The marketplace outside Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú's towering city walls was a storm of noise and movement, loud with clanging iron, shouting merchants, bleating goats, and the sour, hot smell of far too many bodies crammed together under the midday sun. Stalls leaned crookedly into one another, canopies billowing in the dry wind, while children darted through the crowds with baskets of roasted plantain or fried yams.
Leonotis moved through it all with his hood pulled so low it nearly brushed his nose.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears every time someone's eyes lingered too long. Too many stalls still displayed old, sun-bleached wanted posters nailed to their frames—his sketch unmistakable despite the fading ink. One of them hung near a butcher's stand, flapping lazily like an omen.
Too close.Far too close.
A pair of patrolling guards pushed through the crush of bodies, their bronze badges catching the sunlight like sharp warnings. Leonotis stiffened instinctively, lowering his gaze, subtly angling his face away from them as they passed.
One guard slowed, brow furrowing at a poster pinned to a wooden beam.
Leonotis didn't need to see which one it was.
"Hey," Low murmured beside him, not even glancing his way. "Relax your shoulders. People don't look at faces unless you give them a reason to."
He forced the tension out through a shaky exhale. Acting normal felt harder than fighting armed men.
Low, on the other hand, walked through the chaos as if she belonged to it—calm, alert, but utterly unbothered. Her stride held purpose without urgency, and her eyes flicked over every detail like a predator mapping a forest.
She stopped at a stall draped in assorted fabrics—cheap wool, poorly dyed linen, a handful of patterned shawls clearly stolen off trade caravans.
"We can't walk in as ourselves," Low said, fingers brushing a coarse brown cloak. "Rega knows your face. And if he has one brain cell, he probably has a description of mine too." Her tone was dry. "We'll need disguises."
Leonotis frowned. "Disguises might only last until the first fight. Once we're in the arena, there's no hiding."
"That's where you're wrong." Low's grin sharpened, all teeth and confidence. "Half the fighters are going to be masked, painted, or armored like tin cans. We'll blend in. And besides…"
She plucked something from the stall—a thick, wiry black beard, clearly fake and dyed with bad ink. Low held it to her chin with exaggerated seriousness.
"…I've always wanted to be a dwarf."
Leonotis blinked. "…A dwarf?"
"Think about it." Low angled the beard, watching her reflection in a shard of polished bronze hung like a mirror. "Dwarves are known for being strong as oxen. My curse already makes me stronger than most men. Who's going to question a bearded warrior who smashes enemies like coconuts? It's perfect."
Leonotis tried—truly tried—not to laugh. It failed. "Low… you'd look ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?" Low puffed out her chest, widening her stance into something barrel-shaped and absurdly stubborn. "No, I'll look legendary. You'll see. Dwarves are respected. Feared. And when I knock someone across the ring with one hand, people will just nod and say, 'Yep. That's a dwarf for you.'"
Her conviction was so intense that Leonotis threw up his hands in surrender. "Fine. Be a dwarf. But what about me? What am I supposed to do?"
Low's grin turned wicked.
"Easy. You're going to be a girl."
The words hit Leonotis like a thrown brick. "…What?"
"You're too recognizable. Your face is on every bounty notice from here to the marshes. But nobody's hunting for a mysterious female swordswoman." Low shrugged. "We'll braid your hair, fluff up your chest a little, get you in a tunic with armor overtop. People will assume you're a girl trying to make a name in the ring."
Leonotis's ears flamed. "I am not wearing a dress."
"Not a dress, then. A tunic. Leather. Boots. With the right cut, you'll pass." She tapped his cheek. "You've got the cheekbone structure for it."
"I do not have the cheekbones for it."
Low leaned in critically, examining him like a jeweler evaluating gemstones. "Oh, you absolutely do. High cheeks, sharp jaw, lashes too long for your own good. Honestly, if I didn't know you, I'd already think you were a girl."
Leonotis sputtered, torn between indignation and the overwhelming urge to sink into the earth. "It would be too embarrassing."
"It's survival," Low said, her voice dropping serious. "Rega's tournament isn't a fun little game. If he's got Gethii chained for a spectacle, then this whole thing is a trap. We walk in looking like ourselves? We're dead before the announcer finishes calling names." Her gaze softened. "But disguised? We might save him."
The mention of his old master struck Leonotis deep, anchoring his breath. Gethii, with his calm discipline, his patient teachings, the stern warmth beneath every scolding.
Leonotis clenched his fists.
"…Fine," he muttered. "But only because of Gethii."
Low smirked triumphantly. "That's the spirit. Now come on—we've got hours, not days."
The sun hadn't fully risen when the four of them took shelter in the broken shrine outside the city. Grey dawn light dripped through shattered columns, illuminating drifting ash from their small fire. Despite the chill, the group moved with restless purpose.
Jacqueline stood behind Leonotis, a pin held between her teeth as she tugged his makeshift tunic into place. Her eyes flicked over his posture critically.
"You keep squaring your stance," she said. "Girls don't walk like they're expecting a sword to come flying from the left."
"I am expecting that," Leonotis muttered.
"That," she said, removing the pin and fastening the shoulder seam, "is the problem."
She circled him slowly, head tilted.
Leonotis resisted the urge to cross his arms. Apparently, that was too masculine.
Jacqueline nodded once. "This will work. You're… surprisingly adaptable."
He wasn't sure if he should thank her or be offended.
"I'm a warrior, not a dancer," Leonotis grumbled, adjusting the rough-spun fabric.
"Today, you are a quiet girl named Lia," Jacqueline said briskly. "And Lia does not move like she wants to choke someone."
She tied a strip of cloth around his hair, taming his wild strands. He sighed and tried walking again, forcing his steps to be lighter.
Meanwhile, Low and Zombiel worked on something far more concrete.
Leonotis had dragged a broken altar stone into the center of the shrine, scraping the outline of an axe head across its surface. It wasn't elegant. It didn't need to be. It needed to be dwarven.
"Ready," he said.
Zombiel knelt, the flickering firelight making his pale skin glow strangely. He pressed a single finger to the etched design.
A bead of bright orange light bloomed at his fingertip—dense as molten iron. With supernatural precision, he traced the lines. Stone hissed and sizzled, releasing the sharp tang of heated earth. It wasn't carving. It was erasure, the heat unmaking granite until the shape remained perfect and brutal.
When he finished, the axe head fell free from the slab.
Leonotis approached the crack at its base where a thin, defiant weed grew. Kneeling, he rested his hand over it, not commanding, but asking.
The roots stirred.
A faint green light pulsed beneath the earth. The roots stretched, reached, wrapped themselves around the heated stone. They wove into a thick, ancient braid, petrifying as they tightened—living wood becoming something older, harder.
A weapon born of stone and life-force.
Low hefted it experimentally. Her eyes went wide. "By the Orisha…" She swung it gently. The air whistled.
Her grin was slow and feral."Perfect."
She wrapped her hands and forearms in rough leather, affixed the beard with sticky pine resin, smudged dirt across her face, and stepped back.
"Grom Stonehand," she declared in a gravelly voice, "son of—"
"Please don't," Leonotis begged.
"—son of no man, for I burst from the roots of the mountain itself!" she bellowed.
Jacqueline almost collapsed laughing.
Zombiel clapped slowly. "Very good!"
Low nodded solemnly, proud.
Leonotis, meanwhile, accepted his own fate.
Jacqueline wrapped his wooden sword in linen strips and marked the surface with charcoal runes copied from Zombiel's book. To any outsider, the blade looked like a crude beginner's attempt at enchantment.
"There," she said, stepping back. "You are Lia, a wandering novice from the southern provinces. You are unassuming. You are forgettable."
Zombiel tugged Leonotis's sleeve, hopeful. "Can I fight too? I've been practicing."
Leonotis softened. The kid's hands were still smudged with soot, his face earnest.
"You're strong," he said gently. "Stronger than you know."
Zombiel looke hopeful—until Leonotis added, "Which is why we need you safe."
The boy sagged.
Low ruffled his hair. "We'll give you something very important to guard."
Zombiel perked up. "Like what?"
"The camp," Low said.
He wilted instantly.
Still, he nodded with brave resignation.
Leonotis tightened his tunic once more. Low slung her stone axe across her back. Jacqueline adjusted her satchel. Zombiel pulled his hood low.
They were ready.
Low pushed open the shrine's weathered door.
Outside, the horn signaling the Mboko Grounds blasted across Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú, the sound trembling through the stone ruins and into their bones.
Low grinned, beard twitching.
"Showtime."