Page 45 of The Space Between Stars

Niklaus clapped an arm over Dex’s shoulders. “Would you like me to set you on my shoulders so that you can see the match?”

The boy shook him off. “I’d kick you in the teeth, if I wasn’t sure it would improve your looks.” But Niklaus was nearly sure the remark was more teasing than spiteful.

“Not a terrible comeback from a ten-year-old.” Niklaus smiled. Few things felt anything past miserable right now, but it felt good to smile.

The night was electric with pre-match excitement. Niklaus tried to pull from its energy. The onlookers crowded closely together, their combined breath rising into the near-freezing air like a cloud, backlit by the surrounding distortion lamps. Laughter and chatter floated into the night to mingle beneath the stars, more vibrant than any Niklaus had ever seen in Seraphinden. He and Dex pushed to find a spot as close to the front as they could manage, earning glares from the men gathered around them.

Darial whistled to signal the match’s beginning, and silence blanketed the crowd.

Niklaus clenched his fists as Borodus hurled himself towards the mute with the force of a landslide. The mute didn’t flinch. He didn’t even raise his hands until his opponent was an arm’s distance away. He sidestepped, simple as one avoided a puddle, thrust his forearm beneath his opponent’s, circled it, and jabbed his free palm into Borodus’s forehead.

Borodus stumbled backward, leaving the mute with the sparring dowaga in hand.

Niklaus hadn’t even seen the moment of disarming—it had all progressed too fast. His hands clapped the sides of his face. The mute was supposed to throw the first match. He’d been in the ring for five seconds and was already ruining everything.

The mute blinked, as if he, too, were surprised. His opponent clenched his fists and stepped forward as though assessing his next assault. The mute stepped backward. Then again. And a third time until his heel passed beyond the ring’s border.

The hundreds of onlooking soldiers and encampment staff gasped, booed, and laughed in equal parts. Getting knocked out of the ring was an embarrassment to any skilled fighter. Stepping clean out… well, Niklaus had never rightly seen it happen.

“Ninety seconds!” Trokus screamed, indicating the amount of time contestants had to recover between rounds. Borodus stretched and raised his arms to friends around the arena, encouraging hoots and cheers. The mute didn’t move, but watched Borodus like a hawk studying a rotund mouse.

“Did I make a terrible decision?” Niklaus mumbled at Dex. In spite of the plunging temperature, he was sweating. His heart pounded at twice the speed it ought to, and he couldn’t tell his ailment from his nerves.

“Yes. But he’s got this. He looks bored.”

“He backed out of the fated ring.”

“Because you told him to lose. I don’t think he knows how to let something hit him.”

Niklaus hissed through his teeth. “Nameless!” he screamed, pounding on his chest like he imagined a Chori goliath might. “Nameless!”

Dex cheered too. The mute cast them a look Niklaus interpreted as ‘please stop,’ sparring dowaga set casually on his shoulder.

The match marshal tossed Borodus a second dowaga, and Niklaus’s chest expanded. Another stroke of good luck.

“I thought no one could give him a weapon?” Dex asked.

Niklaus rubbed his tingling hands together. “No one did. He took one. And I’m not sure I can blame them for not wanting to take it back.”

Trokus whistled to initiate the second round.

The mute and Borodus circled one another, each shifting to match the other’s sideways step, their wooden weapons raised. Neither made a move. The crowd began offering taunts and encouragement in equal measure.

Finally, the mute moved in. The dowagas clacked together three times, moving through a series of guards before the mute snared the hooked end of his weapon on Borodus’s blade, flipping it to the side. The mute closed the gap, angling the bladed tip of his dowaga into Borodus’s side. Borodus grunted with surprise and jumped backward. Both men’s weapons fell to the side.

“Hit! Nameless!” Trokus announced, raising his arms to a mixture of growls and tame applause from the onlookers.

Fates, that was fast.

When the marshal’s arms lowered again, the contestants leapt back at one another like opposing poles. After a short flurry of exchanged strikes, the mute took a casual step away from Borodus’ half-finished swipe and lashed out with inhuman speed. The dowaga tapped Borodus in the chest, lightly as a mother’s kiss.

“Hit! Nameless!” Trokus cried again.

Borodus’s face creased with concern. He kept on the offensive, throwing himself at the mute in a fury of heavy blows. The mute parried with little movement, other than twisting his wrists into a suitable position to block.

Borodus lunged again with an overhead strike. The mute caught the blow with his dowaga and the wood snapped. In one clean movement, the mute dipped to the side and swept the broken half of his weapon inward to touch Borodus in the chest. Once more, the hit was so soft Niklaus wasn’t sure whether it had landed until Borodus’s eyes widened in surprise. The mute snapped back to the arena’s rim, arms at his sides.

“Hit! Nameless! End round. Ninety seconds.”