The inside of the massive tree's trunk was every bit as impressive as the outside, the internal wood shaped into walls and ceilings and floors on what must have been multiple levels. It wasn't so different from a tower made of stone, except that Estella could feel how alive it was, almost like it pulsed with some long, slow, ancient heartbeat. It must have been the proximity of the Fade here that gave her the impression, but even if she told herself that, there was no shaking it.
Nor was there any shaking the sense of foreboding she felt here, now. This room was long, the centerpiece of it a raised dais upon which sat eight thrones, fashioned from roots and branches with green leaves still attached, still growing from the backs of the chairs towards the light filtering in from the row of windows far above. The angle of the light meant that in order to stand before the Ghilan'al, she had to position herself directly in a beam of it, feel the warmth wash over her goose-prickled skin. It should have been a comfort, but instead she could not help but think that it laid her bare somehow, exposed every flaw to the assessing eyes of the eight dignified elves looking down on her, each pair of eyes a different shade of green.
There was no mistaking their authority; surely they would have exuded it even without the help of the thrones or the elevation, but those things only enhanced the weight of their gazes. To a one, they were dressed predominantly in a single color, with accents in a second, all different but all within the spectrum of rich jewel-tones. Each also bore a heraldric symbol of some sort on the front of their robes, one she could match fairly easily to an elven god. Or Evanuris. Under their stares it was honestly hard to tell the difference. She wondered if they were the descendants of those gods' closest supporters, and if this was why they bore the symbols upon their clothes instead of their faces.
Not for the first time, she wondered exactly whose blood she was really claiming, when she named the father she had never met as her own. One of the women, the centermost on the left side, had upon her garments the same tree that Harellan so often had stitched into his tunics, and the same teardrops on the hems of her sleeves. Mythal. The man next to her, dressed in red to her green, bore the sunburst of Elgar'nan, very different from the Chantry's, and at each sleeve was a tangle of thorny vines that reminded her of Ithilian's vallaslin. The only ones she'd seen for that god. Estella shifted uncomfortably.
"You are the one that advances the blood claim?" The man in red spoke first, his voice thick with undisguised repulsion. The light skimmed off his golden hair, lighting it like a crepuscular halo. She swallowed her sense of her own inadequacy. She was here for a reason, and she would not abandon it because they daunted her.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord. My name is EsâEliana. Saeris. My father was Mahvir Saeris." She introduced herself in the manner Harellan hadâno doubt they needed no further reminders of her obvious humanity.
It almost seemed to have the wrong effect on the man, who bristled visibly. She wondered if she'd presumed something she shouldn't have, but she had no idea what she should have said instead. Perhaps anything would have upset him. Estella pursed her lips, clasping her hands in front of her to still their trembling, or at least hide it better.
The woman shifted, just enough to draw the attention in the room to herself. She looked about two decades older than the man, maybe somewhere in her sixties, if her time-silvered hair and gently-lined face were any real indication. Here it might not beâEstella had no idea what the proximity of the Fade did to them in that respect, if anything. "So you say," she said, her tone almost a murmur. "But I wonder if you even have any idea what that really means." Her eyes moved past Estella to Harellan for a moment, and it was only then that she realized they were exactly the same shade of spring-leaf green.
"I'm... not sure I understand what you mean, my lady." She twisted her fingers in her own grip, wondering if she'd missed something obvious. "It means I am Harellan's niece, and it means I will never meet my father, I know. I... I suspect it also means I may be kin of yours, however distantly." It was a guess, but she thought it a fairly safe one.
The woman sat back in her chair, lifting a hand to her chin in thought. "Not so distant, if he has told you true," she replied. "But you have no concept of what it is that binds us all together? Of why I sit here and another does not?"
The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head enough to ripple his hair. "You can't possibly believe her, Asvhalla. Her words are the traitor's wordsâwhat more proof of falsity need there be?" He didn't so much as acknowledge Harellan's existence, merely speaking of him as though he were not present at all.
"Then why bother with words at all?" Harellan's gaze was keen; he seemed entirely unbent by the same presences that so intimidated her. As though he had every right to stand among them as respected equal, never mind the fact that his name branded him exile. "Her blood will tell the truth, even if you believe our tongues incapable, Lord Aedanthir." He crossed his arms over his chest, a faint smile playing across his face. "Unless, of course, you hesitate to take that route because you suspect the result will cow you."
Estella wasn't exactly sure how it was that her blood would tell anyone anything, but if that barrier from before was any indication, perhaps they had magic that could determine who was who using just that. Somehow, she doubted it would turn out that simply.
From the look on Lord Aedanthir's face, she knew she was right.
"And find myself the subject of another of your tricks? No, I think not. Such proof as you could tamper with would be insufficient to prove the lineage of a halla, never mind her."
"There are other ways," Asvhalla said, her tone much milder, but still guarded. "One in particular, that no magic has ever fooled." Her eyes slid sideways to her companion.
He scowled outright, but it took him longer to speak this time, as though he were weighing whatever option she referred to. "No. To show that to an outsider would be nearly as bad as to take the traitor at his word. Perhaps worse." His fingers tightened on the armrests. "They are unworthy to lay eyes upon it."
"Then... is there some way I might prove myself worthy?" Estella didn't like where the conversation was going, and hoped to stop before it reached the conclusion Lord Aedanthir seemed so intent on driving it towards. "Please. I have no intention of making anything of this claim. I only wish to access Vir Dirthara, and that only until I find one thing." She moved her eyes from the elven Lord to Asvhalla, trying to convey her sincerity as well as she could in tone and gesture.
"What if she took the Trials?" The woman arched a brow at her counterpart. "Surely if she managed to pass those, she would at least be worthy of the test to her claims."
His lips only thinned further, but at least he wasn't scowling anymore. "And if she fails?"
Asvhalla lifted her shoulders. "Then we cast them all out, and nothing is lost." Her attention reverted to Estella. "The Trials carry a substantial risk of death. Are you prepared to stake your life on what you say?"
"I'm prepared to risk it for what's in that archive," she replied honestly. She believed Harellan, but the truth was... if this wasn't necessary for the sake of that information, she wouldn't be doing it. Certainly not here and now.
Behind her, Ves shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't hard to guess that he didn't care for where the conversation had led either, but for the moment he kept from saying anything.
Cyrus intook a breath through his teeth, audible in the relative silence. Harellan, on the other hand, looked quite like he'd expected something of this sort, though it was hard to say how he felt about it, exactly.
Asvhalla almost looked pleased. "Very well, then. For as long as they are ongoing, your group may quarter with my household. Zathrand will help you prepare for the first trial. Tomorrow morning, I think?" It was clearly her compatriot's agreement she sought, and the slight nod he gave was enough to satisfy her.
"Excellent. Zathrand, you may lead them to the estate. Ensure they are provided for." The younger elf bowed immediately, clearly taking the words for the dismissal they were and leading the way out of the chamber. Fenesvir remained behind.
Only when they were outside the building entirely did Estella allow the sigh she'd been holding in to escape her. "There's some sort of test they can do, to determine whether I'm really who I say I am," she said for Astraia's benefit. "But it seems to be something they won't show outsiders easily, so they want me to prove myself first." She grimaced; put that way, it sounded rather stark.
Estella smoothed down the stark white fabric of her sleeve. The cut and style of the robes was not entirely unlike Zathrand's, allowing her to wear her own breeches and boots beneath it. But the white tunic was apparently standard for someone undergoing the Trials, which made her wonder what other matters they were used to resolve. The elven man had told her she was allowed her belt and her weapons, but nothing by way of armor.
The first trial, he'd told her, was a fight. Trial by combat. That alone was enough to make her nervous, but the uncomfortable looks he kept shooting her weren't helping matters any. He looked like he wanted to tell her something, but his tongue remained firmly still anyway. When he led her out into the city, they took an unfamiliar path, not one of those they'd walked the day before.
"Where are the others?" she asked, doing her best to keep pace with his brisk steps.
"They've already been taken to the proper location, my lady," he said quietly, turning them rightward. "You will have an opportunity to speak with them before the trial begins."
Estella was silent for a moment, then spoke up again. "Can I ask why you call me that? Is it that you think I'm telling the truth about this?"
Zathrand's eyes fell to the ground; he pursed his lips. "With respect, my lady, it doesn't matter what I believe. You are someone that TâHarellan clearly cares for, if he would do all of this for you. Risk coming here for your sake. That is enough for me, at least."
She might have asked him about that, but it was clear that they had reached their destination, an open amphitheater with seating raised on both of the longer sides of the oval. She couldn't make out who was gathered on the other side of it, only that there were many people. Spotting the others, she made her way over to them, raising a hand almost tentatively before she reached comfortable speaking distance. Estella was alarmed to note that the amphitheater's seating was at least half-full, several hundred people in attendance.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that Cyrus and Harellan were in the middle of a discussion, one that was growing quite heated on her brother's end. He broke it off as soon as she came within earshot, though, turning to her with a thunderous scowl on his face. âThis is ridiculous. Even if this whole trial business wasn't a shamâwhich it isâthere's absolutely no need to make a spectacle of you." He gestured up to the seats and the people who occupied them. âSurely the only people who need to observe this are the damn Ghilan'al, or whatever they think they are." His jaw clenched visibly, a muscle ticking on the left side.
"I'm of two minds," Ves added, somewhat grimly humorous, making it obvious that there was more than one meaning to the words. "On the one hand, I think it's idiotic that they'll make you fight for your life while all these people watch like it's for their entertainment. On the other..." He exhaled heavily, rubbing at the back of his neck. "This is the way it's been done, back even to Saraya's memory. I'm of the opinion that traditions can still be quite idiotic even if they last thousands of years, but... she sees this as an opportunity. The number of people watching won't matter if your focus excludes them, which it must. And the more eyes that are on you when you do this, the better your chances of swaying them when you succeed."
He stopped in front of her, reaching out to place his hands on her upper arms. "Which you will."
She really could have used some of his confidence, but it buoyed her even to know that he had it. Heaving an exhale, Estella let herself lean forward enough to touch her forehead to his chest, closing her eyes and trying to let go of some of the tension.
A throat cleared behind her, and she straightened, reluctantly stepping away to face the newcomer. Asvhalla stood a short distance away, her expression neutral. "The match is about to begin," she said, tilting her head slightly. "It would be remiss of me if I did not inform you of the traditional option in a trial such as this one. If you wish, you may appoint a champion to fight in your stead, as Yerion has."
Estella's brows knit. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of proving my worth?"
"Not in our terms. If the champion were a slave, they would be considered an extension of your power and your will. If they were not, then commanding the loyalty of someone who could pass such a trial would be sufficient to prove your merit."
Immediately, Estella shook her head. "I neither have nor want slaves, and I will not ask anyone to do something I'm not willing to do myself."
"Very well. Then if your friends would kindly take their seats, the trial will start momentarily."
Zathrand dipped his head and left in Asvhalla's wake, leaving her with her companions alone. She gave them all a thin smile. "Wish me luck?"
âDon't be dense; it doesn't suit you." Cyrus pulled her into a tight hug, the tension in his frame palpable in the way he held her. âYou have never had nor needed anything as fickle as luck, Stellulam, and you don't now, either." No doubt he would have jumped at the opportunity to fight in her stead if it had been offered to him, but it hadn't, and he didn't seem inclined to scold her for the decision, however he must feel about it. Giving her one last squeeze, he stepped away with obvious difficulty, patting her shoulders once before he forced his hands to drop and abruptly turned on his heel, fighting with an clear degree of emotion he could not quite express.
Harellan offered her a smile, placing his hand atop her head. "Trust yourself. And if you cannot do that, trust your teachers. I would not have offered to bring you here if you were incapable of this, lethallan." He pressed a brief kiss to her hairline, then stepped away to follow Cyrus.
"I'll wish you good luck," Astraia offered, shrugging and clearly forcing some cheer. "Just because you don't need it doesn't mean it won't help. We'll seeya soon, Stel." She hesitated a moment, then set her staff aside and hugged her as well, before leaving her alone with Ves.
"When it starts," he said, "the rest will fall away. You've fought a duel with spectators before, remember? Don't see how this could be any worse than that. And you've come into your own since then." He stood before her again, lifting a hand to the side of her face, using his thumb to brush away strands of hair. "They'll come to see who we see. Who I see." He leaned in slowly to kiss her.
Estella stood on her toes to meet him halfway, letting one hand rest at the back of his neck. One last little bit of sweetness and warmth before she had to face the task ahead. When she dropped back to her heels, she nodded once. "Thanks, Ves. I'll do my best."
She could almost believe it now, that it would be enough. Time to go see if she could give herself the last piece of proof she needed.
Pausing just once on the threshold of the ring, Estella ducked under the fence and rose on the other side, striding out towards the center of the dirt with more confidence than she truly felt. The people she loved believed in her. That alone was enough to chase away her fear. She stopped, taking a deep breath, and watched as her opponent approached.
Somehow, she'd expected it would come to this. Harellan had called him the Champion of the Suldevhen, after all. Fenesvir was, unlike herself, fully armored, something she suspected had quite a lot to do with the fact that she was the challenger here, and he the defender. In one hand, he carried a tower shield as though it were made of paper, a three-pronged lance in his other. At his back, he wore a heavy two-handed sword, perhaps for the sake of flexibility, if he decided a more aggressive approach was better. Next to all of it, she knew she looked small and vulnerable, perhaps even pathetic.
"Eliana," he greeted, voice slightly muffled by the helm protecting his head.
"Estella," she replied. "Estella Avenarius. Of the Inquisition, and the Argent Lions mercenary company." She'd earned those names, those titles. Maybe someday she'd feel like the others belonged to her, too, but she knew who she was today. Who would be fighting him here and now. And she felt he ought to know as well.
He was quiet, and she could not discern the expression he wore with the layer of steel in the way. After a moment, however, he nodded, then inclined himself halfway forward into a bow. "Fenesvir Ellas, General of the Suledvhen. I'm honored." There was no mockery in his tone, and she returned the bow with the same respect.
"As am I." By unspoken understanding, they both stepped back several paces and readied themselves, Fenesvir hefting his shield into guard position and shifting his grip on his trident. Estella drew her sword, the familiar glimmer of the blade a reminder. She was not helpless. Even if her sword was small, even if she was small, both were strong. Both were capable. Both had been forged into what they were by skilled hands and a long process of tempering and refinement.
Time to see how far that would get her.
There was no announcement, no pageantry. They had simply crossed to the center of the field, and they began when they decided to begin. Estella, used to playing the aggressor, opened this time as well, lunging and thrusting her saber for Fenesvir's midsection, knowing it was unlikely to hit. He blocked with the tower shield, deflecting in a way she'd encountered before, and so she wasn't caught off-guard, retracting her arm easily and flowing into the next series of strikes, all light slashes. With each, she stepped in a few more inches, and so even though he fended her off easily with the spear, she was not dissuaded, attempting to position herself close enough for a more decisive attack.
But he must have seen through the gambit, because his next parry caught her blade between the prongs of his spear, and a forceful twist of his wrist tore her blade from her hands, sending it to the ground at his side. Disarmed, she was nearly defenseless against his quick follow-up thrust, diving out of the way in enough time to avoid the worst of it but not the whole thing. The trident parted her linen robe like water, leaving a long cut across her skin, just above her hip. Estella rolled, snatching up her saber in the same motion, and found her feet in a spray of dirt.
Fenesvir did not wait for her to reset her balance, stepping in to body-check her with the shield in hopes of knocking her back over, no doubt. She spun away from it and slashed at his now-unprotected side, darting away when he retracted his arm in enough time to block. She could tell already that he was easily among the most skillful opponents she'd ever faced, including in much friendlier sparring matches. Even in all that armor, he was fast, and his reflexes were probably better than hers.
For now, at least.
Expelling a breath, she put some distance between them and reached for the now-familiar magic, becoming aware of herself in a way only Dirthin'era allowed her to. The beat of her heart was a fast tattoo in her chest, but it was steady and strong still, her breaths even and deep. Shifting the magic into her muscles and sinews, she rose up onto the balls of her feet and lunged again, this time much faster.
The sudden difference caught Fenesvir off-guard, and he barely lifted the shield in time to block the high swing. Estella pressed forward, forcing him a step back on the uneven ground, and whipped around, slashing low for his ankles. His greaves absorbed the worst of the damage, but the hit was enough to unbalance his thrust, and it went too far left, sailing over her shoulder. She rebounded to her feet and borrowed a move from Khari, throwing herself shoulder-first into the shield in an attempt to capitalize on his lost footing. It worked, if not to the extent she'd hoped, and her sword came away bloody when he had to block awkwardly with his forearm, the blade sliding up and biting into the inside of his elbow.
But her advantage was gone; Fenesvir got his feet back beneath him where they belonged, and forced her to cede all the ground she'd gained with a series of short, sharp stabs, the last actually finding the meat of her offhand shoulder. Estella gritted her teeth when he withdrew the spear for another hit, strafing to his shield-side to avoid it.
He was difficult to hit, let alone damage in that much armor, and by comparison she had only her fleetness to protect her, as there was simply no way she was going to be able to block a hit from anyone as strong as he clearly was. Her magic was helping, slowing the blood loss from the injuries she gradually accumulated, but clearly something had to change soon, or he would simply outlast her.
Leaning back and sucking in a breath when the spear passed not an inch above her nose, Estella activated her anchor with a the splitting-crack sound that always accompanied the green light, wreathing herself in the mistlike emission that spilled from the palm of her right hand. She'd worn gloves up until this point, on Harellan's advice, but she'd learned long ago that she had to be willing to take advantage of any resources she had available to her if she wanted to stay alive, and this one might just make the difference now.
Aiming herself behind Fenesvir, she stepped into the Fade, reappearing half a second later within striking distance of his back.
Her blade found the joint between the plate at his waist and the one below, slipping past the armor's protection and burying itself a good three inches in just to the left of his spine. Her momentum was lost when he abruptly dropped both his armaments and pitched himself forward to avoid worse, and she yanked her saber backwards so as not to be dragged down with him. He rolled sideways and found his feet again quickly, drawing the sword from over his shoulder this time.
Mentally, Estella switched gears, knowing that this part of the fight was more likely to resemble a match with Khari than one with Ves. Harsh linen abraded her wounds every time she shifted; she swallowed the pain down and narrowed her focus. Fenesvir's aggression had unmistakably increased now that he had a damaging wound to speak of, and she found herself without either the time or the space to attempt another teleportation, her attention consumed by the pressing need to keep herself from being cleaved in two by the heavy claymore he repeatedly swung for her.
Her magic kept her fast enough and her focus kept her precise enough, but she was finding no openings. The speed and effortlessness of Fenesvir's offense was a form of defense on its own, not allowing her to get any closer than his superior reach, nor time to reposition in any better way. He drove her all the way across the ring to the edge, following in well-measured paces.
Estella pulled in a surprised breath when her back hit the wooden railing. The next blow was a direct overhead chop; she spun to the side in time to hear the rail shatter behind her under the force of the blow. A pommel strike caught her across the back, and the sheer weight of it sent her crashing facefirst into the dirt, forced to try and catch herself with only one arm so she didn't risk impaling herself on her own blade. But her arm gave, and she rolled blindly sideways onto her back, hoping she'd picked the right direction.
She hadn't.
Pain erupted in her abdomen; Estella reflexively tried to curl in on herself to protect the wounded area, only making matters that much worse as Fenesvir withdrew the blade from her belly. She knew, somehow, that the sword had pierced through her completely, coming out her back and lodging into the dirt beneath her before he retracted it. If he'd left it there, she would no doubt have been staked to the ground. Her eyes blurred with involuntary tears, the pain short-circuiting her thoughts and blanking her mind entirely for what seemed like a white-hot eternity.
She didn't know how long it actually lasted, but it could not have been as long as it felt, because it lasted. Distantly, she knew that she'd be dead within seconds if she didn't do something. Blinded, disoriented, and reeling, she reacted with instinct rather than conscious decision, lashing out in all directions with unformed, uncontrolled magic. She heard the sound of heavy contact, and then a grunt and several short, clipped steps in the sand. When her eyes cleared, Fenesvir did not loom above her, and she scrambled to stand, only to collapse when she tried to get her feet underneath her.
The pain was unbearable; distantly she knew she was probably screaming, if her voice was working at all. She also knew that he'd punctured her stomach, and the worst of the pain was actually acid escaping from it and burning the rest of her insides. She felt like she was going to combust, to burst apart at the seams, her body just incapable of containing so much raw sensation.
She pushed herself to her feet with a lurch; somehow one of her hands still gripped her sword. Her other went to the wound on her stomach, and she held it together as well as she could. Focus returned, if only just enough to get her out of the way of Fenesvir's next strike, staggering to the side and away from the controlled arc of the claymore. The horizontal follow-up was harder to escape, and she ended up falling down again, this time backwards. It felt almost as bad as being stabbed a second time, but she bit her tongue against it, still pushing as much magic as she could tolerate through her open hand, knitting up the hole in her stomach as well as she was able. At least the burning was less now. It still felt like dying, but the reality of the situation was slow to catch up to that fact, and she knew she couldn't let it.
She also couldn't afford to keep anything in reserve; she understood that now. Beating him would require more of her than any fight ever had, and she wasn't sure she could reach what it would take, much less sustain it. She'd burn through everything she had in minutes or less.
But there was no other choice. Finding her feet again, Estella dropped her free hand, now smeared in her own blood and probably a few other things, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Flooding her body with her own magic, she nearly groaned with relief as the pain receded to a dull ache, something she could ignore. Her limbs felt alive, infused with a foreign strength, a power that both was and was not her own. When Fenesvir lunged for her, she could nearly see it happen before it did, read the motions of his arms and legs and know what the resulting trajectory of the swing would be. She ducked under it with almost too much time to spare, then stepped in and thrust her sword for his throat with blurring speed.
He adjusted barely fast enough to avoid the hit, and the blade slammed into his helmet instead, a few sparks flying from the sharp angle of contact. Taking half a step back, he tried for a pommel-blow, but Estella caught his hand in hers, stopping the motion cold several inches from her openâbut no longer bleedingâwound.
They were close enough that she heard the exhalation of surprise from beneath his helmet. Tearing his arm away from her grip, Fenesvir swung, forcing Estella to catch the strike on her sword. Even magically-enhanced, her arms trembled against the force he brought to bear on the downstroke, and she disengaged first, darting beneath his guard again and leaving another slash beneath an armor-joint, this time just under the chestplate. He sucked in a breath, but her proximity left little room to counter with his lengthy blade, and she did not retreat, instead pressing her advantage by shifting sideways and slashing for the back of his knees.
At least until some invisible force picked her up off her feet and tossed her several yards away. A small burst spell of her own let her right herself in midair and get her legs underneath her for the landing, but she still skidded back a few feet in the dirt when she hit it. Hang on, that had beenâ
The claymore in Fenesvir's hand was now aflame, and suddenly, it clicked into place. Arcane Warrior, her memory supplied. One who until now had been neglecting to fight with the magic available to him. That piece of information alone nearly did in whatever hope she'd had left, but the ruthlessly practical part of her mindâthe one that always sounded like Rilienâreminded her that it wasn't about what she hoped to be able to do or thought she could manage.
There was only what she needed to do. What she must do.
And every second she spent wondering if it was possible was one fewer in which to make it happen.
The secret out, Fenesvir no longer bothered to be conservative with his magicâthe spells flew thick and fast amidst the rain of physical blows. He was bleeding from his wounds in a way she was not, but it was still Estella that was running out of time quicker. Already, she could feel her reserves depleting; just keeping the stream of magic feeding into her body was now an effort, one that rendered her breath fast and shallow, slicking her in a sheen of sweat.
She ducked, dodged, blocked, thrust and slashed as fast and as hard as she could make herself move, but he seemed to have an answer for everything, and her rapid breathing was punctuated with a near-constant clash of steel as they fended one another off at every pass. Sometimes handily, sometimes barely, but never enough either way to lend anyone a decisive advantage. There was no breath to waste on words, no time to waste on thoughts of anything but the next few moves. Of anything but staying alive under a relentless assault.
Estella twisted her body and slashed low, sweeping with her leg and her sword in the same motion. The blade met armor, but her foot hooked around one of Fenesvir's ankles, and the give in the dirt was just enough that he could not hold his place. Instead of falling backwards, he dropped to a knee, but her desperate lunge forward met a hasty stonefist spell, and she was thrown again to her back. Already the pain was starting to filter in as her magic faded. It was a matter of seconds, now, before she was utterly helpless.
She tried the last thing she had: activating the mark again, she thrust it outwards towards him with a burst of green light, still unsure of exactly what it would do.
All at once, the noise around her receded, the sound of her own gasping for air the only one that reached her normally. The rest all felt like it was coming at her through water, as though she'd submerged herself in it, and could no longer hear well. Much to her surprise, Fenesvir was moving as though he were underwater too, advancing towards her in what seemed to be an exaggeratedly-slow version of normal motion. Unwilling to risk losing the effect in the time it took to figure it out, Estella grabbed her saber and lurched forward one last time, lifting Fenesvir's helmet off with her free hand and tossing it away, leaving her blade pointed squarely at his nose.
She blinked, and time caught up, the noise of the crowd rushing back in. Fenesvir registered the difference seemingly immediately, halting his movement before he lost an eye to the point of her sword. The flames on his own guttered out, an expression of complete shock as plain as daylight on his face. He shook his head so minutely only she would be able to notice it.
"You've won." She didn't dare interpret the tone of his voice as containing a measure of awe, but at any other moment, she might have. There was a heavy thud as his sword hit the dirt where he dropped it, and he returned to his knees. Estella's vision swam; for a moment, there were two of him, and her arms began to tremble. The magic was fadingâshe'd hit her limit and spent everything she had. Only the fact that her legs were locked in place prevented her from swaying like a drunkard; she clenched her jaw against the renewed agony in her abdomen.
Fenesvir was speaking still; she had to concentrate just to make the words out. "Go on, then," he urged. "Claim your victory."
It took several seconds for the meaning of the words to sink in. He was telling her to kill him. Because this was a match where her life was at stake. Somehow it still managed to surprise her, in a dull sort of way, that it meant his life was at stake too. But of course that was the point of combat by champion: someone less important died so someone more important didn't have to.
Estella's face twisted into a grimace, half pain and half disgust. "No."
His eyes went wide as she threw her sword, hurling it as far away from herself as her weak arms would let her. The almost comically-contorted expression on his face was the last thing she saw before she blacked out.
She didn't even feel herself hit the ground.
Nor was there any shaking the sense of foreboding she felt here, now. This room was long, the centerpiece of it a raised dais upon which sat eight thrones, fashioned from roots and branches with green leaves still attached, still growing from the backs of the chairs towards the light filtering in from the row of windows far above. The angle of the light meant that in order to stand before the Ghilan'al, she had to position herself directly in a beam of it, feel the warmth wash over her goose-prickled skin. It should have been a comfort, but instead she could not help but think that it laid her bare somehow, exposed every flaw to the assessing eyes of the eight dignified elves looking down on her, each pair of eyes a different shade of green.
There was no mistaking their authority; surely they would have exuded it even without the help of the thrones or the elevation, but those things only enhanced the weight of their gazes. To a one, they were dressed predominantly in a single color, with accents in a second, all different but all within the spectrum of rich jewel-tones. Each also bore a heraldric symbol of some sort on the front of their robes, one she could match fairly easily to an elven god. Or Evanuris. Under their stares it was honestly hard to tell the difference. She wondered if they were the descendants of those gods' closest supporters, and if this was why they bore the symbols upon their clothes instead of their faces.
Not for the first time, she wondered exactly whose blood she was really claiming, when she named the father she had never met as her own. One of the women, the centermost on the left side, had upon her garments the same tree that Harellan so often had stitched into his tunics, and the same teardrops on the hems of her sleeves. Mythal. The man next to her, dressed in red to her green, bore the sunburst of Elgar'nan, very different from the Chantry's, and at each sleeve was a tangle of thorny vines that reminded her of Ithilian's vallaslin. The only ones she'd seen for that god. Estella shifted uncomfortably.
"You are the one that advances the blood claim?" The man in red spoke first, his voice thick with undisguised repulsion. The light skimmed off his golden hair, lighting it like a crepuscular halo. She swallowed her sense of her own inadequacy. She was here for a reason, and she would not abandon it because they daunted her.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord. My name is EsâEliana. Saeris. My father was Mahvir Saeris." She introduced herself in the manner Harellan hadâno doubt they needed no further reminders of her obvious humanity.
It almost seemed to have the wrong effect on the man, who bristled visibly. She wondered if she'd presumed something she shouldn't have, but she had no idea what she should have said instead. Perhaps anything would have upset him. Estella pursed her lips, clasping her hands in front of her to still their trembling, or at least hide it better.
The woman shifted, just enough to draw the attention in the room to herself. She looked about two decades older than the man, maybe somewhere in her sixties, if her time-silvered hair and gently-lined face were any real indication. Here it might not beâEstella had no idea what the proximity of the Fade did to them in that respect, if anything. "So you say," she said, her tone almost a murmur. "But I wonder if you even have any idea what that really means." Her eyes moved past Estella to Harellan for a moment, and it was only then that she realized they were exactly the same shade of spring-leaf green.
"I'm... not sure I understand what you mean, my lady." She twisted her fingers in her own grip, wondering if she'd missed something obvious. "It means I am Harellan's niece, and it means I will never meet my father, I know. I... I suspect it also means I may be kin of yours, however distantly." It was a guess, but she thought it a fairly safe one.
The woman sat back in her chair, lifting a hand to her chin in thought. "Not so distant, if he has told you true," she replied. "But you have no concept of what it is that binds us all together? Of why I sit here and another does not?"
The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head enough to ripple his hair. "You can't possibly believe her, Asvhalla. Her words are the traitor's wordsâwhat more proof of falsity need there be?" He didn't so much as acknowledge Harellan's existence, merely speaking of him as though he were not present at all.
"Then why bother with words at all?" Harellan's gaze was keen; he seemed entirely unbent by the same presences that so intimidated her. As though he had every right to stand among them as respected equal, never mind the fact that his name branded him exile. "Her blood will tell the truth, even if you believe our tongues incapable, Lord Aedanthir." He crossed his arms over his chest, a faint smile playing across his face. "Unless, of course, you hesitate to take that route because you suspect the result will cow you."
Estella wasn't exactly sure how it was that her blood would tell anyone anything, but if that barrier from before was any indication, perhaps they had magic that could determine who was who using just that. Somehow, she doubted it would turn out that simply.
From the look on Lord Aedanthir's face, she knew she was right.
"And find myself the subject of another of your tricks? No, I think not. Such proof as you could tamper with would be insufficient to prove the lineage of a halla, never mind her."
"There are other ways," Asvhalla said, her tone much milder, but still guarded. "One in particular, that no magic has ever fooled." Her eyes slid sideways to her companion.
He scowled outright, but it took him longer to speak this time, as though he were weighing whatever option she referred to. "No. To show that to an outsider would be nearly as bad as to take the traitor at his word. Perhaps worse." His fingers tightened on the armrests. "They are unworthy to lay eyes upon it."
"Then... is there some way I might prove myself worthy?" Estella didn't like where the conversation was going, and hoped to stop before it reached the conclusion Lord Aedanthir seemed so intent on driving it towards. "Please. I have no intention of making anything of this claim. I only wish to access Vir Dirthara, and that only until I find one thing." She moved her eyes from the elven Lord to Asvhalla, trying to convey her sincerity as well as she could in tone and gesture.
"What if she took the Trials?" The woman arched a brow at her counterpart. "Surely if she managed to pass those, she would at least be worthy of the test to her claims."
His lips only thinned further, but at least he wasn't scowling anymore. "And if she fails?"
Asvhalla lifted her shoulders. "Then we cast them all out, and nothing is lost." Her attention reverted to Estella. "The Trials carry a substantial risk of death. Are you prepared to stake your life on what you say?"
"I'm prepared to risk it for what's in that archive," she replied honestly. She believed Harellan, but the truth was... if this wasn't necessary for the sake of that information, she wouldn't be doing it. Certainly not here and now.
Behind her, Ves shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't hard to guess that he didn't care for where the conversation had led either, but for the moment he kept from saying anything.
Cyrus intook a breath through his teeth, audible in the relative silence. Harellan, on the other hand, looked quite like he'd expected something of this sort, though it was hard to say how he felt about it, exactly.
Asvhalla almost looked pleased. "Very well, then. For as long as they are ongoing, your group may quarter with my household. Zathrand will help you prepare for the first trial. Tomorrow morning, I think?" It was clearly her compatriot's agreement she sought, and the slight nod he gave was enough to satisfy her.
"Excellent. Zathrand, you may lead them to the estate. Ensure they are provided for." The younger elf bowed immediately, clearly taking the words for the dismissal they were and leading the way out of the chamber. Fenesvir remained behind.
Only when they were outside the building entirely did Estella allow the sigh she'd been holding in to escape her. "There's some sort of test they can do, to determine whether I'm really who I say I am," she said for Astraia's benefit. "But it seems to be something they won't show outsiders easily, so they want me to prove myself first." She grimaced; put that way, it sounded rather stark.
Estella smoothed down the stark white fabric of her sleeve. The cut and style of the robes was not entirely unlike Zathrand's, allowing her to wear her own breeches and boots beneath it. But the white tunic was apparently standard for someone undergoing the Trials, which made her wonder what other matters they were used to resolve. The elven man had told her she was allowed her belt and her weapons, but nothing by way of armor.
The first trial, he'd told her, was a fight. Trial by combat. That alone was enough to make her nervous, but the uncomfortable looks he kept shooting her weren't helping matters any. He looked like he wanted to tell her something, but his tongue remained firmly still anyway. When he led her out into the city, they took an unfamiliar path, not one of those they'd walked the day before.
"Where are the others?" she asked, doing her best to keep pace with his brisk steps.
"They've already been taken to the proper location, my lady," he said quietly, turning them rightward. "You will have an opportunity to speak with them before the trial begins."
Estella was silent for a moment, then spoke up again. "Can I ask why you call me that? Is it that you think I'm telling the truth about this?"
Zathrand's eyes fell to the ground; he pursed his lips. "With respect, my lady, it doesn't matter what I believe. You are someone that TâHarellan clearly cares for, if he would do all of this for you. Risk coming here for your sake. That is enough for me, at least."
She might have asked him about that, but it was clear that they had reached their destination, an open amphitheater with seating raised on both of the longer sides of the oval. She couldn't make out who was gathered on the other side of it, only that there were many people. Spotting the others, she made her way over to them, raising a hand almost tentatively before she reached comfortable speaking distance. Estella was alarmed to note that the amphitheater's seating was at least half-full, several hundred people in attendance.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that Cyrus and Harellan were in the middle of a discussion, one that was growing quite heated on her brother's end. He broke it off as soon as she came within earshot, though, turning to her with a thunderous scowl on his face. âThis is ridiculous. Even if this whole trial business wasn't a shamâwhich it isâthere's absolutely no need to make a spectacle of you." He gestured up to the seats and the people who occupied them. âSurely the only people who need to observe this are the damn Ghilan'al, or whatever they think they are." His jaw clenched visibly, a muscle ticking on the left side.
"I'm of two minds," Ves added, somewhat grimly humorous, making it obvious that there was more than one meaning to the words. "On the one hand, I think it's idiotic that they'll make you fight for your life while all these people watch like it's for their entertainment. On the other..." He exhaled heavily, rubbing at the back of his neck. "This is the way it's been done, back even to Saraya's memory. I'm of the opinion that traditions can still be quite idiotic even if they last thousands of years, but... she sees this as an opportunity. The number of people watching won't matter if your focus excludes them, which it must. And the more eyes that are on you when you do this, the better your chances of swaying them when you succeed."
He stopped in front of her, reaching out to place his hands on her upper arms. "Which you will."
She really could have used some of his confidence, but it buoyed her even to know that he had it. Heaving an exhale, Estella let herself lean forward enough to touch her forehead to his chest, closing her eyes and trying to let go of some of the tension.
A throat cleared behind her, and she straightened, reluctantly stepping away to face the newcomer. Asvhalla stood a short distance away, her expression neutral. "The match is about to begin," she said, tilting her head slightly. "It would be remiss of me if I did not inform you of the traditional option in a trial such as this one. If you wish, you may appoint a champion to fight in your stead, as Yerion has."
Estella's brows knit. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of proving my worth?"
"Not in our terms. If the champion were a slave, they would be considered an extension of your power and your will. If they were not, then commanding the loyalty of someone who could pass such a trial would be sufficient to prove your merit."
Immediately, Estella shook her head. "I neither have nor want slaves, and I will not ask anyone to do something I'm not willing to do myself."
"Very well. Then if your friends would kindly take their seats, the trial will start momentarily."
Zathrand dipped his head and left in Asvhalla's wake, leaving her with her companions alone. She gave them all a thin smile. "Wish me luck?"
âDon't be dense; it doesn't suit you." Cyrus pulled her into a tight hug, the tension in his frame palpable in the way he held her. âYou have never had nor needed anything as fickle as luck, Stellulam, and you don't now, either." No doubt he would have jumped at the opportunity to fight in her stead if it had been offered to him, but it hadn't, and he didn't seem inclined to scold her for the decision, however he must feel about it. Giving her one last squeeze, he stepped away with obvious difficulty, patting her shoulders once before he forced his hands to drop and abruptly turned on his heel, fighting with an clear degree of emotion he could not quite express.
Harellan offered her a smile, placing his hand atop her head. "Trust yourself. And if you cannot do that, trust your teachers. I would not have offered to bring you here if you were incapable of this, lethallan." He pressed a brief kiss to her hairline, then stepped away to follow Cyrus.
"I'll wish you good luck," Astraia offered, shrugging and clearly forcing some cheer. "Just because you don't need it doesn't mean it won't help. We'll seeya soon, Stel." She hesitated a moment, then set her staff aside and hugged her as well, before leaving her alone with Ves.
"When it starts," he said, "the rest will fall away. You've fought a duel with spectators before, remember? Don't see how this could be any worse than that. And you've come into your own since then." He stood before her again, lifting a hand to the side of her face, using his thumb to brush away strands of hair. "They'll come to see who we see. Who I see." He leaned in slowly to kiss her.
Estella stood on her toes to meet him halfway, letting one hand rest at the back of his neck. One last little bit of sweetness and warmth before she had to face the task ahead. When she dropped back to her heels, she nodded once. "Thanks, Ves. I'll do my best."
She could almost believe it now, that it would be enough. Time to go see if she could give herself the last piece of proof she needed.
Pausing just once on the threshold of the ring, Estella ducked under the fence and rose on the other side, striding out towards the center of the dirt with more confidence than she truly felt. The people she loved believed in her. That alone was enough to chase away her fear. She stopped, taking a deep breath, and watched as her opponent approached.
Somehow, she'd expected it would come to this. Harellan had called him the Champion of the Suldevhen, after all. Fenesvir was, unlike herself, fully armored, something she suspected had quite a lot to do with the fact that she was the challenger here, and he the defender. In one hand, he carried a tower shield as though it were made of paper, a three-pronged lance in his other. At his back, he wore a heavy two-handed sword, perhaps for the sake of flexibility, if he decided a more aggressive approach was better. Next to all of it, she knew she looked small and vulnerable, perhaps even pathetic.
"Eliana," he greeted, voice slightly muffled by the helm protecting his head.
"Estella," she replied. "Estella Avenarius. Of the Inquisition, and the Argent Lions mercenary company." She'd earned those names, those titles. Maybe someday she'd feel like the others belonged to her, too, but she knew who she was today. Who would be fighting him here and now. And she felt he ought to know as well.
He was quiet, and she could not discern the expression he wore with the layer of steel in the way. After a moment, however, he nodded, then inclined himself halfway forward into a bow. "Fenesvir Ellas, General of the Suledvhen. I'm honored." There was no mockery in his tone, and she returned the bow with the same respect.
"As am I." By unspoken understanding, they both stepped back several paces and readied themselves, Fenesvir hefting his shield into guard position and shifting his grip on his trident. Estella drew her sword, the familiar glimmer of the blade a reminder. She was not helpless. Even if her sword was small, even if she was small, both were strong. Both were capable. Both had been forged into what they were by skilled hands and a long process of tempering and refinement.
Time to see how far that would get her.
There was no announcement, no pageantry. They had simply crossed to the center of the field, and they began when they decided to begin. Estella, used to playing the aggressor, opened this time as well, lunging and thrusting her saber for Fenesvir's midsection, knowing it was unlikely to hit. He blocked with the tower shield, deflecting in a way she'd encountered before, and so she wasn't caught off-guard, retracting her arm easily and flowing into the next series of strikes, all light slashes. With each, she stepped in a few more inches, and so even though he fended her off easily with the spear, she was not dissuaded, attempting to position herself close enough for a more decisive attack.
But he must have seen through the gambit, because his next parry caught her blade between the prongs of his spear, and a forceful twist of his wrist tore her blade from her hands, sending it to the ground at his side. Disarmed, she was nearly defenseless against his quick follow-up thrust, diving out of the way in enough time to avoid the worst of it but not the whole thing. The trident parted her linen robe like water, leaving a long cut across her skin, just above her hip. Estella rolled, snatching up her saber in the same motion, and found her feet in a spray of dirt.
Fenesvir did not wait for her to reset her balance, stepping in to body-check her with the shield in hopes of knocking her back over, no doubt. She spun away from it and slashed at his now-unprotected side, darting away when he retracted his arm in enough time to block. She could tell already that he was easily among the most skillful opponents she'd ever faced, including in much friendlier sparring matches. Even in all that armor, he was fast, and his reflexes were probably better than hers.
For now, at least.
Expelling a breath, she put some distance between them and reached for the now-familiar magic, becoming aware of herself in a way only Dirthin'era allowed her to. The beat of her heart was a fast tattoo in her chest, but it was steady and strong still, her breaths even and deep. Shifting the magic into her muscles and sinews, she rose up onto the balls of her feet and lunged again, this time much faster.
The sudden difference caught Fenesvir off-guard, and he barely lifted the shield in time to block the high swing. Estella pressed forward, forcing him a step back on the uneven ground, and whipped around, slashing low for his ankles. His greaves absorbed the worst of the damage, but the hit was enough to unbalance his thrust, and it went too far left, sailing over her shoulder. She rebounded to her feet and borrowed a move from Khari, throwing herself shoulder-first into the shield in an attempt to capitalize on his lost footing. It worked, if not to the extent she'd hoped, and her sword came away bloody when he had to block awkwardly with his forearm, the blade sliding up and biting into the inside of his elbow.
But her advantage was gone; Fenesvir got his feet back beneath him where they belonged, and forced her to cede all the ground she'd gained with a series of short, sharp stabs, the last actually finding the meat of her offhand shoulder. Estella gritted her teeth when he withdrew the spear for another hit, strafing to his shield-side to avoid it.
He was difficult to hit, let alone damage in that much armor, and by comparison she had only her fleetness to protect her, as there was simply no way she was going to be able to block a hit from anyone as strong as he clearly was. Her magic was helping, slowing the blood loss from the injuries she gradually accumulated, but clearly something had to change soon, or he would simply outlast her.
Leaning back and sucking in a breath when the spear passed not an inch above her nose, Estella activated her anchor with a the splitting-crack sound that always accompanied the green light, wreathing herself in the mistlike emission that spilled from the palm of her right hand. She'd worn gloves up until this point, on Harellan's advice, but she'd learned long ago that she had to be willing to take advantage of any resources she had available to her if she wanted to stay alive, and this one might just make the difference now.
Aiming herself behind Fenesvir, she stepped into the Fade, reappearing half a second later within striking distance of his back.
Her blade found the joint between the plate at his waist and the one below, slipping past the armor's protection and burying itself a good three inches in just to the left of his spine. Her momentum was lost when he abruptly dropped both his armaments and pitched himself forward to avoid worse, and she yanked her saber backwards so as not to be dragged down with him. He rolled sideways and found his feet again quickly, drawing the sword from over his shoulder this time.
Mentally, Estella switched gears, knowing that this part of the fight was more likely to resemble a match with Khari than one with Ves. Harsh linen abraded her wounds every time she shifted; she swallowed the pain down and narrowed her focus. Fenesvir's aggression had unmistakably increased now that he had a damaging wound to speak of, and she found herself without either the time or the space to attempt another teleportation, her attention consumed by the pressing need to keep herself from being cleaved in two by the heavy claymore he repeatedly swung for her.
Her magic kept her fast enough and her focus kept her precise enough, but she was finding no openings. The speed and effortlessness of Fenesvir's offense was a form of defense on its own, not allowing her to get any closer than his superior reach, nor time to reposition in any better way. He drove her all the way across the ring to the edge, following in well-measured paces.
Estella pulled in a surprised breath when her back hit the wooden railing. The next blow was a direct overhead chop; she spun to the side in time to hear the rail shatter behind her under the force of the blow. A pommel strike caught her across the back, and the sheer weight of it sent her crashing facefirst into the dirt, forced to try and catch herself with only one arm so she didn't risk impaling herself on her own blade. But her arm gave, and she rolled blindly sideways onto her back, hoping she'd picked the right direction.
She hadn't.
Pain erupted in her abdomen; Estella reflexively tried to curl in on herself to protect the wounded area, only making matters that much worse as Fenesvir withdrew the blade from her belly. She knew, somehow, that the sword had pierced through her completely, coming out her back and lodging into the dirt beneath her before he retracted it. If he'd left it there, she would no doubt have been staked to the ground. Her eyes blurred with involuntary tears, the pain short-circuiting her thoughts and blanking her mind entirely for what seemed like a white-hot eternity.
She didn't know how long it actually lasted, but it could not have been as long as it felt, because it lasted. Distantly, she knew that she'd be dead within seconds if she didn't do something. Blinded, disoriented, and reeling, she reacted with instinct rather than conscious decision, lashing out in all directions with unformed, uncontrolled magic. She heard the sound of heavy contact, and then a grunt and several short, clipped steps in the sand. When her eyes cleared, Fenesvir did not loom above her, and she scrambled to stand, only to collapse when she tried to get her feet underneath her.
The pain was unbearable; distantly she knew she was probably screaming, if her voice was working at all. She also knew that he'd punctured her stomach, and the worst of the pain was actually acid escaping from it and burning the rest of her insides. She felt like she was going to combust, to burst apart at the seams, her body just incapable of containing so much raw sensation.
She pushed herself to her feet with a lurch; somehow one of her hands still gripped her sword. Her other went to the wound on her stomach, and she held it together as well as she could. Focus returned, if only just enough to get her out of the way of Fenesvir's next strike, staggering to the side and away from the controlled arc of the claymore. The horizontal follow-up was harder to escape, and she ended up falling down again, this time backwards. It felt almost as bad as being stabbed a second time, but she bit her tongue against it, still pushing as much magic as she could tolerate through her open hand, knitting up the hole in her stomach as well as she was able. At least the burning was less now. It still felt like dying, but the reality of the situation was slow to catch up to that fact, and she knew she couldn't let it.
She also couldn't afford to keep anything in reserve; she understood that now. Beating him would require more of her than any fight ever had, and she wasn't sure she could reach what it would take, much less sustain it. She'd burn through everything she had in minutes or less.
But there was no other choice. Finding her feet again, Estella dropped her free hand, now smeared in her own blood and probably a few other things, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Flooding her body with her own magic, she nearly groaned with relief as the pain receded to a dull ache, something she could ignore. Her limbs felt alive, infused with a foreign strength, a power that both was and was not her own. When Fenesvir lunged for her, she could nearly see it happen before it did, read the motions of his arms and legs and know what the resulting trajectory of the swing would be. She ducked under it with almost too much time to spare, then stepped in and thrust her sword for his throat with blurring speed.
He adjusted barely fast enough to avoid the hit, and the blade slammed into his helmet instead, a few sparks flying from the sharp angle of contact. Taking half a step back, he tried for a pommel-blow, but Estella caught his hand in hers, stopping the motion cold several inches from her openâbut no longer bleedingâwound.
They were close enough that she heard the exhalation of surprise from beneath his helmet. Tearing his arm away from her grip, Fenesvir swung, forcing Estella to catch the strike on her sword. Even magically-enhanced, her arms trembled against the force he brought to bear on the downstroke, and she disengaged first, darting beneath his guard again and leaving another slash beneath an armor-joint, this time just under the chestplate. He sucked in a breath, but her proximity left little room to counter with his lengthy blade, and she did not retreat, instead pressing her advantage by shifting sideways and slashing for the back of his knees.
At least until some invisible force picked her up off her feet and tossed her several yards away. A small burst spell of her own let her right herself in midair and get her legs underneath her for the landing, but she still skidded back a few feet in the dirt when she hit it. Hang on, that had beenâ
The claymore in Fenesvir's hand was now aflame, and suddenly, it clicked into place. Arcane Warrior, her memory supplied. One who until now had been neglecting to fight with the magic available to him. That piece of information alone nearly did in whatever hope she'd had left, but the ruthlessly practical part of her mindâthe one that always sounded like Rilienâreminded her that it wasn't about what she hoped to be able to do or thought she could manage.
There was only what she needed to do. What she must do.
And every second she spent wondering if it was possible was one fewer in which to make it happen.
The secret out, Fenesvir no longer bothered to be conservative with his magicâthe spells flew thick and fast amidst the rain of physical blows. He was bleeding from his wounds in a way she was not, but it was still Estella that was running out of time quicker. Already, she could feel her reserves depleting; just keeping the stream of magic feeding into her body was now an effort, one that rendered her breath fast and shallow, slicking her in a sheen of sweat.
She ducked, dodged, blocked, thrust and slashed as fast and as hard as she could make herself move, but he seemed to have an answer for everything, and her rapid breathing was punctuated with a near-constant clash of steel as they fended one another off at every pass. Sometimes handily, sometimes barely, but never enough either way to lend anyone a decisive advantage. There was no breath to waste on words, no time to waste on thoughts of anything but the next few moves. Of anything but staying alive under a relentless assault.
Estella twisted her body and slashed low, sweeping with her leg and her sword in the same motion. The blade met armor, but her foot hooked around one of Fenesvir's ankles, and the give in the dirt was just enough that he could not hold his place. Instead of falling backwards, he dropped to a knee, but her desperate lunge forward met a hasty stonefist spell, and she was thrown again to her back. Already the pain was starting to filter in as her magic faded. It was a matter of seconds, now, before she was utterly helpless.
She tried the last thing she had: activating the mark again, she thrust it outwards towards him with a burst of green light, still unsure of exactly what it would do.
All at once, the noise around her receded, the sound of her own gasping for air the only one that reached her normally. The rest all felt like it was coming at her through water, as though she'd submerged herself in it, and could no longer hear well. Much to her surprise, Fenesvir was moving as though he were underwater too, advancing towards her in what seemed to be an exaggeratedly-slow version of normal motion. Unwilling to risk losing the effect in the time it took to figure it out, Estella grabbed her saber and lurched forward one last time, lifting Fenesvir's helmet off with her free hand and tossing it away, leaving her blade pointed squarely at his nose.
She blinked, and time caught up, the noise of the crowd rushing back in. Fenesvir registered the difference seemingly immediately, halting his movement before he lost an eye to the point of her sword. The flames on his own guttered out, an expression of complete shock as plain as daylight on his face. He shook his head so minutely only she would be able to notice it.
"You've won." She didn't dare interpret the tone of his voice as containing a measure of awe, but at any other moment, she might have. There was a heavy thud as his sword hit the dirt where he dropped it, and he returned to his knees. Estella's vision swam; for a moment, there were two of him, and her arms began to tremble. The magic was fadingâshe'd hit her limit and spent everything she had. Only the fact that her legs were locked in place prevented her from swaying like a drunkard; she clenched her jaw against the renewed agony in her abdomen.
Fenesvir was speaking still; she had to concentrate just to make the words out. "Go on, then," he urged. "Claim your victory."
It took several seconds for the meaning of the words to sink in. He was telling her to kill him. Because this was a match where her life was at stake. Somehow it still managed to surprise her, in a dull sort of way, that it meant his life was at stake too. But of course that was the point of combat by champion: someone less important died so someone more important didn't have to.
Estella's face twisted into a grimace, half pain and half disgust. "No."
His eyes went wide as she threw her sword, hurling it as far away from herself as her weak arms would let her. The almost comically-contorted expression on his face was the last thing she saw before she blacked out.
She didn't even feel herself hit the ground.