A fresh cut. A nasty scrape. Thin lines of crimson streak down her arm. Her skin tingles, the gash burns while her heart races. She will never forget the feeling of being cut for the first time. She will never forget the ache, nor the anxiety brought on by the wound. Nor the thrill with which her heart beat in that very moment.
Back then, it was her fault that she got cut. She got involved in business that wasn't hers, and she paid for it. Not that she minded. Pain was all her master desired, after all. But that was some time ago. She has since lost her nerve, lost her taste for pain too, be it hers or some other fool's.
Now, with Duras in front of her, she can't figure out how to avoid getting cut. Her body yearned to move, her mind knew it was useless. All he had to do was step forward and attack, and she's done. She can't hope to parry a blow with her meager knife, and dodging to either side would leave her open to being intercepted before getting away. A hopeless situation.
Duras advanced slowly, posture upright and blade by his side, relaxed in his approach. He's got her, and he knows it. Gripping her knife tightly, Sadia stepped forward too. Seeing no way out, she takes a gamble. Within the blink of an eye, both are in striking range, yet hesitation could be felt between the pair. Making a mistake while this close to each other could prove fatal, so neither rushes with their actions. Sadia can feel it, the mounting pressure of a fighter faced with an opponent much grander than themselves.
She slowly inches forward, mind racing, trying to recall all the tricks she used to employ back then. She can't come up with anything. Her body lunges by itself in that moment, her mind clouded with details that matter not in that split second. Duras met the knife's tip head-on, using the handguard of his short steel to drive it to the side. Overextended and stumbling, Sadia turns and attacks with fervour. A desperate flurry of short slashes with a pitiful weapon. A perfect opportunity to make a fool out of her. He swats the last slash aside, leaning forward and planting his head squarely on Sadia's forehead. The impact of the blow sounded like a fist slamming against a wooden crate.
Sadia could do little as she gathered her wits. Looking forward, her head aching like a bad hangover, all she could see Duras' smug smile. He was enjoying this, it was obvious. He was ready to play with his food a little, but Sadia was oblivious to it. To think that a coward such as himself would ever dare mock her, all she saw was red.
She lunged again. Any attempt at offense was futile. The man was nimble. The man was quick. His arms and legs worked in seamless unison, creating a complex system of movements that Sadia could not decipher. Every step taken, every blow parried and driven away, it all built towards a masterpiece of a performance. Duras moved to the silent rhythm of the fight while Sadia stumbled about, deaf towards it, moving sloppily while her actions amounted to nothing.
It wasn't long until Duras parried another of her slashes. This time, he drove it away before stepping in and swinging the pommel of his blade into the side of her head, almost sending the woman tumbling down to the ground. Barely clinging to her feet, Sadia was now well aware of just how good the man who once challenged Thorn the terrible was. All she could do was muster a thin, crooked smile. It was funny, to think she would pick a fight only to be made a complete fool out of. Her anger mounted, but Sadia was too worn out to act rashly any longer.
Head aching, knees weak and lungs burning with effort, Sadia barely willed herself to stand. Her mind clouded with hurt and fatigue, her thoughts became scant. One thought, however, kept persisting, no matter how scrambled her mind had become. She could just picture driving her blade into his neck. Oh, how she would cherish seeing the life drain from his face. To feel the warm blood wash her again, how her body yearned for it. But no, those weren't her thoughts nor her desires, they never were, in fact. They remain still. A remnant of a cruel being who never cared for her. A ghost of a ghoulish past. Desires she must never act on again.
These unwelcome thoughts, they could prove useful. She gazed about her opponent. At first sight, there was nothing she could take advantage of. Her eyes darted about, from his head to his chest, and then, she saw it. Just above his right arm, a mantle sewn just below the pauldron. The suit didn't look cheap, the needlework must be good. Hopefully. Otherwise, her gambit was sure to get her cut.
Duras raised his blade ever so slightly, aiming to cut upwards, a blow from hip to shoulder. Sadia stepped in as well, her hand grasping at the fabric of the mantle and pulling it along as she stepped aside. She narrowly avoided the blow, crossing Duras' body with the mantle and catching him off guard. She clutched the knife tighter. Now was the time. Duras couldn't turn and attack lest he risk overextending and losing his balance, and thus, the man decided to leap back. Sadia expected that, her fingers never let go of the mantle. She pulled down on it. Hard.
Duras' movement was stifled, his blank expression finally breaking, his eyes glowing with a hint of surprise. Sadia pushed the knife forward, its cold tip aiming at her opponent's chest. One cut, and it would be over. One cut. That was all she needed. No blood. Nothing else. Just. One. Cut.
One cut she didn't get. The knife scarred the dark leather, merely scratching the dark surface with a hopeless clink. Then, Duras' blade raised. Her spirit spent, all Sadia can do is close her eyes and accept her cut. The girl could muster no more fight out of her body but she didn't show it, she could feel her lips cracking into a smile. She did her best, and she'll be cut for it.
"That settles it then!", Danse roared from the side of the ring before Duras could deliver the blow.
Sadia and Duras shared confused gazes before turning their heads toward Danse. He was smiling, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. "You said one cut decides the winner, right? Well, the girl got you this time.", he spoke as he stepped into the ring, putting his finger on the spot where Sadia's knife dug into Duras' chestplate.
Duras furrowed his brow, his eyes breaking their silent facade and brimming with contempt as he gazed towards the young woman. For a second, he looked like he was bound to cut her anyhow. But he didn't. He sighed before stepping away, shaking his head while going back for his scabbard. "She'll be the death of us, Danse. She doesn't even have a sword.".
"We'll find her one then.".
Sadia tucked her knife with shaking hands, her head aching and her heart pounding akin to a marching drum. She wanted to collapse then and there but she didn't, she couldn't risk looking lame after all that effort. Crimson Dawn had better paid attention to just how good she was.
"That was quite a show, Duras!", a voice spoke from above, where a balcony lay overlooking the courtyard. A man was gazing down and waving frantically, "Don't go yet! I have something to tell you!".
Waiting just by the ring, Danse and Dawn were stuck discussing their experiences of living on the grounds of different Saronite temples while Sadia sat on the wooden fence enclosing the duelling circle. They were waiting for Duras to finish his conversation with the man from the balcony. By this point, he had come down to talk to him in person. It was the man from before the tourney, the one who spoke in favour of Duras, the one wearing an eerily similar outfit to his.
"So, how did my gift find you?", arms behind his back, he spoke lazily, "I can see you put it to good use. I'll have you know I had a great skilk skinned for that. ".
Duras face contorted into a forced smile, "A great skilk? Figures. Must have cost a fortune. I am afraid I won't be able to pay you back for it until I return...".
"Pay me back?", he put a hand to his mouth as he chuckled, "It was a gift. Besides, seeing you move tonight was the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. That was impressive.".
Duras would have scoffed had he cared enough, "She's untrained. Nothing worthy of note here."
"You were clearly taking it easy on her. Even then, she moved nice and proper for someone like her. I wonder just how our match will be.".
Duras didn't respond.
"You are leaving tomorrow, I presume?".
Duras nodded. Crimson Dawn and Danse started talking about their most unpleasant experiences. Sadia was deaf to their conversation.
"Where to?".
"The hinterlands, in two weeks or so.", restless fingers were tapping on the leather of his pants.
"Oh, is that so? I'll be just beyond the hinterlands too. How about you come and say hi after you are done with your business? I'll make arrangements for your stay.".
"I would rather not burden anyone with our presence.".
"Worry not, my friend. You deserve all the best, and I will make sure you will get it.".
The night passed. The moment for them to leave arrived, and as such, they did. They left Alderan alongside a merchant caravan. They walked amongst folk looking to get to the south as fast as possible, carrying a multitude of goods that could seldom be found where they were going. They walked the dirt roads that cut through the high hills of the Arkadian plateau, passing forests of great trees that would soon give way to the yellow grass of the withered plains. Beyond the plains lay one more great expanse of wood, and beyond that lay the south itself, a vast land of once-luscious valleys. It now sits drowning in sand and ash, mountains cracking at the seams with jagged and hollow tips that spew forth fire and smoke, washing the earth in magma once used to hatch dragon eggs.
Amongst the people moving south, a peculiar knight could be found. Sadia recognized him as the one who took part in the tourney the day before, paying him little mind in the beginning. He kept to the back of the line, the little dog still by his side. The caravan was bound for the arid south itself.
Two days in, they split from the caravan and marched onwards. The knight did too, alarmingly. They marched through a great empty. Grass was scarce and thin, water even more so. The air lay heavy with the smell of dirt, and the wind picked up dust, flinging it in the face of any poor fool who was unlucky enough to be passing by. The sun hung high atop the sky, clouds were scarce and scattered, and the blues of the heavens turned orange and red at the coming of night, the bleeding giving way to a starstruck abyss that brought with it a chill much akin to the one found in the north. This was a hard country, one Sadia did well to avoid after running away.
Passing through these meager lands reminded her of why she chose to live out the rest of her days in the north instead of the south. The sun beamed down with unrelenting pressure, burning with rancid warmth through any cloth or leather that might hide one's skin, trying to squeeze dry all who dare walk in its presence, trying to sap away Sadia's vigour alongside any water her body might still be retaining. And, to top it all off, the hills and the fields were a yellow eyesore. Yellow grass, seldom a thin tree with a yellow crown, yellow bumps on a yellow horizon in a yellow hell. Too much yellow. The same colour Sadia would puke following a good night of drinking.
Danse approached the man, asking him why he marches south, but it was no use.
They couldn't get a word out of him. No matter how hard they tried, their questions would fall on deaf ears. Eventually, they stopped asking. At night, when the group stopped to rest, the knight would always vanish only to return at the break of dawn. That behaviour only served to unnerve Sadia, who made a point to keep an eye on him whenever she could.
On the evening of the third day of their journey, as they lay about their campfire, Sadia turned to Crimson Dawn and spoke. "Say, the knight, don't you feel like there's something wrong with him?".
Dawn was a pretty sorry sight. His face was red, courtesy of the harsh sun. He was dirty, too. He shrugged as he wiped his face with a handkerchief he wetted just before. He had about him the look of a drifter, and a not particularly experienced one at that.
"How about we march tonight and rest tomorrow? Maybe then, we'll get this creep off our hands.", Sadia poised her question to the entire group.
Danse sat idly beside the fire, poking at it with his blade, staring into nothingness. Beside him lay a young woman, the saronite cleric Danse spoke of. Cyra had blonde hair and brown eyes, a stubby nose and small ears. A scar running along her neck, she lay gazing at the dark sky with her hands on her chest, a small blade propped up against her hip.
"I would rather stick to the original plan.", Danse brushed Sadia aside, "Besides, there's nothing to be worried about. That guy is nice and proper lest he would have done something by now.".
"We've been marching through this heat, haven't we? How come we've never seen him take as much as a swig of water?", Cyra butted in.
That was a question no one had an answer to. Coming to think of it, Sadia never saw him eat anything either. Never seen him take off his helm either. Not even for a second. The man has been marching with a hot piece of iron on his head and he hasn't let out as much as a groan of discomfort in two days. They've been moving across the great empty, across fields of scarce grass and humid air, through the harsh rays of a cruel sun and between the crooked limbs of thin trees. They've been advancing through rugged terrain, crossing country that would do some lesser people in. And yet, the knight marched with them. He carried no food. He made no sound.
Everyone fell asleep. Sadia couldn't. She sat there, watching the thin embers of the fire wiggle weakly, they were bound to die any moment now. She spun the sheathed blade in her hand, fingers grasping at soft leather. As she stood up, she dragged it along. It was an ugly and unwieldy thing, but it was the most Danse could spare. Truth be told, she was fortunate enough to have gotten a sword to begin with. Yes, a bad blade is better than no blade, and beggars really can't be choosers. She'll just have to make do. She always does.
Her feet carried her down the trail from which they came, walking the open plain and gazing about. There was light, thin, but it remained, just enough to walk around and not get lost, just enough to make shapes out of the night. The more she walked, the emptier her surroundings became. There was nothing. There was no one. No sounds either, except for the slapping of the wind and the buckling of grass. Back in the forest, they could hear the howling of wolves, far away, but it could still be heard. But here? Nothing. The quiet did little to distract her from her feelings of unease. Or from her paranoia. Or from the general fear of being gutted in the night by whoever "he" sent after her.
There, in the open, a mere shadow on a plain of darkness, Sadia sat and pondered her current predicament. They won't be long until they reach the first trial. Crimson Dawn isn't ready for it. She isn't ready either, in all honesty. And, they were being followed. She was sure of that, her hands grew cold and sweaty just thinking about their next encounter. And to top it all off, Duras wasn't even with them. As much of a selfish coward as he was, Sadia couldn't deny his skill. She'd feel much safer with him around, if not for the fact that he might slit her throat first before anyone else has a chance to.
She lay amongst thin grass. It was rigid and dry to the touch. She sat gazing up at a dark sky splintered with the pitter-patter pattern of stars, a sea of dots spreading across a black canvas. A night like this one. The cold biting at her skin. Sadia presses herself against her friend, trying to keep warm while their bodies grew almost as cold as corpses. Back then, there were only the two of them. No paladins. No clerics. Only two young fools on the path to ascension.
Looking back, it was obvious that their journey wouldn't end well. They left Alderan with the little they had. They spent most of the days just trying to get by in this hard and rugged wilderness. Hell, they left for the first trial around the end of fall, forgetting to bring any warm clothing for the cold nights. They would have perished, had Sadia not turned back to the forests and hunted those damn wolves for their pelts. And Ansel, how he clutched at her with shivering hands, their bodies pressing against one another during the night. His hot breath on her cold skin, cold hands on her bare back, keeping warm just below her furs. How light and feeble he felt in her arms. What comfort she felt by his side, keeping warm together by a small fire, leaning against him while he spoke about all the types of furry critters that could be found amongst the dry plateau.
Her hands tore at the dry grass, each strand splintering in between her fingers. She could feel a lump forming in her throat. Her eyes would grow watery lest she not distract herself from her past. She spun the strands just as Ansel thought her. Over and under and over and under, over and over again. Her hands weaved a crown of yellow grass, a thing almost as feeble as Dawn himself. Her lips curled into a thin smile. A crown. A crown for Dawn.
She turned away. The dark had not given way by the time she returned to camp. Everyone was fast asleep. Everything was as it was left. As she lay down her head, sword by her side, crown clutched tightly to her chest, the stillness finally felt familiar. She fell asleep.
By the time she awoke, clouds splintered the dusky sky like gaping wounds, bleeding hues of red and orange that stabbed at her tired eyes. She was the first to wake, as always. Or she would have been, if not for that metal-clad moron somehow being back amongst them by the time Sadia opened her eyes. The first few times she saw him at the crack of dawn, Sadia sprung to her feet, blade drawn and ready for battle, before realising that the greathelm-wearing bastard was no assassin.
She handed Crimson Dawn the crown as soon as they returned to the road. Danse and Cyra marched in the front. Dawn took it, his brow furrowed in thinly-veiled confusion as he spoke in a low whisper, doing his best not to talk over Danse. "Now, what could this be?".
Sadia smiled wryly before fully shoving the crown in his arms, "Just shut up and take it.".
"And, what if I don't want to?".
"You should. Think of it as a good luck charm".
A tender smile spread across his lips, "I'd have never thought you'd believe in something like this.".
She shook her head, "I don't. My friend used to. Made me one long ago. It kept us safe.".
As their feet dragged against the dust of the long road, across the dry grass of the endless plateau, their eyes glued to a horizon where shades of dusky blue mix with sickly yellow, they knew it wouldn't be long until they reached their target.
Sadia knew so too. Just a few more days of miserable marching. Just a few more days of suffocating heat. Just a few more days. Night after night, day after day, conversation after conversation, Sadia would spare any moment she got by herself to think up a good way to proceed. Eventually, they passed one solitary boulder, the only landmark amongst the sea of yellow hills. By that point, going by her memory, Sadia knew they only had two more days of marching until they reached the forest.
The march will finally be over. Then, would come the hard part. The first trial. The one her old friend insisted was the easiest to fail. Keeping Crimson Dawn alive would be difficult, especially in her sorry state. But now, they weren't alone. Danse and Cyra, both zealots, both capable, hopefully. They were by their side and with their help, Dawn might just come out alive.
As the sun descended into the sea of yellow, the group made camp for the night. Conversations were had, little food and water were shared. Sadia's tummy rumbled as she lay down to sleep. As soon as she was sure everyone had fallen asleep, she got up and left. She marched towards the highest hill she could find. These last few days had her shook, the heat paired with the stress of figuring out a way to make sure Dawn survived took a toll on her, but that wasn't the worst of it. Her stomach sunk. Badly. It did not get better. No matter what. No amount of planning could make it go away. Her anxiety mounted with each night that passed.
At first, she was convinced it was her nerves acting up after finally returning to walk this crooked path. Then, she slowly realised what irked her so much. Every night, she scouted and kept watch, looking for any sign they were being followed. Every day, she would look over her shoulder, seeking the highest vantage points just to gaze upon the sea of yellow, making sure no one could be seen. Up until now, there were no tracks, nor any shapes, nor any severed fingers. No sign they were being followed. That unnerved her. Whoever "he" sent after her was competent, seeing how they were able to track her after she fled with Crimson Dawn. To see no sign of them meant one of two things. They either failed to follow or they were already laying in ambush.
There, on a hill overlooking all others, a solitary tree sat, crooked limbs raised in a leafless crown. The darkness was thick and heavy. Sadia could see almost nothing past her immediate surroundings, much to her dismay. No way of telling if they are being followed. No way to know if an ambush is awaiting them. No way to know where they can be ambushed. Every damn thing looks the same in this god forsaken place. She sat down, a long sigh leaving her lips. The air was cool, she was sweating. The wind gently caressed her skin, it prickled and itched all the same. She drew in deep breaths. If an ambush was to take place, it would be before they reach the forest. It was too dangerous to fight in the woods
No one would risk that. So where exactly could they be waiting? There's hills and plains and not much else. No tight passings. No overlooks from which to throw stones or shoot arrows, no dense woods in which to hide. No good places for an ambush. Too many hills. And the land becomes plain and low just before the forest. Any threat would be easy to spot. Too dangerous to go into the forest just to lay an ambush.
She drew in a breath, exhaling loudly after a few seconds. All these ruminations only lead to one conclusion. They weren't being followed. But could that really be true? Even after everything Sadia saw? The trinket tied to her knife glinted weakly in the moonlight, the only thing assuring her that her sanity wasn't truly slipping. She walked back, shambling back to their camp on anxious feet. The fire had long gone out.
As the sun rose, cracking through wide and heavy clouds, Sadia knew that by night they would have reached the forest.
The first trial awaits, and so do the shadows of the past. Sadia finally returns to the path.