Page 9

May the Best Warrior Win

I slipped out just before my family came home, ducking through the gaps on the third floor. Now I trail quietly behind Keelan, using his broad back as my guide, turning right, then left. Branches scratch my arms, leaves crunch underfoot, and thorns scrape along the edges of my boots.

The scent of pine and earth drifts into my nose, while distant birdsong from great tit, blue tit, chaffinch, and blackcap echoes in my ears. Faint, indifferent calls in the cold, each bird marking its place.

The sun hour has arrived, marking midday. The sun is as strong as it ever gets, although it’s still faint. Usually, I enjoy its light. But not now. Now I want to blend into nature, concealed in shadow.

Keelan veers off the tangled path, a few stray rays glinting on his sage-tinged hair.

It’s pulled back in a loose ponytail that swings as he moves.

His clothes are a mix of sulfur yellow and earthy brown, and his breeches are genuine leather, not the best choice if he wants to move swiftly and freely.

I turn off the path, trailing behind him. Voices and laughter drift toward me, mingling with the notes of a flute and the beat of a drum. I pause, pressing my fingers against the heavy branches. They rustle, dusting me with fine snow crystals that send a chill through my hand. I peer ahead.

The Moon Glade is filled with obstacles, stations, and various challenges, all arranged in a circular formation around the clearing.

Towering on every side, giant sequoias and pines rise proudly toward the sky, their massive trunks climbing higher and higher, far beyond what my eyes can follow.

The treetops form a dense canopy, with thin sunbeams seeping through every gap. In the center of the glade, open space lets light pour down, casting a dappled, circular patch in the snow that glitters like frost-touched gemstones, jewels, rock crystals, and moonstones.

In the center, a large group of elves gathers around Talendir Ewaflethe, who oversees the defense.

His secondary name, Ewaflethe, or air feather , speaks to his talents.

I once watched him fence, and it seemed his feet barely touched the ground.

He was so light-footed, so graceful, so skilled.

Yet every time I see him, I can’t help but grimace.

He’s astonishingly ugly.

Age shows on his skin. After nineteen hundred sun cycles, lines have inevitably carved their way across every surface, beneath the eyes, across the forehead, along the corners of the mouth. They sag like bags, heavy as pouches filled with water and provisions.

I gaze toward the far side of the forest’s edge, my hand still resting among the snowy branches. The audience has begun to gather, scattered, with some seated on the ground and positioned farther back than during the last ceremony.

Understandably.

No one wants an arrow through the head.

Once Keelan has a lead of about twelve elf-lengths, I step into the faint, frost-lit glow of the veiled sky.

With purposeful strides, I close the distance between myself and the other participants.

I have no plan. This decision was born of impulse, driven by anger.

But now I’m here, and I’m skilled at improvising. I don’t need some pathetic plan.

The participants’ eyes find me, devouring me with sharp glances, brows furrowed, lashes flickering like restless wings. They don’t know me and have never seen me before. A stranger in Parae, a village where every soul knows the other.

Your tale must burn bright, Iszaelda. Bright as flame.

Talendir tilts his head, his pale violet eyes locking onto mine. He straightens, pressing his cracked lips into a thin line, then advances with feline grace, each step measured, his movements deliberate and precise.

“Dae cúnie,” he says, his voice deep and stern, auburn hair spilling over his shoulders in heavy strands.

I halt before him at the heart of the clearing as the participants’ curious gazes dig into me. I lift my left hand, palm upright and perfectly still. “Dae cúnie.”

Talendir lifts his right hand, holding it just a flake away from mine. Our eyes lock. Palms hover, mirroring one another without touch. An act both reverent and essential. The palm is hallowed and deeply personal. We trace a sacred circle outward from our bodies, effortlessly in sync.

One rotation. Steady, measured. Until our hands return to their starting point, we bow deeply, lowering our arms to our sides.

At every new meeting, we perform the Sun Salutation. Talendir has never met me before. Or so he thinks.

“Meeli,” he hisses. “Múera dúera amin a, múera dúera isesa a, múera dúera tyava a. Sesta es lamendar om silia a.”

I repeat the words, nodding. Once more.

“Have you come to participate in the trials?”

“Yes.” My voice is light, but it matters little. Many sun elf men have light voices most of their lives, at least until they reach fifty.

“Have you turned twenty-one?”

I nod.

“Your name?”

“Saethiel Ambra.” Strong . It’s an unusual choice for a second name, but there’s no time to think of anything better.

“I presume I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you before?” His gaze no longer holds its usual condescension. Perhaps he prefers Saethiel to Iszaelda.

I press my foot against a fallen birch trunk, sunlight grazing my hands, sunlight that will soon slip away once more. “We haven’t met. I’m not one for social gatherings.”

He nods, slow and deliberate, as though time moves differently for him. “And where do you reside?” Even the words stretch out languidly and heavily.

“Misttree.” It lies at the farthest edge of Parae, a place where no one keeps track of its inhabitants.

“Well met, Saethiel. Go and acquaint yourself with the other participants. We begin shortly.” Two flakes peel from his cracked lower lip, carried off by the wind.

I nod and step toward the others, a gathering of twelve men, their faces bright with expectation. Most have barely crossed twenty-one sun cycles, but a few are far older. In their eyes, some carry a glint of wisdom only earned after a century of life.

Keelan stands beneath a sprawling mountain oak, speaking to an elf I don’t recognize. I approach, and as he notices me, he pauses mid-sentence, lifting his gaze. His dill-green eyes search me, his hair streaked with the fresh fall of snow.

The oak looms above them like a mottled canopy, its trunk gnarled and knotted like the weathered joints of the old. The bark is a deep shade of burned umber, while its branches twist and coil like hundreds of pale, reaching tentacles, crisp and white as clouds.

“Meeli,” Keelan says, turning away from the man he had been speaking to. “Múera dúera amin a.” We’re the same age, so there’s no need for unnecessary formality. The shorter version of the greeting is enough.

The other man moves away, stepping beyond the oak’s vast reach. Creak, creak, creak . His footsteps echo softly over the snow as he joins the others, striking up conversation elsewhere.

“Meeli, múera dúera tyava a,” I reply to Keelan.

He looks at me, deeply and intensely, his brow furrowing under the weight of it. He raises his left hand, inviting me to join him in the Sun Salutation.

“Kelandil Llaeyenit.”

I step closer, ducking beneath the tree and lifting two branches aside to pass through. They sway as I release them, snapping against my back and showering me with snow. A shiver runs through me, and I blink as the cold stings my eyes. The sharp scent of oak bark and hare fur fills my lungs.

I lift my hand, joining his in the greeting, completing it.

“Is… Saethiel Ambra.”

Keelan lowers his hand, his gaze drifting to my glued-shut eye. He kneads his fingers until they crack, exhaling thick clouds of vapor into the cold air. “You remind me of someone. Have we met before?”

“Not that I can recall.” I grasp a branch, unintentionally setting it swaying. My nails lightly trace its wrinkled surface, gathering powdery snow and walnut-brown bark beneath their edges.

“Tell me.”

Tell him what?

“Why do you want to join the defense?”

“Why not?”

“Do you think fighting is fun?” Keelan steps back two measured paces and leans against the sturdy trunk of the tree. His eyes soften, the intensity in them fading.

“I love to fight.”

He laughs, a rough, grunting sound, and gives me an approving nod. As he leans back against the trunk, his posture is loose and relaxed. “Then you’ll fit in well here among my comrades who have already joined.”

I run my fingers over the smooth branches, watching as the powdery snow flutters through the air like scattered dust.

“Have you fought before?” he asks, his voice steady.

“I’ve trained in archery and sword fighting,” I say.

“Really?”

“Longbow and single-handed crown sword.” I tap the scabbard at my side. “But I haven’t had the opportunity to practice with axes, knife throwing, or two-handed blades.”

“How did you manage to train? Someone skilled in your family?” Keelan leans into the trunk, his posture slack, almost bear-like, with one arm swallowed between two gnarled knots of the tree’s massive bark.

“My father is, but I’m mostly self-taught.”

“Where do you live, then?”

“Far away. You wouldn’t know it.” In a quiet attempt to shift the focus, I turn his question back on him. “So why do you want to join?”

He brightens like a flame in the deep of night, scuffing his foot against the ground. “You know, I want to help and make a difference. Do something that matters, protect the village and my kin.”

“Noble.” I glance to the right, beyond the oak’s rounded silver canopy. Talendir paces restlessly, his movements taut and deliberate, back and forth. He lingers just beyond the challengers, his gaze sweeping the tree line, sharp and watchful.

Are we waiting for someone? Perhaps it’s almost time to begin.