Julian heaved himself back to his usual corner and tended to his body.
He was, by now, the best among the acolytes in terms of physique. He had suffered the fewest wounds, and winning food for him had become less and less of a challenge. He had almost started to think that the Cardinal fighting him was becoming more serious if he did not know better.
The fortunate and crucial thing, Julian thought absent-mindedly, was that it was almost. The price he knew he would have to pay if he underestimated the Cardinal could be crippling at best, lethal at worst.
He looked back at the Cardinal, the source of panic and fear among the acolytes, who was moving away from the centre of the cave chamber towards the acolytes hiding at the edge. They were the ones who were too scared, injured, or insane to fight back — mere lambs to be slaughtered.
It will be light work, Julian thought, and soon, I'll get my food portion.
He allowed his mind to wander freely for a few moments, inevitably thinking about the young man who approached him a few days earlier for information. To Julian's observation, he looked weak, and he had not seen him during the past few days. Julian briefly entertained the idea of searching for the man, or perhaps his corpse, for a while. But after a quick scan yielded no results, Julian lost interest.
He's probably dead from starvation by now, he thought. Either that, or he was too obvious in collecting information and was promptly killed by supervisors.
He watched idly as the Cardinal approached a young figure at the back of the periphery — nearly opposite the cave chamber. Squinting his eyes, he could see that the person was holding a longsword tightly with both hands. The figure chose a crack in the wall as a combat space, hands trembling as the Cardinal approached.
Clever idea, Julian thought. However, limiting the mobility of the Cardinal would only marginally improve the chances of victory, without considering other factors—
Suddenly cutting off his line of thought, he realised that the acolyte in question, the one facing the Cardinal, was actually the young man, Lysander, from before.
"So you're alive," Julian mused aloud. Well, let's see how long. Julian expected it wouldn't be any grand miracle—perhaps a few quick blows until Lysander passed out and died from hunger or was killed outright.
He looked anyway.
The older boy, to no one's surprise, lagged significantly behind in terms of reaction speed. When the handler shoved him forward, his feet stumbled once before correcting, bare feet scraping against packed dirt. His shoulders were still square, but there was a looseness to the way his arms hung, as if he had forgotten, for a moment, what they were meant to do.
The Cardinal laughed.
It was a short sound. Sharp. He rolled his neck once, loose and ready, and stepped in without waiting for the signal.
Julian shifted his weight back against the wall. Leather creaked under his fingers where he held it. He adjusted his grip, then loosened it again.
The first blow landed clean.
Lysander took it full in the ribs. Julian heard it more than he saw it — the dull, hollow sound of meat struck with intent. The older boy bent, just slightly, breath leaving him in a thin line. For a fraction of a moment, Julian thought he would fall.
He didn't.
He straightened instead, slower than before, spine stacking itself piece by piece. His eyes did not lift, nor did he raise his guard. He simply took another step forward.
The Cardinal frowned.
It was small, barely counting for anything. But Julian noticed it. He found himself watching the Cardinal's face instead of the blows, as if that was where the real fight was.
Another strike. Then another.
Lysander was learning something. Julian could not have said what, exactly. Only the distance between strikes changed. The Cardinal had to step wider to land them. That once — only once — his fist cut through empty air where Lysander's head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Julian exhaled through his nose.
Someone behind him muttered something. A laugh, maybe. He did not turn to check.
Blood darkened the front of Lysander's shirt. It soaked unevenly, spreading in slow blooms that made Julian's eyes track them without permission. The older boy's breathing was wrong now. Too shallow. Too quiet. Each rise of his chest seemed like a decision rather than a reflex.
Still, he walked.
The Cardinal struck him down to one knee. Dust kicked up around them, clinging to skin and cloth. For a moment, Lysander stayed there, head bowed, one hand pressed flat to the ground.
Julian's fingers tightened again.
Then Lysander pushed himself up. Neither clean nor quick was the motion — his knee dragged, leaving a shallow furrow in the dirt, and he stood with his weight uneven, one shoulder sagging lower than the other — but he stood nontheless.
The word carried clearly in the hush that followed. Julian felt it land somewhere behind his ribs, light and sharp.
The next exchange was messy. No form. No rhythm. Just bodies colliding, slipping, reengaging. The Cardinal's breathing was louder now, frustration roughening it. Lysander's was barely audible at all.
When the strike came, Julian almost missed it.
It was not wide or dramatic. Lysander did not wind up. He simply stepped inside the arc of the Cardinal's arm and moved his own hand that was holding a sword to a stab, short and direct — simple enough but oddly effective.
His strike met flesh.
The Cardinal staggered back a half-step, more from surprise than force.
Julian felt his mouth open.
He closed it immediately.
Lysander did not press the advantage. He swayed instead, knees threatening to fold, and the Cardinal recovered quickly, rage snapping back into place, and drove him down again with a blow that sent him sprawling.
This time, Lysander did not rise.
Noise returned all at once — shouts, jeers, boots scraping as the next participants were dragged into place. He stood there a moment longer, eyes fixed on the still form in the dirt.
Julian did not move until the food was brought, slowly walking, until he gradually broke into a dash towards Lysander.
The portions were smaller today. Someone complained, as always. When Lysander's share was tossed down beside him, two boys moved immediately, hands already reaching.
Julian stepped forward.
He did not shout, nor did he threaten. He simply placed himself between them and the food, stance wide, shoulders set. One hand rested on the hilt at his side, not drawing, but gave them a death stare that conveyed the same meaning.
They hesitated.
Julian met their eyes, one after the other. His expression did not change. Eventually, they backed away, muttering.
He crouched down to inspect the fool.
Up close, Lysander looked worse. The blood had dried unevenly, cracking at the edges, and his lashes were dark with it. He might as well have looked dead to Julian, if not for the weak pulse still in his wrist.
Julian tore a strip from his own leather sleeve, the sound sharp in the quiet, and pressed it against the worst of the bleeding. He tied it tightly and efficiently.
When he finished, he left the food where it was.
Only then did he realize his hands were shaking.
He stilled them by force and leaned back against the wall again, eyes forward, as if he had been there the whole time.
◈ — — — ◈
Lysander woke up to the smell of food. That was enough motivation to forget the wounds covering his body. Pushing himself against the stone immediately proved to be a huge mistake, as his tired and aching muscles roared in protest. Lys involuntarily twitched and then tried to push the pain away when—
"You're food's not going anywhere," the golden-haired boy said, sitting not far from him, separated by two baskets of food. "Careful not to worsen the wounds; you have a broken rib."
Lys managed a weak smile.
He could have guessed what had happened. He was knocked out after winning his food, so others must have tried to take it. Julian, despite his exterior, had not only deterred the other acolytes from stealing his food but also bandaged some of Lys's wounds, even though he showed little emotion.
"Oh—good, you're awake," he said, relieved more than sharp. "I was starting to think I'd wasted the bandages."
"Hello there," Lys managed. The large breath he took to speak immediately shot paralysing pain throughout his body. Letting out a groan involuntarily, he made a mental note not to make any sudden movements.
"Likewise," the boy responded, though Lys could tell in the darkness that the boy was rolling his eyes.
An awkward silence fell as neither had anything left to say after the greeting. The corner was quiet except for Lysander pushing himself up into a more presentable pose, following a few muffled groans.
"So," Lys asked, "Still a deal? I'll give you half of my food in exchange for information about this place." The food could last me three days if I'm careful.
There was a pause. Then the boy seemed to nod.
"Alright," he replied, "Not that I can't just snatch the whole basket from you right now and run without consequences. But I respect your effort in getting them."
Don't trust him, the Voices warned.
He'll take everything you own, they murmured. He'll strip you to the bone.
Lysander ignored them and nodded to the boy.
At least he chose someone who would honor his promises. Although he would have preferred not to depend on others' whims, he could manage this better with his injured body.
Best to recover quickly, Lysander thought.
"This is true that I know more about our situation than the average acolyte here," the boy began, "so you'd better listen."
Lysander nodded.
"Before that, how much do you really remember?"
"Nothing," Lys answered almost immediately. "I don't even know what language I am speaking."
Sighing, the boy said, "You're speaking Lethanese, the second most popular language on the Southern Continent."
He added, "Furthermore, you've been kidnapped by a cult called the Voice of Strife."
The name echoed powerfully in his mind, sending shivers down his spine. Whispers swirled around him, each murmur creeping into his ears, accompanied by manic laughter that filled his entire being.
For a fleeting moment, Lysander even thought he was one of the Voices, a low cackle escaping his lips as an eerie smile spread across his face.