[Imperial Records 7710]

  “Fuck. This bastard’s tough.” Arthur kneels in the sand, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum. Blood pools in his mouth—metallic and warm. He spits, rising slowly, and grips his shield tighter, ignoring the aching protest from his bruised muscles.

  Across from him, his opponent stands motionless. Unshaken. Barely sweating. His golden helmet catches the midday sun, momentarily blinding Arthur. The rival’s body is a perfect machine—each muscle defined as if carved from stone rather than flesh. Hard angles, sharp muscle, the Olympian opponent is a warrior. War is his art. And his body reflects it.

  "What the fuck does this guy eat?" Arthur mutters, wiping more blood from his split lip. "Stone?"

  The Olympian's gaze cuts through the dust-filled air between them. He doesn’t speak. Just watches, waiting. Dusting off his hands. Arthur forces himself to breathe. His lungs hurt. Everything hurts.

  "Just me and you now," he says exhausted under his breath. "Last man standing."

  They circle each other slowly, two predators in the dust. The Great Arena falls silent. Tens of thousands of eyes lock on the two men below. Nobles in their shaded boxes lean forward on cushioned seats. Common folk strain against the barriers. Warriors study every movement with professional scrutiny. No one expected the fight to turn out this way—a Mud Town nobody still standing against Olympian perfection.

  The Arena Marshal paces the edge of their combat zone, watching with hawk-like attention but saying nothing. This moment belongs to the fighters alone. Arthur studies his opponent's movements, desperate for any advantage. The Olympian carries no weapon, no shield—just two clenched fists that have already eliminated every other competitor in the arena. Imperial champions, seasoned warriors, even one of Fellhaven's most renowned brutes—a man twice Arthur's size whose leg lies snapped and splintered in the medical tent—all fallen to those bare hands. Now, only Arthur remains standing between the Olympian and total victory.

  "Should've gone north for the season," Arthur thinks, shifting his shield slightly. "Backwater coin would've been way easier than this." He stops circling, plants his feet, and faces the Olympian directly. The crowd stirs, sensing a change. The Olympian responds immediately, tucking his chin and moving forward with the fluid grace of a hunting cat.

  "Okay, okay," Arthur whispers, drawing rapid breaths to clear his head and steady his nerves. "I got this."

  The Olympian stops at the perfect distance—too close for Arthur to retreat, too far too strike. Arthur raises his shield higher, covering most of his torso and face. He deliberately leaves his flank exposed—a target, a trap. "Don't want to take one in the face from this man," he thinks, gripping the shield, the sound of tightened leather wraps the air. "Don't want to take one, at all…”

  The Olympian moves uncomfortably close. Suffocating. Arthur recognises the coiling tension of a strike coming. He narrows his focus, calculating angles and timing. "Just need to time this perf—" The Olympian moves. A blur. One step. Then two. His open hand clapping into a fist that looks like it is made of temple stone. Arthur pivots, bracing, shield raised, offering his head. “C’mon, then.”

  He strikes. It lands like thunder. A fist—bare, but heavy as iron—slams against the shield with bone-shaking force. Crack resonates through the arena—a split like thunder that silences the rising crowd. The shield vibrates ruthlessly in Arthur's grip, sending shock waves down his arm. His eardrums feel like they've shattered. Everything rings. The force drives him to one knee, sand exploding outward in a cloud around him. Through watering eyes, Arthur peeks around the edge of his shield to gauge his opponent. “Did that hurt?”

  Instead, he sees only another fist driving toward him.

  Arthur twists, barely getting the shield in position again. Another thunderous blow lands, driving him fully onto both knees. The crowd roars—distant and muffled through the ringing in his ears. A third strike hammers down. Then a fourth. Each perfectly timed, methodically placed. Arthur hunches beneath his shield, becoming smaller, more desperate with each impact.

  The next strike approaches, and memories flash behind Arthur's eyes—the guards that beat him. Just a boy. Gang members take turns with their boots when he can't pay. Nobles' bodyguards teach a lesson when he dared look too long at their masters.

  “Enough!”

  Arthur syncs to the rhythm between each strike. Suddenly cocking the shield at the final moment, twisting his wrist sharply. The Olympian's fist bangs the curved metal surface, landing awkwardly instead of flat. The perfect rhythm breaks. The warrior's knuckles sprained against the shield's edge. The ear-splitting ring finally dulls.

  The Olympian grunts—a sound so unexpected it seems to echo across the arena. Blood trickles between his fingers as he flexes his injured hand. The crowd inhales collectively, a wave of gasps rolling through the stands. Arthur sees it. The moment. The only one he'll get.

  "Not done yet," he rasps, tasting copper on his tongue. Every muscle in his body screams as he pushes through the pain, surging upward from his knees.

  The shield—his protection—now becomes his weapon. Arthur roars, a primal sound torn from somewhere deep inside him. He throws his entire body behind the shield's edge, driving it upward into the Olympian's golden helmet. The impact reverberates down his arm but carries enough force to snap the warrior's head backward.

  The Olympian staggers, momentarily disoriented. His perfect balance falters. The helmet twists sideways from the impact, its straps loosening. The crowd erupts, their voices a thunderous wave crashing against the arena walls. A noblewoman stands from her cushioned seat, silk scarf fluttering as she leans forward in disbelief. “I don't believe it. Can he do it?” Beside her, a merchant clutches his neighbor's arm, both wide-eyed at the impossible scene unfolding below. “Yes. Yes. Come on!”

  Arthur doesn't hesitate. He drives forward again, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side where a rib has cracked. The shield slams into the Olympian's jaw—the first clean hit anyone has landed on Olympian might all day. The golden helmet tumbles free, rolling across the sand. The Olympian's face is finally revealed—chiseled features now twisted in pain and surprise. Blood streams from his nose, dripping onto his chest.

  A beating behind a tavern. A winter night too cold to sleep through. A hand too rough. A voice too cruel. A friend who never came back. Arthur strikes—for everyone who never got their chance. Crack. To the side of the jaw. The final blow connects with terrible precision. The Olympian drops to both knees. His eyes roll back, and he crumples face-first into the sand.

  Silence blankets the arena for a moment. Complete, devastating silence. Arthur stands over his fallen opponent, chest heaving, sweat and blood mingling on his skin. The Arena Marshal stares, shocked into stillness. Then, raising his staff, he signals the end. The first and only Olympian to fall.

  "Victor—Arthur of Mud Town, Felhaven!"

  The silence shatters. Thousands upon thousands of voices explode at once, a deafening roar that seems to shake the very foundations of the arena. Flowers rain down from the stands. Wine splashes as cups are forgotten in the excitement. A young woman tears petals from her garland, casting them into the wind with joyful abandon.

  "Arthur! Arthur! ARTHUR!"

  His name becomes a chant, a battle cry, a prayer. Nobles who wouldn't have glanced his way yesterday now stand on their expensive seats, shouting themselves hoarse. Street vendors and laborers, born of Fellhaven, embrace complete strangers, bound by the miracle they've just witnessed.

  Arthur's legs finally give out. He collapses to one knee beside the Olympian, dropping his battered shield. His body trembles with exhaustion, adrenaline fading to leave only pain in its wake. He's done it. The impossible. Beside him, the Olympian stirs. Those perfect eyes flutter open, focusing slowly. Awakening. And then—impossibly—his bloodied lips curve into a faint smile. "Tough bastard," he mumbles, voice thick but carrying a note of genuine admiration.

  Arthur lets out a breathless laugh that sends fresh pain through his ribs. "Could say the same about you." He extends his hand—calloused, dirty, bleeding at the knuckles. The Olympian looks at it for a moment, then clasps it firmly in his own injured grip. Arthur pulls him up, sitting as the crowd roars their approval.

  "We need to have a drink," the Olympian admits, wiping blood from his face with his forearm. "Didn’t think you had anything left to give."

  Arthur shrugs, holding up a finger. "Didn’t quite catch that… all I hear is, eeeeeeee." The Olympian's laugh is genuine. "Next time," he warns, but the words carry no malice. The Arena Marshal approaches, flanked by attendants bearing water and towels. Behind them, preparations for the next event are already beginning. The world moves on, but for Mud Town, nothing will ever be the same.

  The crowd continues chanting his name as he walks from the arena floor, savoring each painful step of his victory march. He staggers down the stone steps into the Readying Chambers beneath the Arena, one arm supporting the Olympian who leans against him. Sweat drips from both men, leaving dark spots on the dusty floor. "I can walk," he insists through bloodied teeth, strength returning to him.

  Arthur inhales deeply, savoring the crisp, clean air. The Readying Chambers smell different from the rest of the arena—earthy and sharp. His eyes find the source: vibrant green Elarin Moss lining the floor edges and lower walls, specially cultivated to oxygenate and purify the air. Elven culture. Competitors from distant lands often try to steal clumps of it, but Arthur knows better.

  The underground chamber erupts as they appear. Competitors from all kingdoms move forward—some still in armor, others half-dressed for their own events. The noise surrounds them after the careful quiet of their descent. “Arthur!” “You mad bastard!” They call.

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  "You actually did it!" A burly Imperial westler with a black beard slaps Arthur's shoulder with enough force to make him wince. "Thought you were finished when he had you pinned," calls a elven spearman, his accent thick but his admiration clear. Arthur grins through his exhaustion. "So did I."

  The chamber is a maze of stone arches, wooden benches, and weapon racks. Moisture beads on the walls, making the air heavy and thick. Torchlight flickers, and filtered sunlight lightens eager faces as competitors from all across the Empire surround Arthur.

  Two Olympians push through the crowd, their perfect features arranged in expressions of laughter and disbelief. “Get this fool a helmet with better straps!” one of them laughs, clapping his fallen comrade on the shoulder. They take him from Arthur's grasp, supporting him between them. One glances back at Arthur with something like respect before they disappear toward their own section. "Haven’t seen Tyrus bleed in years," one of them mutters to the other. "Wait till the rest of the legion hears this." He chuckles with banter.

  "How much energy do you have?" demands a swordsman with Summer Isle tattoos curling up his arms. Arthur shakes his head. "Look lads, I must be honest. What you all just witnessed was nothing short of pure. Fucking. Desperation."

  This draws a roar of laughter and another round of back-slapping as Arthur moves to the corner of the chamber. There, an elven archer prepares her equipment for the next event. Her companions exchange knowing glances, their eyes lingering on Arthur with undisguised interest, seeking to claim him. One whispers something that makes the others smile. Arthur snickers. “Don’t fall in love now,” he mutters, dabbing blood off his chin with a strip of cloth. The simple recognition from the female elves—notorious for having no desire for men—feels almost as significant as the crowd's adoration.

  As the next event begins overhead, the chamber gradually empties. The thunder of thousands of feet reverberates through the ceiling, sending dust filtering down through beams of light. Arthur slumps onto a wooden bench, finally allowing himself to feel the full extent of his injuries. His ribs throb in protest. The ringing in his ears has dulled to a persistent hum.

  "Worth it," he mumbles to himself, splashing water from a stone basin onto his face. He gulps from a clay cup, water spilling down his chin, washing through the caked blood and sweat. The cool liquid feels like salvation itself.

  Only when he reaches for a cloth to dry himself does he notice the figure in the shadowed corner. Unlike the boisterous competitors with their armor and weapons, this one stands perfectly still. Nervous looking. Draped in dark robes that touch the floor. The hood obscures most of the face, but Arthur catches the glint of watchful eyes.

  His muscles tense instinctively. He knows that stance, that careful observation. Someone who's come with purpose. Someone who's been waiting just for him. Arthur doesn't acknowledge the watcher. Not yet. But recognises the attire. An odd place for a priest. He continues his cleaning with relaxed calm, though his senses remain alert. He wraps a bandage around his bleeding knuckles, wincing as he pulls it tight.

  Above, the crowd roars again—the next event in full swing. The sound seems distant now, belonging to another world. Down here, in the cool shadow of the Readying Chambers, something else brews. The cloaked figure hasn't moved, just watches with the patience of someone who has traveled far for this moment.

  Arthur sighs, knowing his day isn’t over yet. The cloaked figure finally breaks his stillness, approaching with careful steps. Arthur watches him from beneath half-closed eyelids, tracking the man's nervous movements while pretending to focus on wrapping his knuckles. "Odd place to be, Father," Arthur says without looking up.

  The man stops, momentarily startled at being addressed before he's spoken. His hands—too soft for a laborer—rise to pull back his hood. The face beneath is worn, middle-aged, bald and beaded with sweat. The man swallows hard, attempting composure. "My name… my name is Enoch," he says, his voice steadier than his hands. "Father Enoch."

  Arthur nods but doesn't rise from the bench. "I figured. The robes gave it away." He gestures vaguely at the man's attire, dark cloth emblazoned with the silver symbol of The Order. "What are you doing here, Father? So far from your grand temple." Enoch steps closer, glancing nervously at the chamber entrance as though afraid of being overheard. "The Order has many temples and churches. But I’ve come to ask for a moment of your time."

  Arthur’s expression hardens slightly, caution flickering in his eyes. He doesn't hide his skepticism. “I’m not sure you’d want it, Father. Men like you don't usually come asking favors from men like me.” Arthur's mistrust isn't personal—where he comes from in Mud Town, dark rumours follow The Order. The evil deeds men will do in service of their gods. To purify themselves. To prevent prophecy. The rest of Fellhaven might bow to priests, but Mud Town learned long ago that prayers don't fill empty bellies.

  Enoch offers a faint smile, nodding once. “Believe me, I normally would have preferred to avoid this myself.” He wipes his brow. "But I've been to Fellhaven," Enoch says, his words quickening. "Visited the Brotherhood." Arthur's attention sharpens, though he doesn’t show it. The Blackguard Brotherhood isn't a place holy men venture willingly—it's a den of mercenaries, smugglers, killers, and those with skills for hire that proper folk pretend don't exist.

  "I was asking around," Enoch continues. "Seeking help from someone who knows the northern routes. Someone who could guide me." A droplet of sweat trails down the priest's temple despite the cool, oxygen-rich underground air. Arthur notices how the man's fingers twist the hem of his sleeve—a nervous habit that speaks of desperation.

  "And my name came up?" Arthur raises an eyebrow. "The only name," Enoch confirms. "Most wouldn't even speak to me. Some laughed. And one suggested I go fornicate myself." His attempt at a smile falters. Enoch starts to pace. "But a very kind woman, who overheard my conversation, said if anyone could do it safely, it would be you."

  Arthur snickers with a broad smile, shaking his head. "Flattering." He splashes more water on his face, buying time to think. His pulse still thuds from the fight, making it hard to focus on this strange request. "North you say. Where exactly is it you're wanting to go?" he asks, though he suspects he already knows.

  Enoch leans forward, lowering his voice, looking toward the entrance again, ensuring no one is around. "An outpost town. Called Backwater." The name stills the moment. Arthur's jaw tightens. "Backwater," he repeats flatly. "Not a chance." "Please, I—" "Don’t think you have any idea what you're really asking, Father." Arthur cuts him off with an empty laugh. Arthur's voice lowers, eyes becoming distant, tone firming. "It’s a seven-week journey to Backwater.” The request makes Arthur think of his friends who are there now and the difficult decision he made not to join them for the season's run. He often thinks about whether he made the right choice to leave them. He wouldn’t forgive himself if something happened and he wasn't there.

  Arthur stands. "Sorry, Father, but my victory here means I’m done struggling for a while. A good while. I'm not for hire." Enoch quickly reaches inside his robe and pulls out a leather pouch. The sound it makes hitting the bench is heavy, conclusive. "I can pay," he says simply. "My savings. Most of what I own."

  Arthur stares at the thick pouch. Despite himself, he reaches for it, testing its weight. The amount is substantial—combined with his winnings from today… A vision forms in his mind: enough coin to move his sister and her children out of Mud Town's squalor. Enough to perhaps buy land somewhere quiet, somewhere the Empire's tax collectors don't look too closely. Enough to stop fighting for scraps.

  "Why? Why does a holy man from the Imperium want to get north so badly?" Arthur asks, gently placing the pouch down again. "What's in Backwater that's worth this much to you?" Enoch's eyes meet his directly for the first time—no longer nervous but burning with something Arthur recognises. Purpose. The kind that drives men beyond reason.

  "That," Enoch says quietly, "is what I need to explain." Enoch exhales, vhis oice lowered to a whisper that only Arthur can hear. “Because the fate of far more than just one man might depend on it.” Arthur holds his gaze, absorbing the weight behind those words. He sees genuine concern and fear in Enoch’s eyes. “Madam Bo… my friends. They’re in danger.”

  Enoch sits with his hands clasped, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "She's out there… somewhere." His words carry no righteousness, no authority—just quiet desperation. "I must find her before it's too late. Before all is lost." His fingers twist the edge of his robe. "I must bring her to The Order."

  The raw urgency in his tone makes Arthur's chest tighten. Not for the priest or his quest, but for his friends near the Backwater encampment—Sorin, Thomas, Idris. Madam Bo. Something in Enoch's voice suggests danger beyond the usual northern threats. "Who?" Arthur asks, careful to keep his voice level, masking his growing concern.

  Enoch's gaze lifts to meet his. The chamber falls silent save for distant cheering above. The priest seems to search for courage, weighing whether to voice his truth again—the same truth that's earned him nothing but ridicule and distrust until now. "The Mother," he finally says.

  Two simple words. They hang in the air between them. Arthur closes his eyes with an empty laugh. Of course. Not just a priest on a mission, but a zealot chasing prophecies. He's heard whispers of this particular belief—heretical according to some, misguided according to most. Followers of The Order believe that the Mother isn't coming to save the world, but to end it. Always the same shit, just in different robes.

  "The Mother," Arthur repeats flatly. "You're telling me you want me to guide you all the way through to Backwater so that you can chase some crazy myth?" Enoch doesn't flinch. "Not a myth,” he snaps silently toward Arthur. “She's real. She’s here, and she's in tremendous danger." His voice steadies as he speaks of her. Enoch sighs, rubbing his face and his eyes with clammy hands. The emotional pain of believing this, "They won't believe me unless I can prove it. I need to find her, to bring her here. To The Order."

  Arthur studies the priest. The man truly believes what he's saying—that much is clear. But Arthur has seen the damage done by those who follow prophecies too blindly. He thinks of the burned villages, the executed people, the families separated by zealous Imperial clerics, all in the name of faith.

  Yet, he also thinks of the encampment. Of Madam Bo, who took him in, sheltered and fed him when no one else would. Of Sorin, whom he grew up with, sharing all his harder moments of life. Idris, who taught him how to track deer through snow. Of Thomas, who still owes him money from their last card game. If there's danger coming to Backwater… "I don't want any part of your prophecies," Arthur says firmly. "I've seen what faith does to people when it becomes desperate."

  Enoch's shoulders slump slightly. The rejection seems to diminish him physically. But he doesn't argue or plead further—just nods once, accepting what he must have expected all along. He reaches for his pouch of coins, preparing to reclaim it. Preparing to face this journey alone. There is no one else. But Arthur places his hand over the pouch, stopping him.

  A long moment passes. Arthur weighs his choices, feeling the familiar burden of responsibility. He came to the Arena to win enough coin to help his family. Now he has that coin. And more is being offered. He knows what happens to the greedy. All he needs to do is walk away. Stay safe. Let someone else handle whatever waits in the north.

  But he knows he won't.

  "Pack your things," Arthur finally says, his voice rough with reluctance. He looks Enoch directly in the eyes. "We leave a week from now." The change in Enoch is immediate and profound. His body seems to shudder with relief, years of tension flooding out of him. His eyes glisten with unshed tears. "Father bless you," he whispers, reaching for Arthur's hand. "You don't know what this means. You don't—"

  Arthur pulls his hand away before Enoch can grasp it. There will be no comforting gestures, no false promises of friendship or understanding. This is business. Dangerous business. "It's a long road, Father," he says, his voice hardening. "Hope you're not slow."

  Enoch straightens, attempting to compose himself. "Do not worry, I'll keep pace." "You'd better." Arthur stands, gathering his few belongings. "And understand something—I'm not doing this for your prophecy. I'm doing this because I have friends in Backwater." He slings his bag over his shoulder, wincing slightly at the pain from his fight injuries. "If there's danger coming, I need to be there. They will need me."

  Enoch nods, too wise to press his advantage. "One week," he confirms. "Meet me on the Imperial road, at Laiden’s Inn," Arthur instructs, already calculating what supplies they'll need and which routes might still be open this time of year. "And Father?" "Yes?" "Pray to whoever you want, but out there—" Arthur gestures vaguely northward, "—the only gods that matter are the ones with teeth and claws."