Feldon passed the telescope to Rael and pointed toward the Omrad. It was close enough that Rael had to crane their neck back to see the very top, but still too far to tell what the tiny people were doing. Rael took the offered spyglass and peeked through it.

A man with silvery skin punched another rippling with muscles. The muscular man caught the punch, his tattoos glowing and unpeeling from his skin to wrap around his opponent. The silver man tried to struggle against his bonds, but it was no use. The muscular man swung him around, knocking him into a few others, and threw him off the Omrad. Rael sucked in a breath, fearing the worst. Thankfully, the man was caught in a green bubble and was gently lowered into a crowd of similarly grumpy Faulk. They were all looking at an hourglass suspended over the gates on the Omrad’s stairs. When it flipped over, the warriors cheered and rushed up the stairs to fight again.

Scenes like this played out all over the Omrad: A woman spitting out a jet of flame towards a group of people, only for a stone man to tackle her to the ground. A man who sued his long beard as a way to wield several weapons at once, crying out in sorrow when someone’s sword cut his beard short. Another man walking leisurely up a set of stairs to a higher floor, everyone that attempted to get close to him falling asleep. A woman curled up in a ball, bouncing all over the place, knocking people over every which way. Sometimes, someone would get stabbed or bludgeoned. Rather than falling dead, a bright light would flash from their bodies and they’d be sent careening over the side of the Omrad, caught in green bubbles.

“Another contest?” Rael bit their lip to hide an excited smile. ‘If it wrong of me to think that it looks fun?’

“One you wouldn’t be able to join.” Feldon saw through Rael’s thoughts. “Considering your injury. Which makes me curious.”

Rael pulled away from the telescope. Jarl Feldon’s tone grew sharp, his jaw set forwards and the hair on his head rising with his temper.

“Did someone do that to you?” His words were laced with so much venom that Rael flinched. Feldon’s nostrils flared and blew gusts through his beard like a storm bends trees in a forest. His normally calm eyes blazed with an intense, violent fury. “You need to tell me if they did. You are my guest, and a guest of Stone Circle. Had someone attacked you, I will rain retribution on them with such fervor that tales would be told for generations of their misery.”

“Woah, woah.” Rael held up their hands and shook their head vigorously. “I hurt myself with my own magic. Nobody hurt me.”

“I hope you are telling the truth.” Feldon’s temper simmered down. “And you don’t plan on dealing with your problems alone out of some misplaced sense of pride.” Rael almost scoffed at the thought. But the Dragonward realized that they might have done that if they were attacked. “What manner of spell causes these injuries?”

“Uh.” Rael froze.

“Looked like rebound.” Edith leaned over them and interjected. She noticed Rael’s confusion and shook her head. “You really are from the boonies, huh?”

“Edith.” Jarl Feldon looked up to meet his wife in the eyes as Rael bristled. “We often forget that other countries don’t have the reliable communication systems we or the Bergin have. Rael’s ignorance is no fault of theirs.”

“Fine, fine. It’s not like you know either.” Edith crouched by Rael to explain. “It takes intense study and careful guidance to combine spells. If someone stubbornly melds spells together to make a higher circle spell without an idea of how they fit together…you get rebound. Most people have the sense to give up before that happens. Apparently, not you.”

Rael smiled sheepishly, the tall woman’s stare boring down into them. Feldon waved her away, putting a comforting hand on Rael’s shoulder.

“Mistakes happen, Rael. They make great teachers.” He turned his attention back to the Omrad and pointed towards one of the higher levels. “Take this opportunity to learn from the mistakes of others.”

The Dragonward nodded, aiming the spyglass at the topmost level. The fights at the top were the most vicious; snarling men and women beat at each other with war hammers, axes, and swords, unflinching and all-too-willing to draw blood. Every hit on their bodies caused them to flash, brighter and brighter with each successive hit. Until the light around them cracked. That’s when they were sent flying out of the Omrad, bouncing off anything and everything until they were in the open air. Most of the fighting was concentrated on and around the platforms like the one Rael used in their spars. Groups would join together to knock off the people on the platform, then fight amongst themselves or others that tried to take their place. Wasn’t this a game Rael had played in Tulip’s Hold?

“I was the best at king of the hill.” Rael grumbled as they focused the lens to focus on the fighters.

“Maybe if you didn’t go through rebound, you’d be up there.” Edith chided as she poked Rael in the side.

“How are they counting points, anyways?” Rael flinched as they watched one of the bigger men get launched into his friends, bowling a dozen people over the edge.

“Enchantments and unity spells.” Feldon pointed at the roots of the Omrad.

Gathered around the top of the hill was an orchestra of shamans, each channeling their magic into an enchantment or a more experienced elder shaman. Just by looking at them, Rael could feel the pressure of the magical energies push against their eyes. At the center of it all was a willowy old woman, one hand held directly beneath the Omrad’s center. Norn Astrid, surrounded by her three mute assistants, held the nexus of the complex spell in the palm of her hand. Her other hand was shoveling food into her mouth.

‘Makes sense, that array must consume loads of energy.’ Rael blinked the stars from their vision and looked away. Connected to the streams of magic were massive gourds that trickled water into ten different colored troughs. Every time a new group new took possession of one of the stages, the gourd would turn and fill up another bucket. ‘They’re using water clocks.’ Some water clocks would only drip water, while the larger gourds flowed into the troughs. The trough that was the most filled was a red one marked with an axe lodged into a skull wearing a crown. Jarl Erikar’s emblem. Several gourds flowed into his trough, turning away every now and then to fill some other Jarl’s trough.

‘The top level gives the most points. Makes sense, since you’d have to slog through ten floors with enough men to hold a position.’

Rael focused back on the topmost level, noting with a frown that most of Jarl Erikar’s men dominated the level. They rushed through the highest floor, tearing into their opponents like wild animals. Their spells all shared similar themes, the tattoos on their bodies lighting up and peeling off their skin to attack their foes. Sometimes it was simple lines used as whips, other times weapons that jumped off their skin and into the fray, and yet more had animals that reached off their bodies to attack. ‘Tattoo magic? With their tome-warriors helping, no wonder they’re winning. They’ve got everyone outnumbered.’

That wasn’t to say they alone kept all of the daises to themselves. Two other groups were capable enough to push Erikar’s men off. Rael recognized the first easily enough, their enchanted weapons flashing with every swipe. Where most warriors were comfortable with blocking a foe’s weapon with their own, most avoided the enchanted weapons entirely. One unlucky sap blocked a sword with his shield, only to be sent flying off the edge when the blade cut right through it. Rael swore they could hear him cry mournfully; it looked to be an expensive iron kite shield. ‘If Jarl Moryn’s people aren’t careful, they’re going to damage the Omrad.’ Rael was worried for nothing. A fighter wasn’t precise enough and cut accidentally through one of the branches. She looked at the ichor oozing from the cut branch, mortified. The wood regenerated quickly, but not before sending a beam of energy into the stunned fighter, shooting her into the abyss. Naturally, there were punishments for damaging the Omrad.

Rael didn’t know the other group, but it was clear they worked together better than Moryn or Erikar’s warriors. They shared similar elemental spells, using clouds of fog to hide their movements, clumps of mud to slow down their enemies, and shards of ice to eliminate them. They moved in groups of six to take control of the stages that were less defended, and when it seemed as if they were being pushed back, they’d retreat and regroup with other groups that had lost members. Rael was curious about this tactic until they realized the long-term benefits. Less people eliminated as the teams ‘respawned’ meant they had a more consistent force throughout the entire game. By paying attention to the gourds and troughs counting points, Rael identified their emblem as a mangrove emerging from fog. They were tied for second with Moryn, her own white balance emblem gleaming proudly on the glossy black trough.

“Who are the ones with the green trough?” Rael whistled. “They’ve got a great strategy.”

“Those are Jarl Trygyve’s men.” Jarl Feldon’s frown lightened at Rael’s confusion. “Yes, the Jarl who got kidnapped. Trygyve’s half-brother, Brenwyn, is leading them in his stead. You can see why they’re still in the running.”

‘But where are Feldon’s men?’

There was nobody Rael could recognize on the top level. Yet when they found Feldon’s emblem on the troughs, they couldn’t hide their surprise. The downward sword emblem marked a humble rust-orange trough, drinking greedily from more gourds than any other team. The smallest water-clocks trickled a few drops into it, but together they filled it up quickly. Not to mention three of the larger gourds flowing water into them. Not as quickly as the biggest, but consistently and reliably.

From the bottom, familiar faces jumped out at the Dragonward on each of the stages. Piles of tables and benches arranged around the daises acted as fortifications, defended by small groups of three. Most of their opponents passed them by, unwilling to drudge through the defenses for a measly few points. It was like this that Feldon’s men could hold the first three floors with minimal effort, monopolizing eight zones with only two dozen men.

“Captain Brenwyn is a skilled tactician.” Feldon smiled when Rael, flabbergasted, turned his way. The Jarl shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I chose the more efficient route, taking advantage of peers’ lack of experience in holding positions.”

Most of Feldon’s remaining forces kept to the eighth floor, headed by Ulric and Derrol. Ulric’s tome stood behind him, holding up its arm in the direction of different groups of enemies. They’d charge towards Ulric and his men when something would pass over them. They all collapsed over each other, clutching their ears and puking. Ulric’s tome put down its hand as he raised his bow to pick off the stragglers. His men used similar tactics to disorient their foes with splashes of color, swarms of insects, or nauseous green fog. Then they’d leap in and deal devastating damage, slashing and hacking at their opponents until they shot out of the Omrad.

Derrol’s group was more savage and mobile than Ulric’s. While the first group could competently hold down an area on their own, Derrol and his group ran between two capture zones like twin rivers, gathering momentum to crash into any forces that tried to push them out. Their spells were more physically-oriented, showcasing titanic strength and speed as their weapons clashed oddly with their opponents. When Rael looked closer, they realized that most of them weren’t wearing armor, but spell constructs that kept them safe from major blows. Every time someone hit one of them, all their armor would dim slightly. ‘A unified spell? [Harmony]? What the Hells are their spells?’

Derrol was the most ferocious of all, lapping his men constantly, even wielding his ridiculously large great axe. Even so, he wielded it with the grace of a dancer, cleaving through his foes with ease. Not even dodging out of the way of the axe would save them; Derrol was able to turn his weapon on a pin, its form blurring strangely and slamming into them no matter how far away they jumped. Very few were lucky enough to avoid the worst of Derrol’s charge, but they quickly fell to the stampede that followed him.

Rael tried to find Kip’s distinctive curly brown hair among any of the groups. A few minutes of searching later, they gave up. ‘Did he not end up joining? No way. The guy has got something to prove.’

“Where’s Kip?” Rael mumbled as they tried to focus the spyglass.

“Try the top three floors.” Derrol shared a knowing smirk with his wife.

There wasn’t much to see on the top three floors aside from Moryn, Trygyve, and Erikar’s men mired in a constant cycle of competition. Except for a strange band of warriors running up and down the three floors, attacking everyone they passed. Strange because they lacked all armor except helmets, choosing instead to run around in loincloths, their oiled bodies bare to the world. The only exception were the tome-warriors that followed them mechanically, yet just as immune to shame.

“No.” The Dragonward gaped. They recognized one of the tomes.

They ran into a troupe trying to make their way up to the nineth floor, their leader a beast of a man covered in scars and furs. The fastest and oiliest of the group disappeared in a flash, reappearing a second later behind the leader. His limbs stiffened, the near-naked man wrestling him to the ground. As the leader was grappled into submission, the rest of the group was thrown into confusion. Some tried to cast spells or attack the oily man, but he just twisted around so the weakened leader would take the blows instead. The others were soon assaulted to the ground by the rest of the oily group. The first oily man brought his head up…and slammed it into his opponent’s face. Once, twice, three times, and the light broke. The warrior howled as he soared off the Omrad, his companions soon following.

The band of oily warriors got up and ran off again to assault some other group of warriors. They rushed through the three floors, leaving chaos and confusion in their wake. They never attacked zones, instead intercepting opponents rushing to join their allies. Their own casualty rate wasn’t low; the group lost most of its members throughout their blitz attacks. But when the respawn timer ended, they were the quickest to rejoin their fellows, leaving slippery tracks in their wake that slowed down everyone else. The only one that never got blown off the Omrad was the swift leader of the group, the one followed by a tome-warrior in chinampa farmer clothing. Kip.

“How is he casting so many spells without getting tired?” Rael furrowed their brow.

Kip’s speed was obviously enhanced, not to mention the ludicrous drain from the teleportation spell he used without any concern for his reserves.

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he?” Shieldmaiden Edith beamed. “I scouted him out when he was still a little scamp. His spell build is genius.” She glanced at Rael, who was lost in thought. Rael had to admit that Edith was right. He was only a few years older than Rael, yet his skills equaled captains like Derrol and Ulric. Edith snapped her fingers to get their attention. “Don’t tell him I said that. If his head gets any bigger, it won’t fit inside the helm.”

“What do you notice from his fighting, Dragonward?” Feldon prodded. “What makes him different from Derrol or Ulric?”

Rael didn’t need to think about it. “The only weapon he uses is his helmet, to bludgeon people as he gets them in a grapple. But more than that, he doesn’t get tired.”

True, Derrol could zoom around and leave a path of devastation in his wake. Ulric could spray foes with a debilitating beam, then pick them off from a distance. But Derrol stopped every few laps to rest behind his men, and Ulric had enough time to recover between every push. Their magic use was measured and precise, seemingly wild but without mistakes.

Kip didn’t care about mistakes. He jumped into the fray, slipped around, grappled the biggest target, and ran away if things didn’t go his way. His spells were as subtle yet feral as Derrol, with his strange spells and ferocious swings, yet as debilitating and confusing as Ulric’s stunning spell. Even when he lost, he managed to get away and leave his opponent weaker and stiff, sure to lose his next encounter.

“He’s not aiming for victory.” Rael realized. “He’s just there to ruin their day.”

“And he can keep going with a spell most believe to be fundamentally flawed.” Feldon nodded. “[Strength Sap] is one of those rare spells that can reinvigorate the spellcaster. In this case by stealing the vitality of the opponent.”

“That doesn’t sound flawed.” Rael was already considering what spell they’d like to replace with [Strength Sap]. ‘The freaky null spell or whatever. Definitely.’

“You need prolonged skin contact for it to work.” Shieldmaiden Edith’s statement stopped Rael’s thoughts in their tracks. “The more skin contact, the more you drain.”

“Ah.” Rael pursed their lips, the image of them standing tall over a pile of battered opponents disappearing quickly. They had to shake their head to remove the image of themselves oiled up and in the nude.

“That, [Blink], and [Joint Lock] make him the second-best wrestler in Feldon.” The Jarl hummed, a hint of pride in his voice. Rael was about to ask who was the best, but Edith’s smug grin let them know the answer already.

A distant bell echoed throughout Stone Circle, and a chorus of cheers from every occupied roof in the city filled the air. The fighters in the Omrad sheathed their weapons and sat down. The contest of might was over.