Oasis, Lower Tiers. Water Game Arena

  The Water Game Arena opened before them like a relic carved into the bones of the City itself. The amphitheater, hewn from ancient stone, sank downward in concentric rings that trembled with the echoing roar of voices. Thousands pressed into the stands, from sand-scarred workers to Oven-baked farmers, and even audience boxes with nobles veiled in silk and jade, their shouts rising like a living tide. From her vantage point and perspective, Primrose thought of ZhiXia’s Martial Arena — but where ZhiXia celebrated warriors, Oasis honored only the desire to slake thirst.

  A Water Game. Dou Shui Zhan, as Molam had mentioned in the Old Tongue.

  A time-honored tradition for solving certain disputes within Oasis, arising from an era where multiple splintered groups fought over water rights. Each side sent out three representatives to fight, and the winning side took it all.

  In a time when Gods still walked the lands, the ancients held Water Games to bleed over newly discovered wells and buried reservoirs. They fought for territory, for liquid wealth, for the right to keep deadly thirst at bay if only just for another few days.

  Now, the Stewards hosted a Game to contend for that which only they could understand: the privilege of having their agendas pushed forward in front of their Lord.

  Many had gathered; much more than she anticipated. Based on what Molam had said, a Game between the Stewards was rare, much less one where all three participated. Stewards wanted for little and rarely saw a need to contend with each other so publicly. Primrose only understood it to mean that having all three Stewards aligned with one’s proposal in front of the Lord was worth putting aside their petty differences, so long as one of them achieved their end goals.

  At the Arena’s heart shimmered the battlefield. A pool of dark water gleamed under mirrors angled to draw Sunlight into the depths, a false oasis framed by four stone islands. The central isle cradled the “well,” its surface rippling with shadows. Around it stood three smaller isles, each bearing a black-iron jar half-filled, waiting to be brimmed by combatants. Heavy chains linked island to island, swaying in the misted air like the ribs of some colossal skeleton. The chasm between was bedded with a sand colored bright red to protect a combatant should they fall in. The color would serve proof of their retirement from the Game.

  To Primrose it looked like a lotus stripped bare, a flower whose petals had been offered to the Sands. She nodded to herself. Nothing new or unexpected with the Arena. This had long been agreed upon by the Stewards. The only thing left was…

  The thought made her look far off into the distance towards Steward Ryu, who was huddled with two others. The tall Oasian woman with slicked up puffy hair, tied with jade rings — that must be Steward Jyori. The even taller Oasian man with skin reminiscent of a moonless night must be Steward Clayton.

  They must be discussing the final rule: mercy or death. She remembered Molam had spent much time with Steward Ryu discussing how they could get the mercy rule. It only required the combatants to touch certain body parts with blunted weapons, favoring a battle of speed and finesse.

  Death, on the other hand, could only be prevented by a combatant’s surrender — assuming the assailant stopped in time. Steward Ryu had assured them the rules would ensure any side that did not avoid a mortal blow after a combatant’s surrendering would be immediately disqualified, but Molam’s expressions told Primrose he found that to be of little comfort.

  Primrose had teased Molam about it yesterday: are you scared of losing me?

  His answer had somewhat irked her: your skillsets are hard to replace. Expected of him, but somewhat colder than she wanted.

  She drew a breath — cool, almost damp, unexpected. “Not as dry,” she murmured, flexing her shoulders as she stretched. “Any idea why?”

  Jyuyan grunted beside her, dragging an elbow across his broad chest. The man had picked up new stretching routines from her during their sparring the past few days when Primrose realized he had difficulty with certain movements due to his larger size and stiffer limbs. “Upper Tiers are watching. They wouldn’t waste water on us otherwise.” He jerked his chin toward the curtained balconies above, where shadows shifted behind screens and jade jewelry winked through the haze.

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  Primrose’s lips curved wryly. Extravagance, not mercy. She could not imagine how much water would have been needed to mist the entire Arena. And all of it to soften the air for the nobles who looked down from their boxes like Gods peering from the heavens.

  “It’s only for themselves, don’t delude yourself. They’d never do anything for the masses,” muttered a voice behind her. Its owner sniffed. “Must be easily four, maybe even five thousand buckets of water to mist the air. And it’s not a sealed environment; they’ll need to be misting constantly.”

  Primrose sighed as she bent into another calf stretch, her gaze settling on their third combatant. Aliyah moved silently behind them, her helm hiding her face, her spear describing low circles as she practiced lunges. Supposed water thief or not, Molam had accepted the Steward’s assurances, and Primrose could begrudgingly respect the woman’s skill. The Steward’s insistence on the helm had felt obvious, but Primrose found herself thankful. Even the smallest glimpse — the dimple, the slope of the nose, the eyes — had been too much like Lyka. Their spears sang with the same rhythm during their practice bouts and Primrose found it… familiar, yet unsettling.

  They continued their stretching in silence, with Aliyah pacing behind them and murmuring to herself as she took several lunging steps with her spear. Primrose looked away, glancing at the other combatants.

  Steward Jyori’s three were each distinct enough to draw notice even among veterans. The first was a male spear wielder, his face hidden beneath a plain iron helmet that left only the glint of his eyes visible. He carried his weapon with an ease that betrayed long practice, the haft worn smooth where his grip naturally fell. The second was a taller but older shield bearer, his frame lean but steady behind a uniquely large diamond-shaped shield. Its edges were reinforced with metal studs, giving the impression it could serve as both barrier and bludgeon. The third was the most striking — a lithe, androgynous sword caller whose movements seemed coiled and ready even while standing still. A short sword hung at their hip, plain in make but balanced for speed, and their free hand often brushed the hilt as though eager to draw at a moment’s notice.

  The other side, Steward Clayton’s lineup, seemed more rigid in formation. The first was a helmed broad-shouldered male spear wielder, his weapon capped in iron so dark it almost drank in the light. The shaft bore scratches from use, and he held it upright in a posture that suggested endurance over flair. Beside him stood a female shield bearer, stocky and solid, whose tower shield was less a tool than an obstacle; a slab of stone-faced steel that could have doubled as a barricade. Its surface bore shallow dents from repeated impacts, yet clearly none had broken through. Completing the trio was a burly sword caller gripping a steel greatsword so long it nearly dragged the ground. The weapon’s edge gleamed with a harsh polish, its heft demanding strength over speed. Each step he took made the weapon shift like a pendulum. Primrose narrowed her eyes at that; Martyker had never allowed his weapon to sway in such an unpracticed manner.

  She noticed all three members of Steward Clayton’s combatants had darker skin than most Oasians.

  Primrose wondered how the Stewards had assembled their teams given the two Marshals had forbidden the active duty Sand Regiments from participating. She sized them all up, taking great care to memorize their expected reach.

  “I see everyone’s getting ready for the activities.” Steward Ryu came walking towards them. “Did you decide to go with a formation or to act independently?”

  “No strict formation,” Jyuyan answered, leaning to stretch out his legs. “I’ll jar tend and the other two can move as they see fit. We decided it was better than forcing anything unreliable given our… differences.”

  “More importantly; what’s the final rule? Mercy or kill?” Primrose asked. This was what mattered now.

  The Steward hesitated before answering, “They both voted to allow for killing. Please surrender if you think your life is in danger; I can request for the best healers to restore even severed limbs, but no one can bring back the dead. Winning isn’t everything here.” She seemed to direct the words at Jyuyan. Primrose smiled; Molam had asked her to confirm his suspicions, but Primrose hardly needed further evidence. The Steward seemed oblivious to her own obvious extra attention for the Rider-turned-shield bearer-for-now. “There will be other chances. None of you should gamble with your lives.”

  The words dimly reminded Primrose of something the Whale of ZhiXia had said to Shurra. Do not take gambles where being wrong means the debts are incurred by the living.

  Before they could speak more, a loud voice boomed throughout the Arena, signaling for the crowd to settle in as the Game was starting soon. Primrose rolled her shoulders, then her neck, running a swift course of aura throughout her body as she checked her physical capabilities the way Aster had taught her. Finally, a deft twitch of the body pressed each of her prepared blades to her skin, confirming their sharp presence.

  I am ready to dance.

  “It’s time,” Jyuyan said tersely. “We’ll head down to submit ourselves to the Keepers for inspection, Steward Ryu.”

  “Good luck,” the Steward nodded, then almost abruptly, she asked Primrose. “I haven’t seen Molam all day. Is he attending or not?”

  Primrose paused as she followed Jyuyan and Aliyah down the stairs. “He’s… been trying to make a bank withdrawal.”

  And she continued down, not looking back while daring to imagine the Steward’s look of confusion.

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