The rock whizzed towards the stacked cowbells producing a loud thrum on impact reverberating over the area, silencing the grumbling gatherers. Bluto had managed to topple a pyramid on his first attempt, quite a surprise. He slowly turned around, the smirk on his face looking more like the look one would have when they were about to perform a lecherous act. A few women inadvertently stepped back, repulsed by the sight. I would be, too, if I were in their shoes. That boy ain’t right.

Loud clapping interrupted the uneasy calm, the carnie congratulating Bluto on a job well done. “Splendid throw, sir, for knocking over a stack on your first try, you have earned yourself ten points!!! Everyone, a round of applause if you please for this fine young warrior!!!” The man’s timely interjection coerced the festive mood back to life, with slow claps and hesitant laughs soon following. With the situation under control, he moved it along, “Would the young sir grace us with his name?”

Bluto looked at the man, chest puffed, riding high off his toadied words. “Móir Eldiárnsson, second son of house Eldiárn and future member of the Vargrheðinn,” he declared, with a voice loud enough, so all those nearby heard it. His statement caused quite a stir, not only because he was second in line to inherit a house that were the vassals of one of the city’s most prominent powers, but also because he stated he would join the Vargrheðinn. That squad only took on the most dangerous raids, crucial to our defence against the draugr. They represented the cream of the crop, and every year only a select few were qualified to join, much less make the cut.

If it was anyone else saying such an absurd thing, I’m sure everyone would have laughed and ridiculed them for it, but no one dared to right now. Those people from before who had spoken rudely to the boy were probably praying to the Great Guardian right now in hopes they weren’t called out. Once more, the stallkeeper came to everyone’s rescue. “Sir Móir, wrathful fighter, a fitting name for one such as you. It would be an honour to have you wield those marvellous earthbound knives, but regrettably, I cannot just offer them to you. There are rules, and this is a test of skill, knock all the remaining stacks over, and the grand prize will be all yours.”

Nodding his head in agreement, Bluto grabbed the second stone, tossing it into the air a couple times while taking aim. The throw, much like the first, produced a crips sound as the stone sailed through the air, resulting in the same outcome, a strike. The crowd erupted into exaggerated applause but whether it was genuine or in faux support remained known only to them. In the end, Bluto scored a total of thirty-seven points. He had failed to topple the last two pyramids, a high score but surely not something that would satisfy his ever-enlarging vanity.

“Ooooo, so close, Sir Móir. Those knives would have been all yours if you had just knocked down three more bells, but it’s not all bad. With a score of thirty-seven, you can choose one prize from this fine selection right here,” he motioned towards an array of rock sculptures, “these figurines have been hand sculpted from the finest of materials and then blessed by one of the vǫlva of the Niðarödd. They are sure to bring even greater fortune to the young sir.” His statement arrested their interest, the troupe silently discussing amongst themselves.

One of the twins stepped forward, maybe lefty. In all honesty, I still couldn’t tell who was who after all this time and didn’t bother to figure it out. Clearing his throat, a crisp voice left his lips, “Sir, is there any way to verify that these figurines were indeed blessed by the Niðarödd?”

“Indeed there is,” he grabbed a sculpture of what looked like a goat, flipping it over, “to prove their authenticity, every figurine had been marked with their crest. As you know, I would never dare sully the name of those that represent the Great Guardian’s voice and carry out his will. That would be inviting a calamity upon not just me but all those I hold dear.”

Their doubts sated, lefty asked for a sculpture of a bear, presenting it to Bluto like a servant to their master. But would such a person be satisfied with just this? Right now, all eyes were on him, and I could almost see his ego enlarging by the second. Unsurprisingly, he brought out more coins, raring for another go, which the owner was happy to oblige. No one objected on account of his status, the protests of a few brave souls falling on deaf ears. We waited patiently as the group of kids hogged the next few rounds of the game, the stall keeper lavishing them in praise, and why wouldn’t he as his pockets grew heavier each time.

It finally ended when all their money had been spent, a collective sigh of relief washing over the crowd. The twins were laden with sculptures, daggers, and other prizes the group—well, I say group, but it was mainly Bluto who took part in the game—had won. He strutted away after waving everyone farewell, the others following close behind, too engrossed with his winnings to see that he had failed to attain the real prize. Thankfully, I remained hidden throughout this ordeal, with them loving to pick on me, who knew what might have happened if I was seen. It was one thing if it occurred when no one of merit was paying attention to us and another for it to happen in the middle of a large gathering like this one.

I would be forced to confront him, not for my face but that of the Illugis. Anything that undermined their image was met with brutal retaliation, and I refused to be on the receiving end of their wrath. There was a reason why they were feared more than respected by the inhabitants of this city. Knowing this, how could I allow them to be publicly humiliated using me as the proxy? This would permanently bar me from ever having an opportunity to earn their acknowledgement. Not to mention, the cowardly act of not standing up for one’s family would leave a bad taste in these people’s mouths, further lowering the public’s perception of me.

It would leave me with no other choice than a collision course with a bastard like Bluto, whose family already don’t see eye to eye with the Illugis. Of course, this wasn’t much of a problem, but I liked to keep my troubles to a minimum if the circumstances allowed it.

Waiting until I was sure they were well and truly gone, I walked out from within the crowd, stopping behind a large man who had been impatiently waiting for his turn all this while, bubbling with anticipation. My plan was simple, taking advantage of one of humanity’s greatest strengths, our ability to learn. When my turn finally arrived, a drifting cloud draped itself over the sun, casting a shadow upon us.

Fumbling in my money pouch, I took out five argent coins, referred to as silver chips, placing them on the counter. Our currency was unique, coming in irregular shapes and colours called álfursteinar. Oddly, however, it was minted using some unknown material resembling marble that was immune to earthbending. Metal was too precious to be wasted on something like this, but neither was the substance a mineral, leaving me stumped. I had nearly mistaken them for a strange collection of stones when I first laid eyes upon them; such was their eccentricity.

Value was determined based on their colour, from an ashy blend to an almost emerald-like translucency, or so I heard, silver chips being the second-lowest on the ladder. The profile of the current chieftain, the Illugi head, was carved onto the front face while the Great Guardian was on the back, along with a mark of authenticity, creating our moon gem, a passably circular piece that held a mild gleam at the right angle.

The stall owner swept the chips away in very much the same manner a greedy gambler would, eyeing me warily. Smiling in feigned ignorance, I realised the counter was a bit too high for my liking. My height was average for a ten-year-old, and I found many things out of reach or a bit too high. To hit the targets right now, I would have to throw the stone at an upward angle which was not ideal. So spreading my legs with hands parallel to my shoulders as if lifting an invisible weight, I slowly raised my arms. The earth below my feet bulged, rising till I was satisfied with the height, the modest feat causing a flurry of comments from the onlookers.

“Don’t hurt yourself from the strain, kid!!!”

“Why don’t you come back in a few years when you can see the targets, boy!!!”

“Three chips says he won’t score more than 10 points!!!”

“You’re on!!!”

“Haaa—that obnoxious brat earlier and now him? What have we done to anger the Great Guardian today?”

That last comment brought a smile to my face, imagining the irony. ‘Let’s see if you will praise or curse the Great Guardian after this.’ I grabbed a rock ball, waiting for the cowbells to be positioned. It filled my hand, being roughly the size of an apple, the roughly hewn surface allowing for some much-needed grip. My strategy didn’t revolve around power and brute force but around control and precision. Earthbenders were allowed to bend the stone any way they liked as long as it kept its shape and was in flight, providing a clear advantage for those who could, yet no one complained.

Those without power had no say in things, this was something that everyone understood and abided by, and it made sense. Which non-bender would dare try and make this game harder in a bid to make it ‘fair’ and inevitably anger people who could hurl large chunks of rock or do much worse to them? As for the earthbenders, I needn’t explain why they had no qualms about how things were.

The click-clack of cowbells stacked upon each other had stopped, my gaze returning to the presenter. “Alright, kid, you know the rules, have a pop,” the owner urged, eager to move me on. There was no need for a reply as I took aim at the first pyramid, three bells forming its base as the other two rested on their shoulders, no weighted bells in the stack. Standing at an angle to the stall, I gripped the stone with index and middle finger on top, thumb on the bottom, the rest bent, chi wrapping around it. Casting away intrusive heartbeats, sounds of fairground revelry, and the amalgamation of different scents in the air, I took deep rhythmic breaths to steady my being.

Alongside a forceful exhale, my arm whipped forward, the accumulated chi roiling in my palm. The ball left my hand, twirling with vigour, drawing a curved arc in the air before striking the gap between two of the bottom layer bells just as intended. The pyramid exploded, bells flying high into the air, jouncing echoes ringing through the surroundings. I hadn’t thrown the ball with much venom at all, being no better than a non-benders throw if I was honest. The difference was made because of the spin I placed upon it paired with hitting the only vulnerable spot on the pyramid. Exclamations and gasps sounded out, those nearby unbelieving of the scene they had witnessed.

Much like the first, the curveball obliterated the pyramid, hushed murmurings spreading between the gathered folk. ‘Let’s see if they will lay down their pride for a chance at these earthbound weapons. Can’t be a good feeling having to copy a technique a child used to get a higher score than you,’ I mused. Instead of going on to the next pyramid for my third attempt, I skipped it, aiming at the fourth, ending with a similar conclusion. At this point, the people quieted down, enthralled by the spectacle unfolding before them.

Now, I did have a good shot at winning this whole thing, but that would be reckless. Why would I want to offend everyone here by snatching the prize before their eyes? Not to mention everyone would know I had these valuable weapons on me, and word always spread fast. Therefore, I intentionally made the ball curve upwards on my fourth throw, only managing to strike one of the top cowbells. I could almost hear those near me collectively release a held breath, laughing and joking around to release accumulated tension.

“I don’t believe it.”

“That had to have been a fluke. How else would you explain it?”

“Hey kid, do that again.”

My following action shocked them as I threw the last ball at the stack of four cowbells. Even if someone managed to hit only one bell off a pyramid, leaving it in an unstable position, they would still move on. Cause if they did manage to knock all the bells over on the following pyramid, they would net a whole ten points, which was much more than four. The chance of a greater payoff despite the higher risk outshining the safer option showcasing a perfect example of human greed, but I knew better. That last stack had a weighted bell in its base, making the feat impossible, so I went for the sure-fire option, which paid off as the remainder of the pyramid crumbled. Netting me a grand total of thirty-five points.

As I took hold of my prize, a spear-wielding female figurine, I saw the stall owner visibly gulp at the view behind me. As I walked away, I could guess his thoughts, shouts and exclamations still reaching my ears despite the distance between us growing. I found a wooden crate to sit on some distance away with a good view of the stall, watching as people threw their money away, sinking into the pitfall called Don’t Wake the Cow. People flocked to the stall, the pitch-black weapons hypnotic pull rendering logic and common sense mute.

They were drawn in with a shiny prize, hope dwindling as time went on, goal looking more and more unattainable, but my technique had reignited that hope. All I had to do now was sit back and let them do the work for me.