches away.

By the time 11 gets to Bilae again, the boy is balancing precariously on quivering feet. He’s still trying to drink from his mug but is spilling most of it. Without a word, 11 climbs on the table and helps him down. The boy tries to fight her at first but 11 isn’t playing any games. She leads him down with a firm grip on his arm like a parent dragging a drunken child away.

People do not seem to like that.

“Leave the boy alone!” Someone shouts and is quickly joined by others, all wanting their entertainment to continue. 11 ignores them all and leads the stumbling Bilae over to the corner of the room where he can calm down.

Amazingly, the boy sobers up in an instant when they’re out of the spotlight. He sweeps 11’s hand from his arm in disgust.

“What have I done to make you hate me so?” he demands. “For what purpose do you possibly have to ruin my plans like this?”

Too stunned by his sudden recovery, 11 forgets what she wants to say. “Y-you’re not drunk?” is all she manages in the end.

Bilae barks out a laugh. “Please, my lady, such talk makes you sound so naïve.” He drags his ale-stained fingers through his hair. “So what is it? I imagine you must have an important reason to talk to me, otherwise you would not be so eager to be seen with a murderer on your arm.”

“Um. Y-yes. I mean no.” 11 stares into Bilae’s eyes. They are a pretty shade of light blue. Paired with his sandy hair, the boy looks so young it seems ridiculous to think he’s capable of killing someone.

And yet he tried. Forcing 11’s hand, he tried to take another man’s life.

“You uhm, still remember our bet?” 11 asks, then seeing Bilae frown she quickly adds, “It still stands. I just want to make it… bigger.”

“You wish to up the ante?” asks Bilae, folding his arms. “What does my lady have in mind?”

11 pulls him to sit at a nearby table. It is empty. Everyone is too busy partying to the band, which has started to play quite the jaunty tune.

“If you lose the tourney tomorrow, I want you to help me do something before returning to Preulle.”

A small smile lifts Bilae’s thin lips. “I did think you were letting me off a little too easily.”

“I want you to kill me.”

The smile drops off Bilae’s face. “What?”

“During my fight,” 11 says. “I want you to charge into the arena and actually try to kill me. In front of everyone. Of course I won't actually die but I need it to seem that way. Preferably use a flashy spell, but if you can't do that then I'll come up with something.”

Bilae is standing now. “What?”

“You’re going back to Preulle anyway, right?” 11 presses on. “Just stay in your castle until I make myself known again. It’ll just be a few days. Weeks, maybe.”

“I’ll be cut down where I stand,” says Bilae.

“You won’t,” says 11. “I’ll make sure there’s someone who can transport you out of there.”

Bilae slams a fist into the table. “You are being absurd, my lady! This game you play is no longer interesting. I will not have my intelligence mocked and I will not make an enemy of this city by participating in such an insane scheme as this. Good day to you!” He turns to go but 11 springs across and grabs his wrist.

“Wait, Bilae.”

“Unhand me!”

They tug for a moment, until it becomes clear to Bilae he will not be going anywhere unless he severs his hand. 11 watches as realization whitens his face.

“You…” he says, looking down at his wrist locked inside 11’s fingers. “How are you…?”

“This world has forced people to do unspeakable things,” 11 says, keeping her grip tight but not so much she’ll really hurt him. “That includes me. I don’t want to resort to trickery but I have no choice. I can’t afford to stay any longer in this city. I need your help, Bilae. Please.”

Over the music and chatter, her eyes find Bilae's. There is fear in the boy's heart, fear and lust and pride all mixed together into something too human for 11 to identify.

“If I do this,” says Bilae, “I will be putting my life at stake. Even if you re-emerge unharmed, the people will not forgive me.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” 11 says. “I will have you royally pardoned.”

“You are able to do such a thing?”

“I… know the King’s Right-Hand Man.” 11 tries not to let her uncertainty show. While not technically a lie, she has no idea how her next encounter with God Gier 5 will go.

Will he come at me with a sword or a drone first, I wonder.

“You assume many things too, my lady,” Bilae says, echoing 11’s own words back to her. “You assume I will fight before you. You also assume, incorrectly I might add, that I will lose. I remind you as well, there will be three victors chosen for the three gates. It is possible that neither of us will face each other in battle.”

11 lets go of Bilae. “Well,” she says. “I'll just have to make sure the dice lady luck throws tomorrow will be the ones I give her.”

“Who is lady luck?”

“Goodnight, Bilae.”

11 spots the guards opening the doors. She makes her way over, looking forward to a night’s rest.

It doesn’t come. Of course, it doesn’t come. The moment 11’s hand touches the handle to her assigned chamber she smells it.

Faint but so familiar it hurts, she catches the scent of a lush, minty field. And strawberries.

"Oh, shit."

11 yanks open the door.

Aralyn Windborne is sitting on her bed, one leg propped over the other. The elf girl grins when 11 steps through the chamber and pats the empty spot next to her.

"You sure took your time," she says. "Munchkin."