I woke early, the sun flaring through the thick canvas of the tent and reminding me that it still had strength, despite the chill of high altitude. I'd slept well and rolled off my bedroll with something approaching excitement. I had expected sleep to be difficult the night before a tournament, but I guess once you've faced death countless times, the thought of performing in front of a crowd doesn't really hold the same sort of terror as it might otherwise.

I stretched, joints popping and a yawn sneaking out of my throat. In the morning sun, I must have looked something like a lazy cat. After morning ablutions, Vera and I worked through some light forms with my spear and shield and then we all helped ourselves to a hearty breakfast. Nathlan – bless him – didn't sleep well. His antipathy towards crowds was well-known by now, and it seemed that was true whether he was in them or watched by them. Still, at least we wouldn't be fighting straight away – the poor man looked like he could barely keep breakfast down.

We donned our armour and weapons before heading out, and I had to admit to a little bit of pride at my new outfit. I had a heavy scale and leather armoured vest over the top of a simple shirt, and the weight of it gave me comfort. I had a weapon's belt around my waist holding my scavenged dagger made from the tooth of a great serpent, and a simple hatchet I'd picked up from a blacksmiths the day prior. It was a small axe, more useful as a tool than a weapon of war, but I liked the braided pattern worked into the haft, and it would do in a pinch as a sidearm. You didn't crack armour with a small weapon like that, but when you needed something to sink into unprotected flesh, any piece of halfway sharp steel was as good as any other, I'd found.

The magical artifacts I'd crafted with Sally's help, or more truthfully the reverse, were in my hands, spear in the right and shield in the left, and I still kept my trusty leather boots that had followed me from the base of the Unclaimed Peaks all the way to the other titanic mountain range that split Tsanderos in half. That was all standard. What was new was the shining greaves coverings my shins, and the steel bracer that wrapped my right forearm in its protective grip. My left was already covered by my shield, so I only needed the one, and my upper arms and shoulders were still bare except for my shirt – I'd have to scavenge some more armour later on. But for now, at least, I had a bit more protection than before.

Once properly armed and armoured for a fight to the death, we turned towards the arena. It was hidden at the centre of the Titan's Crown – the name the barbarians had chosen for the entire plateaux hidden within the high mountains that we stayed within currently. It was named after the ring of imposing peaks that circled the lake-filled basin, and when I thought back to the mist-shrouded cavern we had trekked up, that chill wind circling us, I had to admit it was a thematic enough name.

The twelve rivers that snaked their way through the basin all converged in the centre at a single point, and it was to that area that we journeyed. Four amongst thousands, we jogged down to the sinkhole, surrounded on all sides by excited chatter as crowds of would-be spectators sought the same prize as us.

The soft thud of my boots on grass soon gave way to the sharper slap of leather against rock as we crossed some invisible threshold. Green alpine meadow was replaced by streaks of white marble, shot through with grey and black as we approached the edge, and the murmur of the crowd was quickly drowned out by the roar of immense quantities of water cascading over open air.

We stopped well before the edge of the sinkhole, but the sound was still tremendous, a basso thrum that I could feel in my bones. The sheer power of it must have been immense, and I watched in awe as mist and spray rose high above us where the torrent of water from a dozen rivers gushed over the edge to vanish from our sight.

We stopped well before that, joining a line of people queuing before a tunnel chiselled into the rock, descending at a steep angle. Streaked marble was cut into rough steps, and I could see the passage of time in the wearing of the rock beneath our feet. This place was ancient. Untold generations had journeyed through this passageway, pressed against one another in excitement. What stories could be told, what legends were formed in this arena, before the view of thousands of their peers?

The excitement of the crowd started to leech into my bones, and I felt my heart respond, beating harder within my chest. The queue was surprisingly orderly for a people known to the outside world as 'barbarians', and we quickly found ourselves ushered into a large tunnel, heading down at a steady slope. Into the bowels of the earth once more. I shivered a little, recalling the many negative experiences I'd had underground recently. I didn't have the best record of subterranean success with hindsight. The presence of people all around helped mollify my burgeoning fear though, and I turned to Jorge to ask where we were headed.

"We've a few hours before your first fights, so I figured we could watch some of the early bouts from a proper viewing platform. I know a few people here that would be happy to accommodate us, and it gives you a chance to take in the arena before you have to fight within it."

We pressed on and eventually reached a fork. To the right, the tunnel flattened out, and guards in clan colours were directing spectators further along. Every now and then, a young man or woman would duck out of the queue and take the left-hand tunnel, heading down deeper into the earth. Each one received a nod of respect from one of the guards, and the queue chittered excitedly in response. It was no great feat of deduction to realise there was a tunnel for spectators, and one for combatants.

Time passed quickly from there. We watched combatants leave the queue and head further down, and I examined each one. Most were clearly older – 2nd tier warriors and beyond, often with grey in their hair and lines on their face from a life well lived. Some looked younger, though I was surprised to note very few below their mid-twenties. I supposed that without a combat class, it took significant time to gather the experience necessary to progress through the 1st tier, but I still found it strange. Perhaps these barbarians weren't as war-like as the wider world thought and had other competing influences on their time as young adults.

Soon, we left behind that split int the tunnel, and Jorge led us through a confusing array of tunnels and stairways until we emerged into a large room, adorned with tapestries and carpets over the rough-hewn rock. Three people were already present – Sadrianna, the woman we had met at our first ill-fated encounter with the mountain clans – and two older individuals that Jorge made a beeline for, spreading his arms in a friendly gesture and exchanging hugs and hand clasps like they were old friends.

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Sadrianna nodded our way, gesturing to the furniture around the room, which we took advantage of to seat ourselves. Jorge finally pulled away from the older couple and introduced us.

"This is Ventus, elected leader of Clan White-Cliff and representative of The High Council," he said, indicating the man on his right. "And this terrifying barbarian is Arynia, standing member of The Sworn Triarchy."

He seemed impressed by the titles, but neither Nathlan nor myself knew what they meant. We made sure to nod respectfully though; it never paid to be rude, after all.

"And these," he said with an illustrious and entirely overwrought sweep of his arm towards us, "are my companions. You've met Vera before, I believe?"

Ventus squinted. "Yes, I think so. It's almost hard to recognise you now though. You were a little more… wild, shall we say," he said with a chuckle.

Vera coughed and ducked her head. "Yeah, my apologies for that. I… was in a bad place at the time. And sorry about your table!"

Arynia's booming laugh echoed off the walls. "Don't be silly. I'm just glad someone finally got rid of that extravagant thing. Made you look like a clerk," she said with a fond look at her husband, before turning back to Vera. "You'd just recently met up with Jorge, I believe, so who could blame you for having a short fuse? Takes most people a few years to get used to this old bastard."

"Alright, alright," Jorge started. "That's enough nonsense. These two are my latest wards; Nathlan and Lamb."

"Well met," Ventus said, a kindly smile on his face, while Arynia strode over and clasped our arms in a warrior's handshake. She slapped us both on the back, hard enough to stagger Nathlan, though I had just enough strength to keep my feet.

"Sorry!" she called cheerfully to my friend as she withdrew her hand, looking not at all sorry in my opinion. I was beginning to get a picture of her though; bold, brash and boisterous in all things, and that was only confirmed when I saw Sadrianna cringing and covering her face with one hand on the bench nearby.

We made small talk and took our seats before turning our attention to the arena. Jorge spoke to Ventus and Arynia of the upcoming matches, who they were excited for, and the state of the 1st tier bracket this year. It was interesting to hear the details, though a little worrying at the same time. Apparently, this year was a competitive one, with almost every clan boasting someone of supreme talent that was about to ascend into the 2nd tier. Nathlan and I shared a glance, and I fingered the beads beneath my heavy vest.

The arena itself was gorgeous and strange in equal measure. We looked out through a deluge of water, the sound of it thundering past a constant drone. The room we were in was carved out of the cliff face of the sinkhole, and as I looked out, I saw that was true of many more. The sinkhole's circular wall was littered with caves both small and large, all of which were hidden behind a torrent of water flowing from on high. The edge was slightly overhung all the way around the lip, so the wall of water descended to the arena below without touching the cliff behind it.

Each cave had a thick wooden beam protruding from its roof out into the waterfall, forcing the water to split apart like a curtain such that the sinkhole looked to be pockmarked with a thousand ovular windows through the waterfall. And beneath it all was the arena.

A circular slab of pure marble, red and black coloration marring its smooth surface, stood alone at the base of the sinkhole, surrounded by the wall of unrelenting water. A sloping wall led down from where the water met the floor, steps cut into it at regular intervals, but everything behind the curtain of water was hidden.

Ventus hurriedly shushed Jorge and pointed, and I was startled to notice two fighters on the rocky dais far below. I'd not seen them enter, but they now faced off against one another, another figure – must have been the Holder – standing between them. The Holder gestured and stepped back, and the fight began.

It was between a tall man with a halberd and heavy armour against an equally broad man wielding a shield and war-hammer. They certainly didn't lack aggression as they swung back and forth, fainting and clashing and generally doing their best to beat the other into submission, but I was surprised to note how slow they looked. Like they were training technique rather than sparring for real. Each blow was telegraphed, and I couldn't help but put myself in their shoes, wandering how they failed to notice and respond to each strike in time to really punish the overextension.

Still, they fought bravely, and I was taken aback when one of the competitors suddenly blew green fire into the other's face. The man in the heavy armour stumbled back, clutching at his helmet and the broad man followed up with an expert trip before raising his war-hammer high. The Holder stepped in before he could swing it down, and the fight was called.

"A good match," Ventus remarked, and Jorge nodded along.

I couldn't help but disagree, though. It had been a flashy Skill that had finished things, but otherwise I couldn't see any evidence of particularly useful Skills, or exceptional weapons craft. Just two unremarkable fighters. Nathlan and I shared another look, our confidence returning.

So it went. Fighters came and went, and I listened with half an ear to the analysis of each fight put forward by Jorge and Ventus. Arynia would occasionally chime in with her opinion as well, and I found that most useful. She was clearly well-acquainted with combat, and her insights were incisive and useful. As the day progressed, the matches became more significant. Presumably the early fights were for the less interesting/highly placed individuals, which made me wonder why Nathlan and I weren't fighting early.

But then this was a form of entertainment as well as an opportunity for the younger generation to sharpen themselves. I wasn't ignorant to our status as 'lowlanders' being somewhat of interest to the barbarians, and I was fairly sure they would match us with hard fights right out of the gate to make themselves look good and increase the hype around some of their promising prospects.

At one point we did see a truly impressive performance. A young, lean man with a pair of small daggers faced off against the most typical barbarian I'd ever seen. Fur-clad, muscle-bound, scars and tattoos and hair all wild and chaotic. He roared as he charged in, his great sword cleaving the air, only to hit the ground a moment later, a pair of daggers crossed beneath his neck. I'd barely seen the smaller man move! Finally, a showing that got me excited. Although… perhaps that would have been a little too fast. Nathlan and I shared a final glance, this time apprehensive once more.

Soon afterwards, it was time to leave. Jorge let us know there were only a couple more fights left before Nathlan was up, and so we headed back down to the split in the tunnel where we'd seen the competitors heading earlier. My nerves were starting to return now, and Nathlan gave me another tight smile, clearly in the same boat.

I knew this tournament didn't matter – we were about to cross the most dangerous mountain range on the continent and then fight a vicious and likely bloody war against a cruel tyrant halfway across the map… but that didn't seem to weigh as heavily on my mind as fighting a bunch of young up and comers in a non-lethal arena battle. So much for all that 'death lends perspective' nonsense I'd thought earlier.

Still, while I might be nervous, I also couldn't deny my excitement. I'd grown a lot since the fight in the low hills against Francis and his men. I couldn't wait to see what I could now do. Of course, I didn't have my full power available to me, or at least I wouldn't in the arena itself, but that didn't mean I was helpless. I had my weapons, and my Skills, and my heart.

Let's hope it was enough.

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