*Sadrianna*

She walked through the camp of canvas tents, yurts and the occasional log-house. White and yellow strips of cloth fluttered in the air, attached to every conceivable surface. Tent-line? Put a couple on. Marking posts? Of course! Washing lines? Oh my, what a perfect spot for a few clan-colours to hang!

She snorted to herself, smiling at the display despite her attempt at cynicism. The medley of colours was lovely, and she was privately glad that both White-Cliff and Yellow-Peak had chosen to pitch beside Lake Vashtegara this year – the contrast made for a beautiful picture.

Her steps felt light, her heart no longer burdened by the pressures of command. She'd been in charge of a Scourer team for a single night and had hated every moment of it. A death per day was not a good ratio for her first command, whatever the circumstances had been.

She had delivered the hard news to Bjorn's father the night prior and was pleasantly surprised – and a little concerned – about how well he had taken the news.

"Always knew that arrogance would cost him. Brat of a kid – thanks for fixing one problem for me, at least. Want a crack at the other one? He could do with a strong hand to steer him, and I'm sure an ambitious woman like yourself could teach him a lesson, eh?"

His lecherous gaze had sent shivers down her spine given his power, both physical and political. She'd rejected the offer as politely as possible and left quickly, once again thankful for the privilege her parent's position afforded her. Bjorn's father was a well-connected 3rd tier warrior, respected in his youth and no less dangerous now that he was well into his eighties. Evolving your ancestry a second time – a prerequisite to breaching the 3rd tier – had profound effects on the body and mind, and so his age was of little limitation.

Killing his younger son, no matter how justified in the moment, put her in a difficult position. As a member of a different clan, he would be entitled to claim a blood price from the high-council for the killing, and his son's relative position – a promising 2nd tier warrior in command of a small group – would make that price steep indeed. Not to mention the man could claim, however fraudulently, that he was grooming Bjorn to take his place one day, raising Bjorn's value, and therefore the blood price, well beyond her ability to pay.

Thankfully though, she was spared this negotiation entirely by the fact her mother was one of the most powerful fighters the mountain clans could boast – a member of the Sworn Triarchy, no less – and her father led the White-Cliff clan himself.

They could pay any price Bjorn's father could reasonably, or otherwise, demand of the high-council and had enough power and influence to negotiate the blood price down significantly, to a point where it became meaningless. Bjorn's entire family and possibly clan would lose face, Sadrianna would walk away consequence-free, and the only downside would be the expenditure of social debts and favours owed to her parents.

But that would still be a waste, and so it was better to simply accept the discomfort of such an offer and turn it down politely, knowing she would evade any follow up. Gloomy thoughts for such a lovely day, and she was glad to have put it all behind her.

As it was, Sadrianna was a free woman – no duties to attend to for several days – leaving her enough time to catch a few matches in the circle. She wouldn't compete this year herself, needing to shore up her Skills and adapt to the reality of her newfound power.

Gaining thirty levels in just over a year at her tier provided a massive boost in attributes, and her Skill upgrades needed to be studied, refined and assimilated before she would be content to test herself against the best and brightest of the clans once more.

Too easy to make a mistake and seriously hurt someone, and it wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened in the circle. The Holders were the best of the best for a reason, but it was a delicate balance to walk between protecting the next generation from lethal blows and stifling their progress entirely. The most beautiful plants grew in the wild, and nothing unexpected came out of a greenhouse.

Speaking of unexpected, she turned her thoughts to the group of 'traders' she had escorted the night prior. They had no doubt made it to the Titan's Crown by now if they'd followed the path from the northern watchtower. Gods only knew which encampment they had headed towards first – there were several within roughly equal distance from the misty ravine they should have emerged from – but she was confident they would find her at some point.

White-Cliff was one of the larger clans, and much of the inter-clan trading was overseen by both White-Cliff and Yellow-Peak. So long as they asked after her, someone would direct them this way. Perhaps her gamble would pay off, and she'd hear tales of her mother's fighting days before she rose to such prominence. It was one thing to hear the stories from her parents, and quite another to have a stranger describe it.

It was with a fair amount of surprise then that she walked into her father's tent, nodding to Linkat on the way – her father's sworn shield and oldest friend – and nearly walked straight into the old trader she had just been thinking about. She hurriedly stepped back, avoiding an embarrassing collision, and tried to stifle her surprise at his presence.

Her father sat comfortably behind his granite desk, a stray menhir tipped on its side rather than a true table, legs propped up and a horn of ale snuggled comfortably between his delicate fingers. His other hand rested affectionately around her mother's waist, where she stood beside him, leaning her hip against the back of his chair and picking dirt from beneath her fingernails with a short knife.

Her father smiled at her as she walked in, and her mother barked a laugh at the near collision. Whether it was the expression or the noise that made the trader turn, she couldn't be sure, but he twisted around so smoothly despite her hurried entrance that it almost seemed he was expecting her.

"Jorge – may I present Sadrianna, my favourite daughter," her father said in a rich voice, smile on his lips.

That set the tone, and Sadrianna felt herself relax a fraction. That her father would joke in front of this man spoke to a level of familiarity.

"I'm your only daughter," she replied, rolling her eyes at her father and striding into the large tent with renewed confidence. Turning to the grey-haired man she had met the night prior, she bowed her head slightly in greeting, "Well met again, Jorge. What do you think of Titan's Crown?"

The older man smiled kindly at her, and she felt her gaze drawn to the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, speaking to a lifetime of laughter. He reminded her of her grandfather before his passing, of days bouncing on his knee hearing tales of Sinbak the Pirate Lord and picking daisies in the spring.

She blinked, surprised at the memories that had risen unbidden in her mind. She felt tears prickling at the corner of her eyes and hurriedly dashed them away. When she looked back, she saw a much more sincere smile on the man's face before her gaze was abruptly drawn to his armour and weapons.

The change was almost shocking. She'd not noticed the spear leaning against the tent behind him, nor the ovular shield propped below it. The four or five knives she could see strapped to his chest and legs shouldn't have been a surprise either, but they were. He stood, short and stocky and somehow more solid than the rest of the room.

It hit her then; this man before her had a presence much like her mother.

She saw the way his feet were spread wide, hips pitched slightly forwards and arms hanging loose and ready. There was nothing overt, indeed his weapons were still leaning against the tent behind him, but something about his posture set her instincts screaming.

She took a tentative step back, settling into a fighting crouch and hand reaching back towards her long knife, strapped to the small of her back as it always was, before she even realised what she was doing.

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Her father then clapped his hands and the pressure – invisible until this very moment – suddenly abated. She was panting and confused and looked wildly to the stone table where her parents still leaned nonchalantly.

"Thank you, Jorge, that's quite enough I think," her father said jovially, and Sadrianna's brain finally started to catch up.

Her mother pushed off the chair and strode towards her, arms out and welcoming. "Well done, my girl. You've grown strong to break through such an aura. He is a friend, dear. Do not be so worried."

The simple words were enough to calm her racing heart somewhat, delivered as they were by the strongest person she had ever known.

Jorge then spoke up, hidden behind her mother's broad back currently, but his voice more than carried to her. "Aye, lass. Takes a sharp mind to pull away from such memories as quickly as you did. And impressive instincts once you did, too. I mean you or your family no harm, just a favour to your parents is all."

She pushed past her mother, cutting a sharp glance his way. "You saw my memories?"

He hastily shook his head though, which helped calm the growing heat of anger within her. "No no, nothing so dramatic. I've just got a feel for my aura after so many years, and I know the sorts of things folks tend to see when under its influence. Good memories I trust? Seemed to set your heart alight, at least from my view. Nothing to be ashamed of mind, always pays to remember the good times."

His voice was smooth and even, and he spoke their language fluently.

"Why did you hide your knowledge of our language when we first met?" She asked. "You seem familiar enough with it now."

"Oh aye, I go way back with a few of the elders and the mountain clans have a firm place in my heart. Wanted to see how the runt would handle his first stab at diplomacy though," he said with a wink.

She assumed he was talking about the man with mismatched clothes and armour who spoke with the Scholar's Tongue, and guessed he was some sort of ward. Her parents seemed comfortable around this Jorge fellow, and didn't dispute his claims, so she would accept it. Wiser and more experienced heads appeared to vouch for the man, and that was good enough or her.

Her mother interrupted before she could ask further anyhow. "What did you see, little one?"

"Grandfather, when he used to read to me. Simbak the Pirate Lord and the like. Haven't thought about him in years honestly." Her mother beamed at her reply and folded her into the tightest hug Sadrianna could bear. Literally. The 4th tier knew her attributes like the back of her hand and had clearly adjusted the strength of her hug accordingly.

She saw Jorge smile another genuine smile, and finally decided that she liked the man. He had the same air of control that her parents possessed, just channelled in a softer direction. His aura seemed to be pulled back now, not influencing her beyond a calming presence, as far as she could tell, at least. She doubted her parents would let it stand if he hadn't once she had passed their test, after all.

"Excuse me if the question is rude… But why are you here? I doubt it is simple trading while you pass through, and it sounds like you have history with the clans…"

She let the question hang in the air, thankful to feel no ire from either of her parents. Her father sat up and grabbed another horn from beneath the table, conjuring ale from the air in a flourish – now that she had her own storage item, she found the display much less impressive.

Passing the drink over, he replied in the man's stead. "He's here to test his latest protégé against the best 1st tiers our clan can muster!"

Jorge downplayed it significantly, though. "Let's not be too hasty now. We genuinely do come to trade – information and goods both. We're heading north through the Dragon-Spines and need to know which passes are best this season. We also need to stock up on winter gear and supplies. That we have arrived while The Blending is underway, and I have a couple of relatively untested 1st tier combatants under my wing, is simply a coincidence."

Her father snorted at that, but Sadrianna was more interested in the earlier statement. "It's not even mid-autumn yet, why do you need winter gear?"

"You know how things can be in the high mountains," he said, shrugging.

Her mother joined the conversation once more, taking her arm off Sadrianna's shoulder and sitting on the large desk. Her father looked on in mock outrage as she shoved papers and scrolls off to one side but took no action other than an imperiously raised eyebrow.

"You can't go into the high mountains with two 1st tiers."

"Aye, well… They'd best break through soon, then."

Her father sighed then. "You came with two, yes? Do you expect this for both?"

Realisation dawned on Sadrianna then, and she spoke her suspicion aloud; "You're looking for a feat to push them both over the edge, that's why you've come here. So you are here for The Blending then!"

Jorge turned to face her once more. "The timing is auspicious, can't argue with that. Your parents were just telling me of your progress this last year… it sounds promising." He hesitated for a moment, smile growing sly, before speaking again. "You've only been in the 2nd tier for what? A year?"

"Almost exactly, I broke through after the tournament last year," she replied. "But, not to be too boastful, but I dominated. I was proclaimed First among my generation and beat all challengers handily. Do you think your two wards can do the same?"

Her mother chimed in, charming as always. "The 1st tier pickings are strong this year. Betting pools have been going wild. Pretty much every single clan has multiple good options, even Grey-Rock have their favourite. I don't mean to doubt your means, Jorge, but you'll be pissing into the wind if you think your two lads can win this year."

"They don't have to win, just perform well enough that the gods recognise their success," was his only response.

"You mean the system, surely?" her father asked.

"Is there a difference?" he countered.

Sadrianna considered his enigmatic response but found nothing particularly profound in it. It was an accepted view among many that the first era of gods had drawn together to create the system. She didn't subscribe to it personally, but it was nothing especially radical.

Her parents, though, seemed to be giving his words more weight than seemed warranted, her father deep in thought and her mother looking over at him with a question in her eyes. She always deferred to him on matters of philosophy– she stayed firmly rooted in the practical.

She was about to excuse herself, feeling a shift within the tent to matters more esoteric than she was interested in, but Jorge addressed her first.

"Sadrianna – what do you think of my 'wards' then? Will they embarrass me tomorrow?" He had a faintly self-deprecating smile while he said it, taking the sting from the words.

She hesitated, not wanting to insult the old man. "It would be hard to say given I know nothing of their Skills and have never seen them fight."

"If you were a betting lass, which would you back?"

Sighing, she thought back to what she had seen of both of them, playing along. "The shorter one who did the talking."

She was met with a raised eyebrow.

"Care to elaborate for us slower folks?" her father butted in.

"He's unpredictable," she explained, before continuing. "I wouldn't put money on either of them. Neither are at the peak of 1st tier, as far as I can tell, and while they could well be once-in-a-generation geniuses, I have no evidence for that. But I've seen the competition they'll face. The clans have a strong crop this year; that Grey-Rock barbarian, Sothan's boy and the girl with the knives I can never remember the name of–"

"Kelp," Her mother helpfully supplied. "Her father thinks she will challenge you in a few more cycles – she's got promise."

"Thank you for the reminder mother," Sadrianna said, somewhat sarcastically. "As I said, competition is fierce, and I wouldn't back either of them. But the shorter one seems more of a wildcard."

"And what makes you say that?" Jorge asked, his gaze now slightly more intense than earlier.

"His armour's all mismatched, for one thing. Understandable for someone of little means, but I get the sense you could provide better if he needed it. Same with the weapons – both shield and spear have life-force within them, but not much. Seems a waste of resources to enchant 1st tier equipment, especially with your plan of them hitting 2nd tier so soon. Weapons will be useless soon unless you reforge them, and if you were already planning on that, you wouldn't have got the enchantment in the first place. So I can only conclude that he's got tricks up his mismatched sleeves."

She saw a glimmer of approval in his eyes and continued, now more confident in her assessment.

"Besides, he's a mess of styles. Hair seems unlike any lowlander fashion I've seen, that bracer reminds me of the stories father would tell of the desert tribes far to the south, and the arm rings look like something a pirate lord would wear."

Jorge chuckled. "Aye I'll grant you the lad's got a piss-poor sense for dressing himself. Not seeing why you'd put your hard-earned coin on him winning though."

"I wouldn't, remember? But I doubt you would have picked up a man who spends more time thinking about fashion than fighting, from what I'm hearing from you at least. And if that's true… it means he's had a fair few experiences already. The desert tribes, the pirate lords… Unless he's walking into a bazaar in every town he visits, he's seen some things." Then she shrugged. "I don't know, seems like a sensible choice to back the odd one out. He's your man though, you'd know best."

He nodded at that, before turning to her parents. "You have raised a very astute lass between the both of you. Even passed on some wisdom too, which I struggle to imagine either of you gaining in recent years, but alas."

Her father winked over the edge of his horn, and her mother waved him off, spilling ale in the process. A flash of life-force in the air and the ale reversed course, trickling back up into her horn as if it had never left. Sadrianna rolled her eyes at her parents antics and turned back to Jorge, aiming to recuse herself once more.

"For what it's worth, you're right," the old man said with a shrug. "He is a bit of a wild card. I'd still bet on Nathlan in a duel, but out in the wider world… Who knows?"

She made her excuses and left the tent, walking back to her own as the sun set behind the peaks ringing the Titan's Crown. She wasn't sure she shared the old man's faith in his pupils, but she had to admit she was now more interested in the results of tomorrow's tournament.

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