The city was a forest, and that forest was of string. From the cores of the unaware, the soul strings did rise to the heavens before bending about to reach the other end of their tethers. They stood like towering trunks, some gleaming white, others steeped in dreading black, painting a living portrait of the city's deep entanglement. The strings whispered of friendship and rivalry, bias and admiration. Each bounded soul shared a connection, and the strings told of it all.

A forest could speak for those who listened, and Arete was listening. She had never been one much to enjoy festivities, but their congregations of knots always proved useful to insights: and that's what they were, not humans, not people, not individuals with dreams and aspirations, loves and hates, but simply knots in the grand weave of soul strings. They were something easily untied and rebound anew, a task trivially simple when the strings proved so tangible to her fingers.

Arete sat, her knees pressed to her chest, large burgundy cloak enveloping her like a blanket. The cloak was clamped tight by a pink brooch in the shape of an eye, its uncaring metal gaze watched as the mokoi's fingers strummed across a few winding strings that passed her by. She played upon the strings like a harp, and their vibrations played soothsayer to her melancholic malaise. She played her song upon the strings and a pair of lovers became indifferent, a passing smith suddenly deigned to adopt a begging orphan, a wealthy heiress sank into chronic despair, the drunk became enlightened, and the scholar forgetful.

The changes were effortless—the path of fate, so fragile and uncertain. What was anyone destined to do or become, when a single idle touch could reshape the course of their lives? Fate itself was indifferent, a false name for a fickle thing altering her tune to the idle play of a single spiteful mokoi perched atop a thatched roof.

And spiteful she was. These knots were an irritant. They were arrogant and greedy; they hoarded the bounty of Trammel and derided the mokoi who only pleaded for a meagre share. The hearts of humans were rotted through, yet somehow these soul strings contrived to make even such spiritual decay appear beauteous.

Arete's idle reverie was shattered upon noticing a disturbance in the forest. A single titanic red string of fate pushed through the web of strings, and all others fled from it, desperate to escape the tainted thing. Wherever it passed, the others recoiled, leaving a hollow corridor in its wake — a wound in the forest's weave.

A hot pang of jealousy welled up inside her at the sight of such isolation.

Unable to resist her curiosity, she slipped on her mask, rose from where she sat, and started toward the anomaly.

As the monarch of humanity's greatest enemy, one would think that it would be difficult to casually stroll about the human infested city without a care, but it was times like these in which Arete had to begrudgingly appreciate the ease with which the soul strings bended to her. With the aid of her mostly human looking form, it only took a simple tug at those wiggling strings and the bystanders dismissed her as no more remarkable than the rest of the pathetic masses. An extra tug or two and she could even part the throng of people, sparing herself from the indignity of brushing shoulders with these savage apes.

With her subtle nudging influence, Arete found herself at the anomaly in no time at all, though now that she arrived, she wished that it could have taken her longer. It was that wretched Animal, the grotesque fox nearly unbound by strings; and it was her upcoming opponent.

The fox, or rather as the Tournament deigned to call it, The Animal, balanced on its hind legs to sniff atop a baker's counter, nose twitching gleefully as it inhaled the scent of fresh bread. Its seven eyes didn't seem to unsettle the cheerful baker who offered it the odd ends of his baked dozens. Not even the ragged gash sealing the seventh eye shut earned so much as a flinch. The Animal's unreasonably long tail wagged giddily, bellowing up clouds of dust as it gorged on a particularly buttery pastry.

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Disappointed—and more than a little annoyed—Arete supposed she may as well make her trip worth it and sample one of these blessed scented foodstuffs. She released her grip on the surrounding soul strings and ignored the sudden ripple of fear that spread through the crowd as they finally noticed the pink-scaled tail trailing behind her.

A group of humans to her side bit back their sneers, recoiling at the sight of a simple mokoi — some lowborn demon that dared skulk among them. She was sure if they had any inkling of who she truly was, their contempt would have curdled all the way into hysteria.

Approaching the stall, she watched the rotund baker's smirk vanish the instant he noticed his newest customer. Arete ignored the unspoken insult and spake, "How much for one of what the fox is eating?"

The man winced against the sting of her tone, but with a few measured breaths, reclaimed his calm. He had to remind himself that the same reason that this monstrosity could stand before him without the entire city's guards bearing down upon her was also the reason he need not cry at her every move. The protections of the Tournament were as much a shackle upon her as they were a shield.

Clenching his fists, he tried to summon a glare, but it faltered limply against her indifferent porcelain mask; regardless, he spoke with as much authority as he could muster, "We don't serve animals here."

Arete's irritated growl shattered the fat baker's surety to a whimpering cowardice. Off to the side, a guard kept a sweaty hand on his hilt, watching the exchange with anxious focus. The guard waited with baited fear for the mokoi to break the rules first and grant him permission to slay her where she stood, as if there were any possibility of him ever succeeding in such a feat.

Arete slipped a hand into her coat pocket, unconcerned by the hiss of unsheathing iron at her flank. She was about to retrieve a few copper coins when her motion was stilled by something wet pressed against her side.

Arete turned to look at the odd sensation and found herself staring at the Animal, eye to eye… to eye… to eye? Arete's seven-eyed enemy then nudged the remainder of its pastry toward her. The partially mangled breaded good was now cold and dewy with slobber, any butter which had once adorned it having been cleanly lapped away and leaving only the carved troughs of an overzealous tongue in its wake.

Arete watched her adversary's act of goodwill and only found herself more bewildered by the creature's inexplicable behavior. This creature had somehow been lucky enough to find itself untethered by the wretched manipulations of the soul strings. There was no person, thing, or event that could manipulate or cheat it. And yet, of its own volition, it chose to forge its own string of fate.

It was the only thread she could see binding the Animal — but it was unlike any she had ever witnessed. Thickly braided and impossibly vivid, the red string spooled from the creature's scarred, sealed eye. It rose upward, the thread so heavy it pushed aside any lesser connections in its path, before vanishing into the weave — connecting, somewhere far beyond her sight, to another soul.

Why would someone who had found the secrets to cutting themselves free of the web of influence then choose to keep the worst offender tied? Why would a creature, when faced with a rival's cold indifference, answer with an offering of bread? It was clear by how friendly the Animal was with the city's residents that it had allied itself with the humans. But as Arete held its gaze, she saw no malice there. No hatred. Not even fear.

"Thank you," was all she could think to say. She accepted the offered gift — disgusting as it was — because a mokoi was taught to never waste food.

The Animal yipped happily and sauntered off, eager to collect ear-scritches and treats from some other merchant. Her mind too distracted, Arete didn't even bother to hide herself from others. She ambled her way back to the arena, apathetic to the fearful whispers and muttered insults that trailed in her wake. Her mind was fixed on that red string — so massive and radiant that even calling it just a string felt absurd; it was far too large, too grand.

Only once she returned to the arena entrance did Arete's mind finally register that she was still carrying that soggy piece of sickly bread. She gave the snack a testing whiff and was immediately assaulted with the decaying rot of an animal's unwashed mouth. She was a queen, every meal she could ever want forever ready at her beck and call. Then she remembered the starving children that cowered forgotten within the shadows of her homeland. To her side, a human boy licked clean the icing off his dessert then tossed the rest. How many thousands of lives were lost fighting only for that discarded share.

A passerby stepped over the trashed treat without a second glance.

Arete ate her slobbered bread.

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