The plaza of the Gilded Cage was a symphony of destruction, and Olivia was its reluctant conductor. From her vantage point at the edge of the chaos, she didn't just see the fights; she read them.
A warrior with the Aspect of Unyielding Granite, who she recognized from previous cycles as 'Gronn', was a ponderous, declarative sentence. Each blow was a full stop, final and absolute. His opponent, a lithe woman whose name she didn't know, was a string of frantic, comma-spliced clauses. Her Aspect of Refracted Speed allowed her to exist in three places at once for a heartbeat, her movements a blur of afterimages. Olivia saw the narrative of their combat: Gronn's story was one of endurance, while the woman's was a desperate race against exhaustion. The woman was writing faster, but Gronn's single, powerful sentence would eventually erase her entire paragraph. Olivia looked away before the inevitable conclusion. There was no point watching a story whose ending was already written.
To find Leo, she needed new information. She needed a different kind of story, one not found in the clang of steel or the shriek of a Manifested Aspect. She needed gossip, rumors, whispers. In the endless war of Aethelburg, information was a weapon as potent as any other, and its merchants were a peculiar breed.
Her destination was a three-story establishment tucked between a perpetually burning tower and a guild hall whose sigil changed with every dawn. A simple, unadorned sign hung over the door, carved with a single word: Respite.
The Respite was one of the few places in Aethelburg where an unspoken, unbreakable truce held sway. To draw a weapon or Manifest an Aspect within its walls was to invite the wrath of its proprietor, an Ancient known only as 'the Old Man of the Mountain,' a warrior said to possess an Aspect so absolute that even the Tournament's mysterious architects seemed to respect his neutrality.
Pushing through the heavy oak doors, Olivia was met not with silence, but with a different kind of noise. The cacophony of battle was replaced by the low murmur of a hundred conversations, the clinking of tankards, and the soft strumming of a lute from a shadowed corner. The air was thick with the smell of spilled ale and something vaguely sweet, like burning incense. Warriors of every conceivable shape, size, and allegiance sat at rough-hewn tables, their animosity sheathed, their Aspects dormant. Here, they were not fighters; they were patrons.
Olivia scanned the room, her eyes skipping over the boisterous groups and the solitary drinkers. She was looking for a specific narrative signature, a story that was interwoven with dozens of others. She found it at a small, circular table near the back.
Kaelen was a story that told other stories. His Aspect of the Shared Moment was a subtle but profoundly powerful tool. He could, with a touch, absorb a memory from one person and imprint it upon another. He didn't just hear rumors; he dealt in the raw, unvarnished truth of direct experience. He was Aethelburg's most reliable, and most expensive, information broker.
He looked up as she approached, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He was wiry and sharp-featured, dressed in silks that seemed out of place amidst the leather and steel of the tavern. Rings adorned every finger, each one supposedly a memento from a particularly valuable transaction.
"The Editor," Kaelen purred, his voice smooth and practiced. "I was wondering when you'd grace my humble chapter. Thirsty for a new plot line?"
Olivia ignored the offered chair and remained standing. "I'm looking for a boy," she said, her voice flat. "Young. New to the Tournament, maybe six months. They call him the Hope-Bringer. His Aspect is Unwavering Hope."
Kaelen's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Ah, the urban legend. The walking paradox. In a place where despair is the daily bread, a man selling hope is either a fool or a god. A very, very expensive story to read, I'm afraid."
"I have no coin," Olivia stated. It was a pointless currency here anyway, valued only by those who clung to the memory of a world with commerce.
"Of course you don't," Kaelen chuckled. He tapped a finger against his temple. "My currency is far more valuable. I trade in experiences. A moment of true, unbridled rage from a berserker. The sensation of flight from a Sky-Dancer. The lingering taste of a fatal poison. I collect moments. So, Editor, what moment can you offer me that I haven't already lived a thousand times through a thousand different souls?"
This was the crux of the negotiation. Olivia had little to offer. Her battles were not grand spectacles. Her power was quiet, internal. She couldn't give him the thrill of shattering a mountain or teleporting across an arena.
But she had one thing that no one else in Aethelburg did.
"I can give you a memory of a place without a cinder-grey sun," Olivia said, her voice barely a whisper.
Kaelen froze. His smile vanished, replaced by an expression of sharp, predatory focus. The casual theatre of his persona fell away, revealing the shrewd merchant beneath.
"What did you say?"
"I can give you the memory of rain," Olivia continued, pressing her advantage. "Not the acidic drizzle of the Weeping Spires, but real rain. The feeling of it on your skin, the smell of it on dry earth. I can give you the memory of a night sky with a moon, a real moon, and stars that don't writhe. I can give you a memory of the world outside this cage."
She was an anomaly, a character who had written herself into the story from the outside. Her memories were unique, priceless artifacts in this closed system.
For a long moment, Kaelen was silent. He stared at her, his gaze intense, as if trying to read the very syntax of her soul. The murmuring of the tavern seemed to fade into the background.
Finally, he leaned forward, his voice low and conspiratorial. "One memory. The rain. Place your hand on the table."
Olivia did as he asked, laying her palm flat on the cool, worn wood. Kaelen reached out, his own hand hovering over hers. His ringed fingers were trembling slightly. With a soft touch, he placed his hand over hers.
Olivia closed her eyes and focused. She didn't just recall a memory; she opened a page from her past. The cold, sterile air of the Respite was replaced by the humid warmth of a summer storm from her childhood. She remembered the scent of wet grass, the sound of thunder rolling across the hills, the joyous, carefree feeling of standing outside with Leo, their faces turned up to the sky, letting the downpour wash over them. She focused on the sensation, the pure, unadulterated feeling of it, and pushed it through the point of contact.
Kaelen gasped, his eyes shutting tight. A single tear traced a path down his cheek. For a full thirty seconds, he was lost, experiencing a sensation that had been scoured from the minds of everyone in this eternal prison.
When he pulled his hand away, he looked shaken, older. The shrewd merchant was gone, replaced by a man staring at a ghost.
"It was... quiet," he whispered, as if to himself. "There was no screaming."
He took a deep, shuddering breath and regained his composure, though the mask of the flamboyant broker didn't quite fit anymore. "A deal is a deal," he said, his voice raspy. "The Hope-Bringer. Yes, I have heard stories. Not just whispers. Verified accounts."
He leaned in closer. "He doesn't fight to win. He fights to protect. He gathers the broken, the newcomers, the ones on the verge of becoming Hollowed. He creates safe zones in the middle of the slaughter, using his Aspect to inspire loyalty and courage in those who have none left. It's a foolish, beautiful, and incredibly dangerous narrative to be writing in a place like this."
"Where is he?" Olivia pressed.
"He attracts attention," Kaelen warned. "Too much of it. A week ago, he was seen leading a group of a dozen newcomers through the shifting district known as the Crystal Labyrinth. But he was being hunted. Seraphina of the Crystal Heart, one of the Tournament's 'Uncrowned Kings,' has taken an interest in him. She believes his Aspect is a perversion of the Tournament's purpose, a flaw in the grand design. She wants to shatter his hope, to prove it cannot exist here."
Seraphina of the Crystal Heart. Olivia knew the name. A warrior whose Aspect allowed her to transmute any material into razor-sharp, explosive crystal. A story of cold, beautiful, and absolute lethality.
"The Crystal Labyrinth is scheduled to reappear in three cycles' time," Kaelen concluded, slumping back in his chair, emotionally exhausted. "If your brother is still alive, that is where you will find the next chapter of his story. Now leave me. I wish to remember the rain."
Olivia turned without another word and walked out of the Respite, the sounds of the tavern fading behind her. The bruised purple sky and the distant screams of battle greeted her like an old, unwelcome friend.
She had a destination. She had an antagonist. The plot, for the first time in months, was moving forward. She had three days to prepare, to grow stronger, to learn. Three days until she would have to face a legend of the Tournament to find the one piece of her past that mattered. The story was getting more complex, the stakes higher. And Olivia, the Editor, would have to be ready to write her own bloody verse into it.