JOIN MY P@TREON FOR JUST $5!!! (Info in author's notes)
NEW SIVER MEMBERS:- Zephyr, Blorgus Gaming, Mark Sarga, PegasusJake, Mark Sarga, NoxPax, Kunta, Austin Levy, MightyUrsus96, Kris Cannon
ADD HEAD TO MY P@TREON FOR FREE! A POLL IS UP THERE! FREE TO VOTE!
Happy reading
--XXXX--
The air in the tent was too heavy, almost impossible to breathe.
It was a small, temporary structure of Trikru leather, erected in the heart of Polis, in the shadow of the great tower. But the hide walls did nothing to stop the sound from outside. The sound of thousands of people, a roaring, murmuring, chanting ocean of the Twelve Clans, all gathered, all hungry, all waiting for the blood that was to come.
Lexa stood in the center, a pillar of forced calm, her eyes closed. She was already in the black, segmented Trikru war-leathers she'd worn for her first fight, the ones she trusted.
On either side of her was her family.
Anya, her own filled with worry, was on Lexa's left. She was in her full Trikru armor, every piece of leather and fur radiating her status as Chief. Her hands, however, were not the steady hands of a leader. They were trembling, just slightly, as she checked and re-checked the buckles on Lexa's shoulder pauldrons.
Mike was on Lexa's right. He was clad in his blue-grey and burnt-orange combat suit. He was checking the twin short-swords in the scabbards on Lexa's back.
Now, you might ask, what fight? What could possibly bring these three to Polis?
It was for the Conclave. It was the fight for everything.
Mike's mind, even as his hands worked, was running on a parallel track, replaying the last month. One golden, perfect month.
He remembered the day, just a few days after their "marriage," standing before the entire village. Anya, her face bright with pride that made his chest ache, had stood beside him. She'd raised her sword and, in a voice that rang with authority and love, had given him a new title.
He was no longer just "Mikky" or the "Man from the Tomb." He was, she'd declared, Bla-D-Trikru.... The Blade of Trikru. It was a title they had created for him, one that, in a shocking move, gave him a position of authority equal to that of their Chief. He was not just her husband; he was her partner in rule.
The weeks that followed were the happiest of his entire, strange existence. He had, for the first time, lived.
The world, it seemed, had exhaled. His very presence, a walking, talking, breathing "story" of a man who could snatch arrows from the air and kill Azgeda patrols without a sound, had become the ultimate shield. The Ice Nation scouts vanished from their borders. The Mountain Men raids, a terror, simply... stopped.
Trikru flourished in the quiet. And Mike, for the first time, enjoyed his life to its fullest.
He was still a warrior. There were still patrols, still training. But now, he was not a lone weapon. He was a husband of two wonderful women and a leader.
He'd spent time with his wives. He'd wake up, a living furnace in the pre-dawn chill, with Anya's head on his heart and Lexa's leg thrown possessively over his waist. He slept with them, ate with them, their three bodies a familiar, comforting tangle. They would share a single bowl of stew, their knees touching, their private jokes and glances a language all their own.
Heck, he even bathed with them.
He'd remember, with a clarity that felt holy, sitting on the riverbank, a silent guardian, just watching them. The sun on their skin, their laughter echoing off the water as Lexa, in a fit of playfulness, splashed Anya, who'd responded with a warrior's lethal (and hilarious) efficiency. He'd remember them washing the grime from him, their hands so, so gentle on his scarred scalp, and him, in turn, carefully washing their hair, his calloused hands learning to be tender. They had savored every single, simple moment, hoarding them like jewels.
He spent time with the village, too. He was finally, truly, understanding the weight of his new title. "The Blade of Trikru" wasn't just about strength; it was about protection. He'd sat with Nyko for hours, absorbing the healer's knowledge, offering up "pre-war" medical texts from his bunker in return. He'd trained the new recruits until they dropped, earning Indra's respect. He'd redesigned their watchtowers, his mind easily seeing the flaws in their angles. He wasn't just a part of the village. He was one of its pillars.
But as he, Anya, and Lexa knew, nothing is permanent.
The news had come on a cold, gray morning. A slow, hollow, mournful drumbeat from the north, picked up and echoed by their own watchtowers. A runner, his face streaked with sweat and dread, had arrived from Polis, bearing the sigil of the Heda.
The Commander was dead. A sudden sickness. A frail heart.
The news sent a wave of ice through Tonas. Mike had seen the color drain from Anya's face. He knew, intellectually, what this meant.
Anya knew it in her bones.
"The Conclave," she had breathed, her hand flying to her throat. "Lexa... no."
Lexa, who had been cleaning her blades, simply stopped. She closed her eyes. It was not a choice. It was a destiny. As a Natblida, a Nightblood, her life had only ever pointed in one direction. The Conclave would be called in two weeks. And she would have to go.
That night, in their tent, the mood was broken. The warmth was gone, replaced by a creeping dread. Anya was not the Iron Chief. She was a terrified sister.
"It is a culling, Mike," she'd whispered, her voice trembling, her hands twisting in her lap. "It is not a test of honor. It is a slaughterhouse. Eight Nightbloods walk in. One walks out. The others... they are brutal. Nia will have a champion, some monster raised on ice and cruelty. The other clans... they will tear her apart. She is strong... but, gods, anything can happen..."
Lexa's face was pale, but resolute. It was Mike who had seen the tremor in her hand, the fear she was trying so hard to hide.
He had simply moved, a silent, comforting presence, pulling both of them into his arms, their three bodies a familiar, comforting anchor. He'd let Anya's quiet, terrified sobs shake against his chest.
When she was quiet, he'd spoken, his voice a low, calm, and absolute rumble.
"Don't worry," he'd said, his chin resting on top of Lexa's head, his other arm holding Anya tight. "I will handle this."
Anya had pulled back. "Handle this? You cannot interfere. It is sacred law! They will kill her!"
"No," Mike said, his golden eyes meeting hers. They were not the eyes of "Mikky," the goofy, loving husband. They were the cold stare of the Bla-D-Trikru.
"I will train her. For two weeks. I will not just train her as a Trikru warrior. I will train her as I was trained."
He'd cupped Lexa's face, his rough thumbs stroking her cheeks. "I will make her a weapon that those other champions cannot even comprehend. She will be faster, smarter, and more lethal than all of them combined. We will be there for her. She will win."
He'd then pulled Anya back, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more terrifying than any shout.
"And if, after all that... if some lucky bastard gets a blade to her throat... if she is somehow, about to die... then I will not be Trikru's Blade. I will be her shield."
He'd looked at them, his vow an iron-clad promise. "I don't care about the repercussions. I don't care about their sacred laws or their traditions. I swore, on my name, to be the shield who protects you both. If they try to kill her, I will break that Conclave in two. And if the clans send their armies to Trikru in retaliation... I will bury every. Single. One of them."
Lexa had let out a choked sound, her fear finally breaking, and she'd clung to him, not as a warrior, but as a woman who was, for the first time, not alone. Anya had simply cried, a flood of pure, grateful relief. They'd stayed like that for an hour, a fortress of three, unbreakable.
And so the training began. It was a brutal, grueling, two-week descent into hell. Mike was a demon. He was relentless. "Again!" he would roar, as Lexa, panting and covered in mud, would try the disarming maneuver for the hundredth time. He was a merciless teacher. He woke her before dawn. He taught her not just sword arts, but every art.
He taught her to see the ring not as a circle of dirt, but as a map of angles, chokepoints, and blind spots. He taught her how to kill a human with a throwing knife. How to use a spear not just to thrust, but to trap an opponent's blade. How to break a human's neck with her own shield. He'd brought weapons from his bunker: a carbon-fiber combat staff, perfectly weighted throwing knives, and a length of steel wire. "Just in case," he'd said. "The Conclave has no rules against weapons, only against guns. We will use everything." He'd taught her his own tactical mindset: Analyze, adapt, annihilate.
In the blink of an eye, two weeks had passed.
And here they were.
Anya tightened the last buckle. "It is done."
Lexa nodded, rolling her shoulders. She was ready.
Mike stepped in front of her. "One last thing."
He held a small, shallow wooden bowl. In it was the thick, black Trikru war paint. He dipped his thumb and forefinger into it, his touch impossibly gentle. "Close your eyes, Lexi."
She did. His hands brushed over her eyelids. He painted the black, horizontal bar across her eyes. It was not the paint of a Second. It was the paint of a Heda. It was not just paint. It was a statement.
He finished, his hands moving from her eyes to her waist. He pulled her in, her armored chest pressing against his. He leaned down and captured her lips in a deep, affectionate, soul-searing kiss. It was a kiss that said everything. I believe in you. I am with you. Come back to me.
He pulled back, his forehead resting against hers. "I believe in you, Lexi. Go and get them."
She smiled, a true, lovely, confident smile. "I will."
She turned, her smile softening, and embraced Anya.
"I know you will win," Anya said, her voice thick, her hands gripping Lexa's arms. "You were always the strongest warrior I have ever seen." She then glanced sideways at Mike, her expression turning into a familiar, dry smirk. "Well... accept him, of course."
A bubble of laughter broke the tension. Lexa giggled. Even Mike chuckled.
It was the last, perfect bit of normal they needed.
A shout came from outside the tent, the voice of the Flamekeeper's
"Lexa kom Trikru! The Heda's Flamekeeper calls for the Champions! It is time!"
The laughter died. The moment was here.
They looked at each other, one last, long, shared glance. A silent vow.
Mike reached up, his face hardening, and took the orange and black helmet from its stand. With a soft, pneumatic clack-hiss, the mask sealed over his face, his golden eyes vanishing behind a black, reflective visor. His voice, when it came out, was no longer Mike's. It was the cold, electronically-filtered voice of the Bla-D-Trikru.
"Let's go."
The tent flap was thrown open, and the roar of a thousand voices hit them.
Lexa walked out first, her chin held high, her eyes fixed on the massive, dark tower of Polis, a champion ready for her destiny.
And behind her, flanking her, one on each side, walked her escort.
Her Chief.
And her Blade.
---XXXX----
How was it?
GREAT!!
or
MEH(If this, then tell why. Helps improve the fanfic)