Act 1 - Arc 1 - Chapter 9

Foil coughed blood. He hadn’t really believed that they had a chance of winning the tournament, did he?

Frayle was right, I suppose. He always is. Foil thought.

Foil watched through the blurry vision of a concussion as Cassian’s legs were swept out from under him by Bella as Damian, the captain of the Glories of Serulea, connected with his lower jaw. Cassian reeled and tripped before jittering and jolting into a different position. He had taken the blow and was barely conscious, but, inexplicably, was crouched under Damian’s line of sight instead of prone on his back. Cassian swung upwards with all his might, but Damian simply let himself fall onto his back, shielding his head with his hands, evading the uppercut. As Cassian fell off-balance, Bella and Sam each struck his knees from behind. He buckled, and though he tried to Alter his past they caught him by the hair and Damian ended the fight with a strike to the temple.

Frayle was already watching from the sidelines, thrown from the arena without being beaten to a pulp. He looked strangely upset, as if he had eaten something distasteful. Foil had assumed he would have been overjoyed at their loss. He coughed again, spraying red spittle onto the gray stones. The squad of the Glories of Serulea, named for an ancient legend of heroes, were too strong. Too coordinated, too cooperative, too cautious. Foil had been unable to make contact with their skin using his hands, and they had managed to slam him into the tiles together even as they fought off Cassian.

Our fatal flaw, Foil thought as he grimaced. I thought we were strong enough to find on our own and still win. An Ells-damned idiot is what I am.

The three fighters turned to Foil over Cassian’s unconscious body. Foil spit again and blinked twice, trying to clear his vision. He managed to lift himself from his knees to a standing position, but he was wobbly. The three fighters remained humble and treated Foil like a threat, circling him and keeping at least one person in his blind spot at all times. The smaller man, Damian, was Foil’s height but slimmer, wearing tight leather that left his arms exposed but agile. His tan skin was smooth but covered in arcane tattoos. To Foil’s left was Bella, a pale, lithe girl wearing a similar combat-dress that Aleksandra favored but in green shades instead of red. To Foil’s right crept Sam, a bulky, wide boy with mottled dark and white skin and an impressive beard. None were even slightly injured, and they communicated using hand signals too complex for Foil to parse in his stupor.

Even so, they were right to consider Foil a threat. Before they closed their trap, Foil dropped to a crouch, spinning, and Manifested globes of Essence into his hands. As a Conduit, his ability to summon, give, or imbue Essence was severely hampered, but his ability to Manifest Essence in its purest, raw form made him dangerous at any level. As he spun, he clawed the Essence as he emitted it from his hands which caused the energy to stretch and expand as if he had used a tool to extend soap bubbles. Foil had little control over the Essence once it left his body, but in the short time that it remained rubbery and malleable he pulled it across his rotating body before blasting it outwards. His energy exploded outwards, catching Sam and Damian square in the chest and pushing them backwards. Damian had tried to redirect it and failed, so he fell backwards and almost out of the arena, but Sam Manifested his own Essence in the form of stony armor on his skin and was able to bear the attack with little effect.

Bella, more agile than the boys on her squad, leapt over the ribbon of energy before it exploded outwards. She seemed to Foil’s eyes to dance in midair, twirling her body before lifting one of her legs upwards and crashing it into Foil’s neck like a guillotine. His body was crushed again into the stone tiles, and they broke beneath the force of the blow. Bella was unnaturally strong for her physique, which meant she had either a huge supply of Essence she used to enhance herself (as anyone with control over their Essence could), or her Aspect was that of a Striker, someone who could, without using Essence, increase certain of their own physical attributes beyond normal limits. These thoughts did not concern Foil, however, as he was entirely consumed by the feeling of his neck snapping under her weight. His vision flickered, then pain overcame his every sense, and then he felt nothing.

**

“Ow!”

Cynthia tutted at him. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me even look at the wound.”

Foil flinched, again, but let Cynthia lightly rub her fingers across his vertebrae.

“Nothing’s broken, I’m pretty certain. You’re sure she snapped your neck?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I felt it break, Cynthia.”

She tossed up her hands. “Okay, okay. I believe you. No need to get snappy.”

Foil closed his eyes and leaned back in the plush chair one of the doctors had brought. Everything hurt. But though the physical pain was debilitating it was his pride and ambition that had truly been torn to ribbons. Tears sprung unbidden to his eyes, but Foil fought them back.

Not here. Not now.

But it was over. Frayle had been correct and had Seen their loss. And Foil, trying to win over his team and earn their loyalty, had fallen for his trap.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid.

They had made it very far in the tournament, losing only in the semi-finals. It was a good showing, perhaps weaker than a team of their standing would have been expected to reach, but few would claim to be disappointed. But Foil’s wager was not concerned with a “good showing.” He had gambled his life’s ambition and lost. Strangely, no one had come to gloat over his mangled body. Frayle was as despondent as he had seemed during the match. Cassian was also being treated, but Perrin and Aleksandra were unaccounted for. Perhaps they were already gallivanting among other Keyseeker squads bragging about their newfound independence. Cynthia sat quietly in her own chair next to him under the shade of the medical tent set up outside the colosseum. He could hear the cheers of the second semi-final match and the fervent sounds of clashing Essence.

After some time in the relative quiet, Foil realized that a strange sense of calmness had begun to emerge. Underneath the angst and agony of failure, shame and guilt lay…relief? It was true, on some level. He wouldn’t have to bear the burden of his sins. He could go out and find Lance, restore him to his rightful Assignment, accept whatever vengeance would be doled out. He wouldn’t have to wrangle a team of delinquents who conspired at every turn against him and thrashed against their leashes for freedom. Despite everything, Foil felt the slight tug of a weak smile on his lips. The sun began its downward descent, creeping warm light under the canopy’s edge and onto Foil’s face. It was warm.

A shadow darkened over Foil’s eyelids, and though he wished for nothing more than to wallow in his self-pity, he opened them. Leaning over his chair and far too close to his face for comfort was Damian. His blue-gray eyes were calm, but intense emotion stirred behind his gaze. Behind Damian stood Bella (at a much more respectful distance) and another girl on Damian’s squad named Sybil. Sybil was very small, which upon further inspection was the result of her age; she was no more than 12 years old. Her close-cropped brown hair was messy, but it was her sharp eyes that drew Foil’s attention. She had a fierce expression that Foil could only describe as protective. She reminded him of a mother bird protecting her nestlings from a much larger predator. The contrast with her age unnerved him.

Damian leaned back and cleared his throat.

“Captain Foil,” he started. “I am glad to see you are well.”

“I…” Foil paused. He was not used to being worried about, even as a platitude. “Thank you, Captain Damian. I’m surprised to receive your well-wishes. I would have thought you’d be basking in your victory right now.”

Damian again cleared his throat. He seemed nervous.

“Actually, our victory is what I came to discuss.”

Foil’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Cassian was awake, evidently, as he sat up to better hear Damian’s words.

“As you know, we are scheduled to fight against the winner of the current match in the final round of the tournament.”

Foil nodded, then winced as he immediately regretted the action.

“We… Well, I, think that the outcome of the match is a certainty, and I do not believe that we are capable of defeating the Worst Offenders. I would like for your team to take our place in the final round of the tournament.

Foil balked.

What?

“What?” He must not have heard the captain correctly.

Damian cleared his throat for a third time, and looked over Foil’s head to something in the distance. Foil twisted, slowly, and saw a tiny flash of movement as someone (or something) disappeared within the darkness of the main entranceway.

“Captain Damian, are you being coerced into forfeiting? By a member of my squad, maybe?”

Damian blanched, and Foil felt more than saw Cassian stiffen in his bed.

“No, Captain Foil-”

“Please, just call me Foil.”

“Foil, then. No, Foil, I can swear on my soul that I am not being coerced. In fact, as a gesture of my sincerity I brought Bella and Sybil to heal you and your team. Bella here is a Converter that can use Essence to heal and strengthen the body. And Sybil is an Amplifier prodigy that can bolster Essence reserves far past their natural limit.”

Foil made the connection quickly.

“You cheated,” he realized without accusation. “Sybil Amplified Bella’s Essence reserves right before the match, which she used to reinforce her body.” He had another realization. “And Bella healed me as soon as she broke my neck to avoid crippling me.”

Damian averted his eyes. “It’s not cheating per se. There are no rules about non-participant Aspects being used before the match, only during. But, yes, I would rather not be cast as deceptive or unsportsmanlike. It has been brought to my attention that the Elders may not see it the way I do.”

“I don’t understand,” Foil said, the words tumbling out faster as he processed what he’d been told. “You didn’t need to cheat. You had us beaten at every point in that match. Bella didn’t even touch Frayle.”

Cassian gingerly lifted himself out of his medical bed to limp and lean on Foil’s chair.

“It’s true, Captain Damian,” he said through gritted teeth. “You would have beaten us anyway, and we had no intention of blackmailing you. Why forfeit?”

Bella and Sybil shared a meaningful look. Damian swallowed before meeting Cassian’s eyes.

“I told you already: I do not think we can defeat the other finalist squad, and I would do almost anything to ensure they lose.”

“But if you beat us handily,” Cassian countered, “then what chance do we have if you believe you have little prospects for success?”

“Because,” Damian chuckled, “I’ve Seen it.”

**

Frayle’s mouth hung open.

“You did what?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Foil retorted. He was having a difficult time keeping a smug expression off of his face. “Damian came to me, forfeited their match, and healed me and Cassian.”

“But we-”

“Yes, Frayle, we lost. You were right,” Foil admitted. “We lost the tournament as you Saw, but now we have a chance to win it, too!”

Frayle didn’t respond. Aleksandra was leaning against the south entrance tunnel of the colosseum as Foil briefed his team. They had lost access to their place in the underground antechamber after their loss, so they were relegated to the wide, public tunnel where most of the audience made their way into the spectator benches. It smelled of wet stone, with moisture dripping from above onto unsuspecting passerby. Cassian stood at attention, but, when he thought nobody was watching, he surreptitiously stretched his healed limbs. Perrin stood next to Frayle, but seemed less shocked. Cynthia was trying to engage in conversation with Aleksandra, and failing.

Frayle began hyperventilating, and Perrin placed a hand on his arm to steady the Seer. Foil had been prepared for Frayle to argue that their loss constituted a fulfillment of their wager regardless of the technicality, but not for the panic attack the development had seemed to induce. After some time in which Frayle leaned on Perrin for support, he calmed.

“I.. get it, I think,” Frayle whispered. He looked up, his eyes feverish.

Suddenly, Frayle dropped to a knee and lowered his head as if in prayer.

“Foil- No, Captain Foil. I was wrong. I doubted you.”

Foil took a step back. Abject devotion was not only unexpected but wholly discomforting. He felt that he had been caught up in divine machinations beyond his control or understanding.

“Er, that’s all right Frayle, I forgive you,” Foil stammered.

Frayle lifted his head, and the feverish look in his bright red eyes was amplified. The poor boy looked manic, glistening with sweat.

“No, Foil, you don’t get it. I was wrong. I have never been wrong. I looked only for what I wanted to See, not what was there to be Seen. I have failed in my duties to Ells and His tenets.”

Everyone in the tunnel was watching Frayle not, and not without concern. After a few more moments, he sighed. He stood up and met Foil’s eyes, and they were once again calm.

“Apologies, Captain. I still think… I still know that your being captain and our team remaining together is a fool’s errand. It can only lead to failure and death for us all. But, just this once, fate seems to favor you.”

From there, Foil was finally able to gather his teammates, and they finally listened.

**

Foil drank in the crowd’s jeers and cries. They had not reacted positively to the news that the Glories of Serulea were dropping out of the tournament. They reacted worse to the news that Foil’s team would be taking their place. Even the tournament organizers had initially refused to accept the substitution before Damien had threatened to derail the entire process with a dramatic and intentional forfeit in the final match. After much hand-wringing and corroboration that Foil was not blackmailing Damien’s team in some way, the switch was made. The crowd was not pleased, evidently.

And yet, for once, Foil did not care. His excoriation at the hands of his peers and seniors had numbed him and the heights of his ambition were once again within reach. He thought back to the momentary acceptance of mediocrity he had embraced lying on the medical bed and sneered. That wasn’t him. It wasn’t apathetic stubbornness that he required as he had assumed he’d need at Assignment. He was Foil Andromedous, the villain. The lowly thief who not only cheated Lance out of his octo-vincere position but has now through some underhanded tactic reversed their loss in the tournament. Foil glanced to his left and right. Aleksandra, on his left side, was reveling in the crowd’s roiling anger, gesturing and posing for them and making crude illusions with her Aspect. To his right. Cynthia was stretching, dropping from left to right while extending her opposite leg. She seemed similarly unperturbed by their ruined reputation.

Opposite the trio stood three members of the Worst Offenders squad. Opposite Foil’s position in the leading center loomed a boy nearly twice as tall as Foil and nearly twice as wide. The “boy” rippled with muscle, with veins visible across his red-tinted skin. If the strange tint wasn’t a giveaway, the small ivory nubs peeking out of either side of his mouth were further evidence that Floak, the captain, was a Rift Orphan from another, alternate world. Many of the students at the Academy were also its wards; ripped from their homes through space, time, or some esoteric fourth dimension separating parallel Seruleas and Urths from each other. Their parents gone, their souls forever changed and mutated by the journey, the Academy took in these orphans and turned them into the most effective Blessed soldiers on the continent. The dimensional instability caused by the Torvani Emperor didn’t just weaken the fabric between realities, but destroyed entire universes too weak to defend themselves.

Dimensions that were strong, or stable, enough to withstand a Rift often remained connected to their tunnel to Serulea. Foil had read about entire regions of Serulea that thrived based on trade with and harvests from other worlds. The relationship wasn’t always reciprocal, though; a large swath of Serulea had at one point been transformed into an inhospitable wasteland when a rift opened into a world thousands of degrees hotter than their own, annihilating the region’s residents. Other towns survived by consuming a richer world’s refuse. Most commonly, however, were technology hubs that hoarded weaponry and information far beyond what the rest of Seruleans enjoyed. These hubs banded together as Free Cities that forbade under threat of torturous execution the extradition of any research or technology that each city claimed as proprietary. It was an unstable balance, and war broke out between the Cities and the various Serulean kingdoms (not to mention between individual Cities) quite often.

On Floak’s left, mirroring Cynthia, stretched another red-tinted girl with long, straight auburn hair. Her eyes tilted downwards, giving her a perpetually despondent expression, but the intensity by which she followed Cynthia’s every move belied her nonchalance. The final opponent standing across from Aleksandra was a tall, very thin boy with tan skin and a hooked nose. His emerald eyes were the same shade as Foil’s but lacked the feverish glint of passion. He was standing utterly still, watching Foil with his arms crossed. Foil could feel the Essence radiating off of the trio, evaporating into the air around them and causing his hair to frizz. Damien was right: it was extremely unlikely that his team would have persevered over these fighters. And so the question remained, how can we?

The announcer had at some point in the tournament been replaced by one with a fresh esophagus and a booming voice. The booming echoes of his proclamations reverberated in Foil’s very bones.

“AND SO WE COME TO OUR FINAL MATCH, AS UNEXPECTED AS TRUE BATTLE!”

The crowd booed again, but the voice overcame them.

“THIS FIGHT IS NOT ONLY TO PROVE ONE’S METTLE AND TO JUSTIFY THEIR SQUADRON’S REWARDS, BUT-”

Foil began listening again. But?

“BUT ALSO TO LAY CLAIM TO AN ARTIFACT OF GREAT STRENGTH. BEHOLD!”

The announcer opened a long, black wooden case held by a young aide to reveal a gleaming object. He raised the long object by its hilt and thrust it towards the sun. The crowd gasped before cheering with more fervor than Foil had heard all day.

“THE SWORD OF THE IMBUER! A RELIC OF ALKAMER THE HERO HIMSELF!”

The sword was beautiful, immaculate. It shined so brightly in the sunlight that it appeared to be its own source of holy glamor. The steel-blue blade entranced Foil, and he found himself dreaming of following Alkamer’s footsteps as a glorious savior. Then he remembered who and where he was, and he sighed.

“THIS SWORD WAS MADE TO HEIGHTEN THE ABILITIES OF AN IMBUER, BUT ITS LATENT POWER IS AVAILABLE TO ALL! THE WINNER OF THIS TOURNAMENT SHALL RECEIVE THIS BOUNTY AND ENJOY ITS GIFTS TO THE FULLEST!”

The sword was not for Foil. It was for anybody except for Foil, really. He gritted his teeth. He didn’t care about the sword. He didn’t need a sword. But after a few frustrated breaths, he had to admit it to himself. He wanted the Sword of the Imbuer. He wanted to bathe in the irony. The sword was so obviously meant for Lance that it disgusted him. The Academy had placed too many of its eggs in Lance’s basket, and now they were being punished for it.

Though, Foil considered, why bring it out now as a prize if their star pupil is gone?

Perhaps they just wanted to be rid of the thing. Regardless, Foil’s attention was diverted by the end of the announcer’s spiel. Foil cracked his knuckles, one finger at a time, pressing his thumb against each second joint. His vision narrowed to a point: his target, Floak. He crouched, weight on the balls of his feet.

Crack!

They began.