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The best wrestler of the farmers versus the best wrestler of the fighters.
Kleio Kormos versus Calix Viralis.
He strolled through the throngs—absorbing the little snippets of information that said more than a single conversation ever could. The crowd was excited. The crowd was anxious.
He scanned the masses but couldn’t see Calix anywhere. But likewise, he hadn’t seen Zosime or her two goons either.
That was welcome. The prince’s reputation for distance and avoiding the crowds was already proving accurate, and Aurelius’s precious few opportunities to meet with Calix were not being helped by his meddling sister. The princess had already proved infuriating, blocking his entry two days earlier to a private garden party he suspected the prince might attend.
Aurelius was sure that Zosime’s interference was still just petty one-upmanship for outwitting her at the palace, and that she hadn’t yet figured out his plans with Calix.
Despite the best efforts of Teigra to ruin it!
How could she have been so stupid? He had trusted her with the folio, given her something that the archon had explicitly said to keep away from those aligned with the senate. And how had she repaid him? By disobeying him. By bringing it here and almost ruining the whole damn mission!
And now she is avoiding me! Without even having the decency to tell me what she did?
That boiled his blood the most. He’d seen how she acted after the harpy attack—looking desperately through their bag. She’d known that the folio was missing all the way back then.
And she didn’t yet know that Aurelius had gotten it back, either! As far as Teigra knew, Zosime still had it. The princess could be doing all sorts of wicked things with that information—and Teigra hadn’t even told him.
Day after day goes by, and not one solitary word of warning!
He dwelled on that, sipping at a mug of unfermented grape juice—meant for children, but the best he could do while keeping his abstinence.
Perhaps he should maintain his own silent treatment toward her a little longer? Let her deal with that Securia bitch alone? That might teach her to appreciate him. To make sure she didn’t do anything else to disrupt his plans over the coming months.
The coming months...
This wrestling match at the Ardoralia festival was just the first major event of the Ardoran summer season. Among numerous smaller gatherings were the other four major punctuation points—fighter battles in the Gipedo Thanatou, the “Stadium of Death”; a “Wax Crack” festival of wine; a grand “Rose Rain Ball” in the tholos at the palace; and all finished off with the most well-known of all Ardoran events, the Black Night Festival, where people paraded the streets dressed as therians.
He smiled as the female combatants beat the shit out of each other. It certainly wouldn’t take that long to achieve his mission—no matter what Zosime or Teigra might try to do.
In the ring, the farmer ran full pelt at the smaller fighter. At the last second, the fighter ducked to the side, spinning around, and catching her ankle. Before the farmer could regather, the fighter leaped on top, pinning her shoulders to the dirty sand as the crowd barked the count.
Two matches apiece. It was all down to the final fight.
The chatter swelled around him.
Finally!
Here we go!
Mummy, Mummy, lift me up! I wanna see!
Can you believe it! This’d surely have been the championship match at the last Paliad, had Kleio not been injured. And we get to see it here!
Two-to-one odds on Viralis, come on, people, last chance!
Just as quickly, the crowd fell silent as the competitors emerged.
Kleio entered as a monster, barking and gesturing to the crowd, eliciting as many cheers as jeers. Calix entered with a more polite smattering of applause, staring ahead with a somber expression, making no effort to play to the crowd.
It wasn’t just their demeanors that differed. Kleio was somehow even bigger than Calix. Not just taller—itself a feat—but with thicker muscles. His chest was less defined but impossibly broad, and his hairy shoulders looked strong enough to pull a pine from the ground. His stocky physique spoke of a man who ate and drank as hard as he worked.
By contrast, Calix’s physique was tighter and leaner, with ripples of hard flesh pulsing over his rib cage and abdominals—showing off a sweat-glistening eight-pack and separated muscles along his thighs.
The two men circled each like stalking predators.
