Page 158 of Shadows in Bloom

Barely an hour later, all novitiates of House Novar rode into the arena. Their travel clothes had been replaced by short, black training pants, and for some sports, like wrestling and throwing, that was all they wore. Astor and Cosmo also wore their blood-red cape, but it was just for the show. They’d remove it later and replace it with iron protection to keep them safe from flying spears and lances. Around them, the stands were filled with noble families from the five nations, the crowd cheering in support when all students made their appearance.

Once more the clerk took his role seriously by introducing each and every House officially, a useless gesture that was purely for the show. Astor guided his party toward the front centre of the arena, where all five flags had been placed in poles, left fluttering in the afternoon breeze. The weather was warm, the dry heat burned its way through layers of silk and metal fighting gear.

They bowed extensively to the regent of Novar, who sat tall and proud in the stands, accompanied by his wife, two daughters and son. During his life, The Prianos family had crossed paths with the regent many times.

“It’s impossible to please the man,” his father had said many times. Astor couldn’t help but grin at the ground when he caught a whiff of the flowers the ladies threw at him before they got chimed by the regent. Flowers were for the victor, and to be thrown only after the games. Looking up, he flashed a sly grin at the girls, and threw a wink at the regent’s son Phoenix. He wasn’t that hard to please. Astor grinned at the flush on the boy’s cheeks.

Once they were led to their corner, Cosmo trotted around the group on his horse, a beautiful black Arabian who went by the name of Foniás, and gave their group instructions. “The equipment needs to match. Be careful who you wish to court. Don’t give away your strength too quickly, you have three rounds for any game. Let them come first, look for their technique, let them come, then strike. The third round will decide the outcome. Alright, let’s make this a day to remember.” He held his spear high in the air, tipping up his chin as the crowd cheered for him.

Like Astor, Cosmo had grown up in the army, the son of his father’s right hand. They’d known each other for as long as they lived, and were meant to rule the army in the future. His friend was infuriating, proud and loyal, and an absolute favourite in today’s games.

Looking up to where the Novarians were seated in the stands, Astor found his brother effortlessly. Like that, with his white cloak and braided hair, he really did look like Novar’s guardian angel. Whatever had happened that day, five years ago, had been impressive enough for Fabiano to change everything he had once been.

Around them, the other corners were filling up by Akotans, Gaetans, and Staljordians. The celebrations consisted of different games played in the countries that formed the Union. Amongst those was wrestling, throwing and riding, sports that were chosen by House Novar. The final battle of the day was decisive, the winner a champion, which was a great way to start the school year. And today that winner could choose the Nomos Doulos—the claiming of another person for a chosen time.

An ancient tradition that hadn’t been put in practice for a long time.

“We only have three sign-ups for wrestling, and the Staljordians are good in that department,” said Oreon, as they stood next to each other, watching the event slowly roll out.

“I can take Gaeta and the northerners in throwing, but I’ll probably lose against the Akotans,” Cosmo predicted. Astor hummed and stared ahead. “The rest shouldn’t be much of a problem, we’ll make sure of it.”

Before they could continue their conversation, two heralds rose and played their trumpets. The honking sound echoed through the entire arena, silencing the crowd and the novitiates, their nervous chatter dimmed in an instant.

There was an official welcome by all five country representatives, followed by an applause. Then the trumpets blazed once more, marking an end to all formalities, and the games officially began.

As predicted, Novar triumphed in the first round of wrestling, but had to accept defeat in the next two rounds. Unlike traditional rules, here at the academy they didn’t fight until death. Nor did they accept potential serious injuries, such as breaking joints or choking. Like everything else in the arena, from the way the family members in the tribune were dressed up in their nation's traditional clothes, rich with jewels and ink both on faces and body, everything was prepared for entertainment. A show. Its goal: to see and be seen. To hear and be heard.

To capture all the unspoken words.

From his seat on the wooden bench in the corner of House Novar, Astor observed the arena, evaluating the new Novarian novitiates and assessing their opponents. Multiple games were played at once, and the playfield was filled with horses and students, with balls and wooden bats.

They represented blue and yellow, black and silver, blood-red and gold, and muddy brown. Astor’s gaze turned toward the other corner of the stadium, diagonally opposite from theirs. The green and metallic flag fluttered lonely in the wind, the bench empty. Once more, Darmayar hadn’t shown up, or they had decided to come late. Regardless, the compartment in the stands on their side was void of people, the seats empty. It seemed no one had come from the country of the mystical forest on the horizon. It made him feel strangely disappointed.

On their own side, the crowd was rowdy. Novarian noble families who resided in Nethyr had shown up in full ornate, wearing blood-red and golden capes, feathers and short skirts and open tops. They were an idle nation who spent a great deal of their time scarcely dressed. It was tradition.

Astor turned over his shoulder and peered up to glance at his fellow countrymen, chest tightening with pride. They really were a superior nation, the men adorned with richly decorated capes and brooches, the women with gowns that emphasized shapely legs and generous chests. Jewellery flicked in the September sunlight, and slaves hurried around, serving refreshments on large platters. Bowls of freshly cut fruit and decanters with the typical fruity rosé Novarians liked to drink during festivities, were being served. Other slaves were kneeled in front of their owners, used for pleasure or simply to pose drinks on.

A first year Novarian threw his spear in the middle of the large round target, claiming his throwing victory. People raised from their seats like a fan being pulled out, throwing up their hands in the air as they waved their blood-red handkerchiefs in praise.

“Iteres Novares!” They shouted. It was a phrase that would be heard many more times in the hours to follow, because they also won the second part. Time went on, and it was on their side—but from experience, the hardest part was still to come. The Akotans might have been good with boats, but they missed the speed and flexibility Novarians had in most of the games. Astor was practically sure that they’d only signed up for the spearing contest after having noticed how many first year Novarians participated at the game. No real competition, they’d thought. He glanced up at the two remaining Staljordian novitiates who were still seated on their horses, their silvery armour shining in the brilliant sunlight as they let their horse trot back to their side of the tribune, shoulders slumped.

He wanted to tell them that there was no shame in losing to Novarian nobles. That they would have lost regardless, because Novarian victory was written in the sky.

It had been decided by the gods.

But that would be a lie. Because they hadn’t won that day, five years ago, when the barbarians brutally invaded their territory, leaving a trail of violence and despair as their army crawled up through the Kyknos, the deserted sands of Novar. As if it happened yesterday, he remembered how those two messengers had arrived at the gates of Grerachi, Novar’s capital city, on that, early morning. Covered in fine dust, their once black suits faded into the daylight. Somehow, they had escaped the attack that had taken place in the south, where an army the size of 30,000 soldiers had invaded their lands. The barbarians had killed the small delegation of soldiers who had served as land posts, marking the beginning of Novar. Being stationed all the way south was a disgrace for any soldier, the task usually given to those who had badly violated the rules.

People said that down there, everything turned to sand. Your vision, your thoughts, even a man’s hearing. There was nothing but the blowing sand, the eternal plaything of the breeze. And silence.

Astor had wondered what it must have been like for those outcasts of society to have been stationed there, senses muffled by sand, only to catch sight of an uprising army on the horizon.

His gaze drifted to their southern neighbours. Gaetans had absolutely no taste. Their men kept their heads shaved, their shiny skulls a disgrace for the pleasant late summer weather, their clothing a pallet of dull brown and orange. The women wore their short hair hidden under capes, their faces void of any paint. They carried that, unfavourable, shapeless garment and managed to stand out against the colourful elegance that was Nethyr.

By the time the sun was slipping further south, they’d nearly reached the end of the day. The barbarian novitiates looked worn out, with some of them even going as far as sagging forward onto their horse, visibly waiting for the competition to finish. They had played well, even Astor had to admit that. Still, his fingers itched to fight them, to hurt them. He wanted to raise his shield and lance and breach the defence of their jousting knight.

They wouldn’t though, he knew by now. Joust. They didn’t sign up for the decisive game of the celebrations. Probably because they knew they didn’t have what it took to beat Astor. The useless cowards. And since these games were labelled as friendly matches, signing up was entirely voluntarily.

“We’ll make them pay one way or the other,” Oreon muttered, eyes caught in the same direction as Astor. He always seemed to know what went on in Astor’s mind. “Once their kin leave south and the doors to the basement open, they’ll be ours.”

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