Pangs of clattering and shuffling could be heard from within the stall as I waited outside. Looks like the man had been spooked after I stated that the guards would arrive soon and was now hurriedly packing up, trying to flee as quickly as possible. There was a slight chance he might bolt out the door, thinking he could evade me as I was only a child, but he would be sorely mistaken. Over the past year, I had gotten into the good graces of trainer Galti, who placed special attention on me. My training had become targeted, focusing more on control than power, the rationale behind it being “a bow without aim was no better than a stick”, something that I couldn’t agree with more.

When initially arriving at the stall, I had viewed the man’s chi and discovered that he wasn’t an earthbender. This fact gave me confidence that I could at least hamper his movements. Spreading chi into the ground encompassing a small area around me, I got ready in case something unexpected happened. If he tried anything, I would be sure that he regretted it dearly. I’m not a petty person by nature but one that thinks every decision should have an appropriate reaction, especially if it involves my personal interests.

Rusty hinges cried out under duress as the door swung open, the man hunched over with a large sack slung over his back. Held protectively in his right hand was a leather sheath, both knives concealed within. His eyes swivelled in their sockets, surveying the area, but before any rebellious thoughts had a chance to take root, I moved. Thrusting both arms downwards, the ground directly beneath his feet turned into a slurry as the increased weight from the load worked against him, engulfing him up to his knees. Retracting my chi, earth regained its impervious state, cementing his legs within. The swiftness with which the assault took place left the man little time to register what happened, much less react, resulting in him staring at me with a dumbfounded look.

“Did you really think I would let you escape without any resistance?” I blankly questioned.

His face reluctantly morphed into a sarcastic sneer. “Very impressive, very impressive,” he said, emphasising a second time with greater oomph. “I was about to do you a favour, but since you want these knives so bad, take em!!!” he declared, throwing the sheath at me. “But know that you have offended the Mole Whistlers, who always come for their dues.”

Catching the airborne object right before it smacked into my face, I quipped back, uncaring of the empty threat, “Careful, don’t wanna damage the merchandise.” Nothing changed externally, but my emotions were like a leaf floating on a lake during a rainstorm. Did he really say Mole Whistlers? The organisation that was essentially the unofficial bridge that connected all the cities in the valley? This was a prime opportunity that could not be lost, with many ideas blooming and being pruned as I tried to find the best one.

“And he’s got jokes now,” the man silently cursed while wrenching himself free from his restraints.

Tucking the knives into my jacket beside the figurine after ensuring it was authentic, my attention returned to the man doing his best to clean his now mud-caked trousers. “I never got your name?”

“Huh,” he momentarily glanced up before resuming his futile attempts, “and what good will that do me?”

“Ah, I was just thinking about laying down a few flowers at your grave once the Mole Whistlers realise you lost them, not one but two genuine earthbound weapons.” His actions halted at those words, and I could almost see the gears in his head churning, confirming my conjecture. ‘Looks like I was right. He thinks these are genuine earthbound weapons and not diluted reproductions. The perils of being a non-bender never end,’ I mused.

He was right to be worried. Even if one had the wealth to afford earthbound weapons, this didn’t mean they could walk to the nearest blacksmith and put an order in. Their exclusivity was due to the fact that the ore needed was notoriously scarce, with most war houses only owning one or two pure earthbound weapons. This pitiful man was likely fooled into believing these knives were pure so that he would sell the product with fervent enthusiasm, drawing in a greater crowd.

“Woah there, don’t go wetting your pants just yet. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not a heartless person whose only reason for existence is to bring misery upon others. How about we make another deal?” I put forth with a returned grin.

His pallid facial features accentuated his hesitancy, but he quickly caved under pressure. “What do you propose?”

“A partnership,” I replied matter of factly, prompting a raised eyebrow out of him. “I’m looking to gain a backer, and I think the Mole Whistlers are a perfect choice. They don’t care about who you are or what you do, all that matters to them is what you bring to the table, and I want you to be my go-between.”

“Hah. What could someone like you possibly bring to the table? Your mother’s family name?” he scoffed in derision.

Ignoring the blatant provocation, I retorted, “The Vesperal Labyrinth. I will be participating in the Stone Run later today. If they think I have nothing to offer after that, so be it.”

“And you expect me to sit back and watch while my life is in your hands? Why would I ever agree to something like this,” he lamented, palming his forehead.

“Because I’m the only chance you got,” I countered. “The choice is yours, but know this, the popper who in fear refuses to beg will always go without.”

“Sigh—Has anyone told you that you’re far too much of a smartass for a kid?”

“My teacher and training instructor mention it all the time,” I replied, eliciting a dry chuckle from the man.

Extending a bony hand, he replied, “Fine, not like I lose anything extra if this falls through. Call me Kraki.”

“You know my name. To a long and prosperous partnership Mr Kraki.” I clasped his hand, doing my best not to recoil at them muddying my own, a crooked grin with yellowed teeth revealing that I had been unsuccessful in the endeavour. We shook, marking the formation of an embryonic bond.

His parting words drifted over the jangling of the stuffed sack as he scuttled away. “Be careful kid, nails that stand out tend to get hammered down.” With that warning, he turned the corner, leaving me alone in the stall back lanes.

I turned and left in the opposite direction, chuckling at the notion. My reply went unheard, swallowed by the symphony of festive merriment. “The nail. The hammer. What do they matter? They are merely tools for the hand…”

Clouds gathered around the sun as it fell from the sky, the day moving towards night’s eve. Stalls keepers shooed away stubborn stragglers too engrossed with their games as the crowds dwindled. Not having much time left, I rushed towards the Gneisti family booth, hoping it hadn’t closed for the day. Rushing winds whipped my hair about, occasionally marring my vision, prompting me to tie up the unruly strands into a knot using a piece of string I kept on hand.

It wasn’t long before the accompanying structures shifted from multicoloured playfulness to those with more mature coverings. As I came upon the granite structure, with its engraved wall and pillars, I was thankful it still had life. Walking in with huffing breaths, I saw that my uncle, Tolkr, tended to the shop.

He was a spindly man, no older than thirty, with brown hair that fell past his ears and sported a hooked moustache. There was a visible look of confusion when he saw me, with good reason and wasted no time to query the cause, “What are u doing here!? The whole family is waiting for you at the arena grounds.”

“I—huff—have something—huff—to show you,” I wheezed, fishing out the knives and placing them on the countertop. Uncle Tolkr’s eyes went wide the instant they landed on the black blade, shoving it back into the sheath and moving towards the back of the establishment, motioning for me to follow.

“Where did you get this Sǫl!!! Do you have any idea what this is!!!” he furiously whispered.

“I know!!! Huff—I somehow won them while playing one of the fair games. Can you appraise them before the Vesperal Labyrinth starts?” He looked at me sceptically while twiddling his beard, forcing me to bring out the big guns. “Pleeeaaassseee… this may be the only chance I have at actually completing it,” I pleaded with puppy eyes and interlocked hands.

Looking back and forth between me and the weapon, he reluctantly agreed. “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this… Fine, but we are gonna be cutting it real close. Go get me the weighing tool over there while I start with the bending index.” I followed his instructions as best I could, praying that no delays occurred. He was right, this was a big gamble, but if it paid off, I would shine brighter than the myriad stars that dotted the skies by day’s end.

A sea of people streamed towards Jörðgard, small to large, young to old, penniless to wealthy, from all walks of life. Passersby would stare in awe at towering statues of almighty warriors withstanding the test of time. They were heroes of old who steadfastly watched over one of the numerous entrances leading into the hallowed ground where warriors were birthed and nurtured. The obtuse structure grew into the sky-high mountain wall that loomed over the whole city. Within, flat ground gave way, descending until it reached the battle floor, where people were hard at work putting the final touches on the many obstacles and environmental hazards that would serve their purpose in the near future.

The arena is more obtuse than this semi circular shape and much larger.

Tiered stone carved out of the very earth following the arena’s outline served as seats—moss and lichen squeezing through their many cracks and crevices—filled up as more people filed in. The atmosphere was abuzz with chatter as eager spectators awaited the evening’s entertainment. The affluent and wealthy occupied the best seats along the middle column, while their lessers had to make do with the sides. Regardless of the occasion, there was always an invisible wall separating the karls and thralls, deliberately or not. It was societal brainwashing that the few who saw it for what it was didn’t dare question.

In the middling zone where these two castes formed some semblance of a compromise, the Gneisti family had staked their claim over a small area. At the sight of Smiðr returning, Menglǫð inquired of the outcome, the urgency in her voice betraying the calm face she wore, “Well?!”

Conversations died down as the family waited for the response in anticipation, to which he shook his head, causing a mixture of sighs and low mutterings to ring out. “I couldn’t find him anywhere, mother. Fjǫrnir is still out searching, but who knows. Maybe he got frightened by the crowds and left… everyone forgets he’s only ten at the end of the day,’ Smiðr reasoned.

Upon hearing his son’s excuses, Skálpr huffed in rebuke, “Hmph!!! If this is all it takes to scare him away, he never stood any chance at being acknowledged by the Illugis, let alone becoming a warrior.”

“Do not speak about my son like that,” Smiðr smouldered as he locked eyes with his father. He understood his father’s concerns, but he had promised Ljós and himself that their son would be loved regardless of if he lived up to any expectations or obligations. So his response was understandable when his own father was doing the exact opposite right to his face.

The staredown continued, Skálpr’s worn hands resting atop a walking stick that shivered, mimicking his movements. Their quarrel had not gone unnoticed, leaving those nearby in awkward silence. Having enough of it, Menglǫð stepped in. “Forgive your father’s words Smiðr. The cold has always had a knack for making him cranky. He’s just disappointed we couldn’t get to see little Sǫl take part in the Vesperal Labyrinth.”

Skálpr, who was about to open his mouth in protest, chose to hold his tongue as his wife gave him a piercing glance. She had always been better at getting her way than he ever was. It was one of the reasons why their household was still afloat and had yet to fall into ruin, but he was sure that as things stood, it only had one more generation left in it. He released a resigned exhale at the thought of his family losing everything they had accumulated over the generations. ‘What would our ancestors think?” he brooded.

His eyes only regained focus when a man walked out of the pale fortress carved from the mountain wall overlooking Jörðgard; it served as the warrior’s headquarters. Dressed in luxurious clothes, he stood on the most prominent balcony that jutted from the building, spreading his arm wide as the crowds cheered. Inhaling till his lungs were about to burst, a rugged voice thundered across the whole arena.

“Life and soul!!!”