'TAITEN. TAITEN. TAITEN.'

The chant reverberated around the pit, but Aramir could barely hear it. With a glance at his now glowing warpaint, the initiate tossed aside the remnants of his shield and forced himself to his feet. Lifting his eyes, he looked up at the Fal'mor.

The creature stared back at him, balanced on its back legs like a spider about to strike. Of its forelegs, only one remained. The one he'd severed earlier was still a disgusting, bleeding stump. The other two had been obliterated in the explosion of light – the few jagged chunks of flesh that were left leaking streams of red.

The Fal'mor hesitated, its one good foreleg aimed at Aramir's head. Its eyes darted back and forth. Fearful. Uncertain.

Adjusting his grip on his sword, Aramir stepped towards it.

The Fal'mor struck.

He parried. Splatters of blackblood flew through the air. With a burst of heat, the aeonite warpaint danced across Aramir's skin, catching the black acidic droplets and transforming them into harmless drops of rust-scented red.

Following through with the momentum, he countered. Glowing blue blade sliced through black, bubbling flesh, and another fountain of red sprayed into the air.

The Fal'mor screeched and toppled backwards. A series of bone-crunching cracks thundered through the air as it rolled. The spindly spider legs slurped back into its torso, and a pair of huge, battered arms with bleeding, disfigured hands emerged instead. Digging its fingers into the ground, it launched itself across the arena like a boulder from a catapult.

Aramir dodged it – barely. Scorching heat spread across his back as the giant rolling ball of slime skimmed his skin and smashed into the wall behind him. The ward lining the walls of the pit sparked, its glassy surface turning opaque where the Fal'mor had struck. With a stream of aeonite dust, the Fal'mor was ejected – tossed back into the centre of the pit.

Blackblood cratered the ground as the creature landed. It charged at Aramir again. He leapt out of its path, sword slicing through the Fal'mor's side as it rolled by.

It let out a shriek of agony.

A dark little smile spread across Aramir's face. He was going to come out of this alive after all.

The thought vanished as the Fal'mor turned. A colossal hand cleaved through the air, too large to dodge – too heavy to block. It slammed into Aramir's chest, throwing him back against the warded walls of the pit. His sword flew from his fingers. His bones creaked. Injured and unarmed, he dropped into the dirt.

Swearing, Aramir scrambled to get back to his feet – to grab his sword. It was two paces away. Maybe three...

A dripping black fist dropped towards his head. He threw up his hands instinctively. Aeonite dust raced up his forearms, leaving trails of excruciating heat in its wake. It spread through the air to form a glittering, ethereal dome above him. Trapped on his knees, Aramir gritted his teeth as the fist retracted and slammed down again. Once. Twice. Three times.

Each blow made his arms go numb. He sank closer and closer to the ground. His eyes darted sideways, locking onto his sword. A moment was all he needed. Some kind of distraction and –

'Leave him alone, you filthy Fal'mor!'

─ ☼ ─

Eyes wide with horror as she watched from the stands, Eliah untangled herself from Regis. 'Leave him alone, you filthy Fal'mor!' she yelled, and ran towards the pit.

Hal froze as he watched her. Her magic was blinding. It flooded his senses – sent trembles down to his extremities. The feeling of dread he'd felt earlier cemented itself in his stomach as she reached out to touch the barrier.

There was a lump in his throat. He couldn't get the words out. 'Eliah, don't—'

Her fingers connected. The light that made up the barrier surged. All around the arena, the rune circles controlling it grew brighter and hotter. The menials in charge of them screamed with panic, dropping to their knees in a futile attempt to get the power under control.

With a final, blinding explosion, all six rune circles went dark.

Hal looked up instinctively. He stared, horrified, as the ward above the pit shattered, filling the air with clouds of chalky white dust. It rained down on the arena like a shower of out-of-season snow.

'Oh, Gods...' he whispered, going pale.

Swallowing hard, the menial ran to the edge of the pit and looked down.

The Fal'mor's red eyes swivelled up to meet his. Something that looked like a tongue darted in and out of the lopsided crack that cleaved the creature's face. The Fal'mor's flesh bulged as he watched. A familiar cracking noise reverberated through the arena.

Hal didn't wait to see what limbs it was creating. He knew exactly where it would head. Heart thumping rapidly, he called on his magic.

Menials were not trained for combat – physical nor magical. Their main purpose was to power the few existing spells that had been worked into rune circles during Taiten's age. It was against the Teachings for them to learn how to use their power on their own.

Fortunately, his mother had thought it a waste. She'd brought him tomes and scrolls from the other side of the Gate – shown him a place where he could practise spells without fear of being seen.

It was time to see if they actually worked.

Hal let out a rattling exhale. Pulling himself together, he let his breath fall into meditative rhythm. The silver sparks in his iris flickered and expanded as he called on the flame of his magic. Sweat dripping down his temples, Hal began to draw runes in the air.

Silver threads flowed from the menial's fingertips. They rippled through the air in front of him, criss-crossing over each other to create a lattice of shimmering lines and runes where the ward had previously stood.

It took Regis a moment to realise what Hal was up to. Eying the silver light nervously, he rushed forward to pull Eliah out of the way.

The girl barely seemed to notice the magic threads. Letting them weave their way around her, she clambered onto the wall of the pit.

Regis's hand snatched at the back of her tunic. 'Eliah!' he shouted. 'Get down!'

She didn't even look at him.

'No.'

With a flick of her hand, a torrent of aeonite dust ripped through the air.

Regis cursed as it struck him. He staggered, but managed to stay on his feet. Hand still wrapped in the back of Eliah's tunic, he yanked the girl from the ledge.

Hal was not so lucky. The shimmering blue wave slammed into his side, nearly knocking him over the wall and into the pit. With his concentration broken, the makeshift ward he'd been building crumbled like sand.

Hastily, he steadied himself and tried the spell again. Sparks of light flickered around his fingertips – and failed to take shape. Hal swallowed and grit his teeth, trying desperately to will the barrier back into existence. But the silver flame inside him refused to listen. He couldn't clear his mind. There was too much terror – too much panic.

He was out of time.

The wind stirred. The flap of a great pair of wings rent the air.

Hands shaking, Hal looked up.

The Fal'mor's beady red eyes stared back at him. A dripping black split appeared on its surface like a grin. The split opened wider and wider, until Hal was staring into a cavernous pit that led all the way to the creature's dull red, crystalline core.

The menial took a shaky step back. He knew what came next. He'd seen it happen countless times to menials who had gotten too close during feeding duty in the Cages.

The Fal'mor was going to swallow him. It would suck him dry of magic and feed on his aether to fuel its core. Then it would grow bigger. Faster. More cunning. Be capable of shifting into even more dangerous forms than before.

Then it would decimate the arena before any of the Titans could even hope to bring it down.

Oozing black tendrils burst from the Fal'mor's flesh. They reached for him.

Breath caught in his throat, Hal moved to run – and buckled to the ground as a crushing wave of force slammed down on him from the side. It exploded through the arena, bringing every single menial and lighter-haired Seren to their knees. Even the Fal'mor flinched.

Hal gasped, bracing himself on all fours. His lungs were on fire. His head felt like it was going to split. Every muscle in his body felt like it was being strapped of strength. The silver flame inside him was shrinking rapidly, the magic flooding out uncontrollably through his skin. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe.

'Hal, what are you doing? Get back!'

Regis ran forward as the Fal'mor recovered. Its tendrils lashed out. Seizing Hal by the back of his tunic, he dragged his friend out of harm's way. He threw the menial behind him, eyes darting around the arena as he ran through the situation in his head.

He had no weapon, no shield. Even if he did, it wouldn't make a difference unless they were made out of aeonite. The only people equipped to fight a Fal'mor were the Titans, and the closest ones were gawking at the Fal'mor like fools while spectators  scrambled around them to reach the exits.

Their only option was to run. Run and pray.

'Out of the arena, Hal,' Regis ordered. 'Go! Take Eliah with you!' He swivelled around to grab her – and stopped short. She'd been standing right next to him. 'Shit—'

She was standing in front of the Fal'mor.

Regis's heart dropped into his stomach. 'Eliah – ' he started.

A clammy hand grabbed him by the wrist. He turned to find Hal shaking his head fervently at him. 'Don't,' said the menial, his voice shaking.

'The Fal'mor – '

' – is not the reason I'm stopping you,' gasped Hal. He tightened his grip. 'I know you can't feel what she's doing to us, but just look.'

Regis looked back at his foster-daughter. The girl stared up at the Fal'mor, gold eyes narrowed, small hands balled into angry, trembling fists. A storm of aeonite dust whipped around her, lighting up her hair and skin, growing brighter with each second that passed.

Hal was right. There was no approaching her – he'd probably be ripped apart if he tried.

Eliah raised her hand, fingers stretched out as if she were trying to seize the sky.

The air shivered as she spoke.

'Don't hurt my family.'

Her fingers clenched into a fist.

Every aeonite weapon in the arena flared with light. They shuddered in their owners' hands. The Titans swore in confusion, tightening their grips as the metal tried to wrest itself free.

A flash of blue metal glinted in the sunlight. A sword – Aramir's sword – shot through the back of the Fal'mor's head. It bounced off its core with a clink. The blue blade glowed white. The red crystal cracked and shattered like glass.

And in the blink of an eye, the creature was gone. Blackblood, flesh and bone collapsed in on itself and exploded like a star, leaving nothing but a mist of red rain in its wake.

Frightened chaos hushed into stunned silence.

Hal looked on, eyes wide, unsure whether to be awestruck or terrified. 'Taitenschild...' he whispered.

Regis barely heard him. Shaking the menial off, he took a step forward. 'Eliah?'

The girl turned around. The glow around her had faded. The colour drained from her face. She wavered on her feet. 'Da... I don't... feel... so good.'

She fainted.

Regis rushed forward to catch her before she hit the ground. He swore and nearly let dropped her as the white-hot metal in her back burnt his hand. Placing the girl gently on the ground, he gave her cheek a pat. 'Eliah? Can you hear me?'

Her eyelids fluttered but she didn't respond.

The pressure that had been sapping his magic now gone, a weakened Hal pulled himself to his feet and scanned the rest of the arena.

The soldiers and shieldmaidens that made up the bulk of the spectators were staring at where the Fal'mor had been with looks of awe on their faces. Fortunately with the barrier separating the circle from the crowd still in place, they hadn't quite seen what had occurred.

The menials, however, were staring right at him. He could see them pointing. Whispering. Trying to figure out what had happened – where the power that had struck them had originated from. The quicker ones would know it hadn't come from him. Any minute now and Ove would come over to investigate. Or worse... the Tyrants.

He hurried to Regis's side. 'You better get her out of here. Anyone with a sense for magic will have felt what she did. I'll do what I can to keep it quiet, but I don't know how long that will last.'

Regis frowned. 'You're going to get the blame for this.'

'Ha. Like menials being blamed for things going wrong is a rare thing. Not that I mind. "Menial with privileges", remember?' said Hal with a wink.

Regis didn't smile back.

Hal sighed. 'Just go. I'll figure out some kind of explanation.' His eyes darkened as he looked down at Aramir in the pit. 'We'll need one for him too.'

─ ☼ ─

Aramir stared up at where the Fal'mor had been, an unreadable expression on his face. The blue warpaint on his skin had faded to a chalky white and was completely devoid of warmth – the magic fueling Aeon's Blessing having dissipated along with the Fal'mor.

The last few moments had been a blur. He couldn't even begin to explain what had happened.

One moment, the Fal'mor had been intent on smashing him to a pulp, then all of a sudden it had sprouted wings and flown away. He'd gone for his sword on instinct, expecting another attack. But it had never come. Instead, an invisible force had ripped his blade out of his hands and sent it sailing straight through the Fal'mor's head. The Fal'mor had vanished. His sword had dropped back into the pit.

Was that a victory? he wondered. If so, then whose? Because it certainly wasn't his.

The sword glinted in the sand, as if urging him to pick it up. As Aramir reached for it, his eyes lingered on the rune circle that had been so carefully etched onto the back of his hand. A wry smile crept across his lips as the image of a bear made out of glowing blue dust crept into his mind.

He knew exactly who to thank.

Aramir picked up the sword and pointed it up at the stands, towards where he knew Eliah and Regis were. 'Good job, Eli,' he murmured.

Somewhere out in the stands, Tyrant Einar's voice broke the silence. 'Victory for the Goddess's blessed! Victory for the child of the Sun! All that is eternal is might!' he roared.

The crowd repeated the phrase with a roar.

Aramir shook his head and turned to leave. If might was all it took to win, then he wouldn't have come so close to death.

Yet shouts from the spectators echoed in Einar's wake.

'Aramir Regischild!' shouted a man. 'The legend of Taiten reborn!'

Aramir scoffed. Ridiculous, he thought as he trudged through the sand.

'No – he's Taitenschild!' yelled someone else.

'Aramir Taitenschild!' cried a woman in the distance.

Aramir froze and looked back at where the voice had come from. No, he thought, horrified. He couldn't let them think that. After all, the real Taitenschild was –

A man nearby repeated the phrase. 'Aramir Taitenschild! Our hero reborn!' he bellowed. 'Tai-tens-child! Tai-tens-child!'

The chant spread through the crowd like wildfire.

'TAITENSCHILD. TAITENSCHILD. TAITENSCHILD.'

There was no stopping it.

Fist shaking around the hilt, Aramir slid his sword back into its sheath. He gritted his teeth and inhaled, counting to four and holding it like he'd been taught. With that he headed for the exit, his sister's name echoing in his ears.

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All content and illustrations ©Jax L. P. (@JaxCreation) on 𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒑𝒂𝒅. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you are reading this on another site or under a different account name.