CHAPTER 14

The Whelps

Listen to the words of even the most neophyte Grievar. Though such a newly skilled combatant is unlikely to provide worthy advice to a veteran, one with stoppered ears and a shuttered mind will never find the path to mastery.

Passage Nine, Two Hundred First Precept of the Combat Codes

Cego looked at himself in the mirror set along the back wall of Quarter D.

He tried to flatten the matted black hair that stood puffed up on his head, a stark contrast to the bare scalp he’d shaved every day at Thaloo’s.

Cego was wearing the new custom-fit second skin that the Lyceum had provided him. It was white to denote he was a Level One and clung tightly to his entire body from his neck down to his wrists and ankles. The strange, stretchy material lived up to its name: it literally felt like a second skin, and according to the proctors, it increased blood flow and decreased the chance of injury during practice.

“Level One second skins are white so that the blood shows up on ’em best. They get darker each time you level up,” Mateus Winterfowl grimly told the rest of the team as they appraised their new skins.

Cego pulled down the nape of his skin to check out his new flux tattoo. Just as expected, the dragon whelp peeked out with its curious eyes before snaking back beneath the material. Cego had gotten in the habit of looking at the tattoo as a reminder to himself that he was actually a student at the Lyceum.

Mateus had interpreted the new tattoo as a jab at their relative inexperience compared to higher-level Lyceum students. They were all mere whelps compared to the bears, lions, and dragons that roamed these halls. Cego didn’t take it that way, though. When he looked at his new flux, it reminded him to stay curious like the little whelp.

Cego doubled back to his cot and sat, checking his class schedule on his new lightdeck. He’d never actually owned anything before, and though he knew the Lyceum technically owned the equipment, it felt good to have something.

There were three mandatory classes that all Level Ones were required to take daily: Grappling Level One, Striking Level One, and Performance Augmentation. In addition, students were assigned one specialty class based on a skill the proctors thought they should focus on. Cego wasn’t surprised to see that Circles and Alloys was listed on his schedule.

Each student also had two elective classes to fill out the rest of their schedule. Electives were cross-level courses open to all students within the Lyceum. By far the most popular elective was Stratagems and Maneuvers, taught by the famed ex-Knight Jos Dynari.

Dynari had been known for his crafty techniques in the Circle, which were tailor-made to dissect his opponent’s games. Though he was never the strongest nor fastest of the Citadel’s Knights, he’d been able to use his master grasp of strategy to attain one of the highest winning percentages in Ezo’s history. Now Dynari served as one of the Citadel’s top coaches, helping develop game plans for each Knight months in advance of their bouts. In his spare time, he taught a class at the Lyceum. Cego couldn’t resist putting his name in the running for Stratagems and Maneuvers, though he doubted he’d be picked with students of all levels vying for a spot in the class. He also elected to take Commander Aon Farstead’s class—the Combat Codes—which he figured would be easier to get into.

Cego’s lightdeck flashed, indicating that Performance Augmentation was starting in thirty minutes. The Whelps—which his team had been aptly named, after their first flux tattoos—exited Quarter D together, heading down the main dormitory hall toward the common ground.

Abel had taken to teasing Dozer, filling a role Knees would usually take on. “Dozer. I think tailor fit your skin too small? Looks tight.”

“This is just how I look,” Dozer bragged, flexing his muscles beneath the second skin.

Sol joined in. “Yeah, I don’t know, Dozer… Especially way back there, it does look a bit tight.”

“What do you mean?” Dozer said with alarm as he spun around in a circle, trying to get a better view of his behind. The crew erupted with laughter.

Though it was great to see his team getting along, the good-natured teasing provided Cego with a stark reminder that his sharp-witted Venturian friend wasn’t there with them.

They reached the common ground to find a throng of students surrounding a large lightboard on the wall. The names of various teams were flashing onto the board.

“Challenge board,” someone said from behind Cego.

Cego turned to see Kit, the Level Sixer they’d met upon arriving. Kit was wearing a bloodred second skin with black stripes etched along each arm.

Kit addressed several of the Level Ones who had gathered on the common ground to look at the board. “Professor Tefo told me to fill you guys in on what’s going on, especially if I see you staring with those big, naïve whelp eyes, which is what I’m seeing now.” The dark-haired Grievar flashed a smile beneath his well-trimmed beard.

“This board is where the team challenges are posted every week,” Kit said. “Once a challenge is posted, the defending team has one full day to accept.”

Kit continued his explanation, likely noticing the Level Ones’ confused expressions. “Teams here at the Lyceum can challenge each other. A typical challenge is best of three fights—three members from each team matching up individually in our challenge Circles. Winner takes a chunk of the loser’s total team score. At end of cycle, you’ll not only be judged based on your individual class scores, but your team scores will decide how you rank. Most importantly, though, the lowest-scoring team gets held back from advancing to the next level. It’s a way to weed out those who aren’t performing.”

Dozer gulped loudly next to Cego.

“Keep in mind, though, most challenges are interclass,” Kit said. “You know, a Level One versus a Level One team, or a Level Three versus a Level Three. Challenging a team above or below your level involves more politiks, and the scoring system is a bit more complicated for that. Take a look at your Guide to Challenges before you Level Ones do anything too crazy. Needless to say, I wouldn’t recommend challenging a Level Six team right off the bat.” Kit winked.

“Why the challenges, you ask?” Kit posed the question in a mock announcer voice. “It’s all to simulate reality out there. Most of us who graduate from the Lyceum will be doing just this—fighting over challenges. In the real world, they aren’t called challenges, of course. It’s called war. And it’s not some silly score at stake. It’s territories, resources, farmland, food, homes. Lives at stake.” Kit spoke seriously.

“These challenges give our potential Knights prep for the world out there. To realize you aren’t fighting just for yourself—your training, studies, and wins and losses make a difference to everyone around you.”

Cego considered Kit’s words. This wasn’t like the Underground, where every kid was fighting for their own survival or to line the bit-purse of some Circle owner or patron. It was about a larger purpose.

“I expect to see some of you in one of our challenge Circles in no time,” Kit said as he walked off. “Don’t forget to get to class, though. Professors don’t take kindly to late students.”

Professor Kitaka was well into the second hour of his lecture and Cego saw it in the faces of his classmates. Cego had expected his performance augmentation class to be tiring, but not in this way. Half the class appeared to be on the verge of falling asleep.

“Every muscle fiber in your body is connected in some way, even if it is not immediately discernible. Though the muscles in your neck are nowhere near the muscles in your foot, they too are connected…”

Kitaka was an older, sturdy-looking Grievar. Though his bald head was small, he had two massive cauliflower ears and large, penetrating yellow eyes. Kitaka spoke in a steady tone, never changing his inflection.

The large classroom was filled with several unusual pieces of equipment—weights, pulleys, tracks, cycles, stairs, and other machines that Cego couldn’t place. The initial excitement of first entering the classroom and seeing all the machines had long since faded as Professor Kitaka’s lecture droned on.

“Breathing is something we do every day naturally. We never think about it throughout the course of our day, saying to ourselves every moment—now I will take a breath. We simply breathe. In. And out again. In. And out again…”

Performance Augmentation was one of the mandatory Level One classes, so all twenty-four students were in attendance today, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Knees was sitting with his own team, the Bayhounds, right next to Shiar. Cego had tried to catch his friend’s eyes, but Knees wouldn’t even glance over in his direction. Cego couldn’t wrap his head around it. Though Knees had no choice in teaming up with the Bayhounds, how could he just sit there complacently next to Shiar as if the two didn’t have any past? Had the Sim really scrambled Knees’s brain so much that he couldn’t remember those jackal eyes flashing in glee as Weep crumbled under Shiar’s kicks?

Sol sat just ahead of Cego. Her red braid was thrown over one shoulder and Cego saw she was attentively taking notes on her lightdeck, even as the lecture droned into its second hour. Cego watched as Sol methodically swiped at her deck, recording clips of the lecture before moving them into meticulously labeled folders.

Cego had noticed that about Sol—she was organized in everything she did. The way she had carefully folded her sheets in Quarter D and stacked all her gear in a neat pile. Even her fighting technique appeared organized. The single-leg combo she’d used on Joba earlier had been by the book, as if it had been replicated directly from some SystemView instructional.

Cego glanced at Dozer sitting to his right and smiled at the contrast. His burly friend was out cold, his head folded over his lap, a pool of drool accumulating on the surface of his unused lightdeck.

Kitaka had stopped lecturing. He was staring over at Dozer. Cego stuck out his foot and prodded his friend, who snorted loudly as he woke.

Dozer stared up at Professor Kitaka, quickly muttering, “S-sorry, Professor, I didn’t mean to—”

“Dozer,” Kitaka cut him off, his voice without inflection. “When I first saw that name on my class registry, I pondered what it meant. Do you know that every Grievar name has an origin and meaning? For most of the purelights in the room, it is the blood name that holds the meaning. For example, take our friend Gryfin Thurgood here…” Kitaka nodded at Gryfin sitting up front, who flashed his trademark pearly white smile.

“Your brother Lior was in my class two years ago, and two years before that, I had Tycho. And of course, Tullen is now on our Knight team. Good students. Good, strong work ethic. I believe you must possess the same ethic, Gryfin. That strength comes from your blood name—Thurgood. Once, we Grievar rode large flightless birds called rocs to travel long distances. Instead of taking mech transport to arrive at our next challenge, we used the endurance of these mighty birds to get where we needed to go. Some of the finest rocs, which a man could truly rely on, were called thoroughbreds. That is where your name comes from, Gryfin—Thurgood. Your bloodline possesses the good strength of a thoroughbred roc. Which makes your team’s name especially on point.”

Gryfin puffed up with pride at Kitaka’s compliments just as a feathered head with a hooked beak appeared on the boy’s thick neck.

“Dozer,” Professor Kitaka repeated. Dozer stiffened again. He appeared to have forgotten he was still in the hot seat after Professor Kitaka had gone off on the tangent about rocs. “Dozer, because you do not have a pure Grievar bloodline, you also do not have a blood name to carry meaning. Which is why many lacklights assign their meaning through their given name. So, when I saw your name on my registry, I wondered what Dozer meant. My first thought was perhaps that Dozer meant you were strong, as your biometrics clearly read. However, now I see that the true meaning of your name, Dozer, refers to your ability to sleep soundly even amid the most important parts of my lecture.”

Dozer began to apologize again, but Professor Kitaka held a finger up to quiet him.

“Come up here, Dozer, and because you are clearly tired by my words, we shall do something more to your level of understanding.”

Cego heard Shiar cackle in delight from the other side of the classroom.

Dozer looked at the floor as he walked to the front of the class and stood next to Professor Kitaka. Cego’s friend was noticeably taller and thicker than Kitaka.

“Dozer, I want you to lift this weight above your head.” Kitaka pointed to one of the heavier circular weights set along the wall of the classroom.

Dozer smiled and moved over to the stack of weights. Cego knew that smile; his friend was looking forward to showing off in front of the class—after all, lifting things over his head was one of Dozer’s specialties.

Dozer took hold of the grips on the weight, lowered his knees, and heaved it over his head in one clean jerk movement.

“Hold there for a moment, Dozer,” said Professor Kitaka, walking over to him. “Class, as you can see, our friend Dozer has easily lifted this heavy weight. As you can also see, part of Dozer’s technique to lift the weight involved inhaling and holding his breath to create a strong base structure.” Kitaka pointed to Dozer’s expanded chest.

“Now, Dozer, can you do a quick jog around the room for us while holding that weight?” Kitaka asked.

Dozer, whose face was starting to turn red under the strain, started to jog around the room.

Kitaka continued to make his observations as Dozer ran. “As you can see, Dozer is still holding his breath to maintain his structure beneath the weight, but now that he is exerting cardiovascular strain on his lungs, his breath cannot hold.”

As if on cue, Dozer exhaled sharply and began to breathe heavily.

“Continue to run for us, Dozer,” Kitaka said. “As Dozer continues to exert more cardiovascular strain, you can see that the muscles that were holding up the weight can no longer provide the same support as they once did.”

Just as Kitaka had observed, Dozer’s arms shivered under the weight.

“In a relatively short period of time, Dozer simply cannot support the weight,” Kitaka concluded, just as Dozer fell to his knees, clunking the big weight onto the floor.

Kitaka stood over Dozer, looking down at the boy as he took labored breaths. “Dozer did what came naturally to him. He was not wrong in thinking that holding his breath would help him lift the heavy weight over his head. However, he was not prepared for any continued exertion.”

To demonstrate, Kitaka moved over to the same weight. The old professor bent his knees and jerked the weight over his head, much as Dozer had done. However, Cego noticed that Kitaka exhaled when lifting, and as soon as the weight was up and over, he slowly began to inhale.

Kitaka ran around the room with the weight, taking breaths in between speaking. “As… you can see… I am able to continue my pattern of breathing… while… exerting… cardiovascular strain.”

Kitaka ran around the room for over a minute to demonstrate the effectiveness of the technique before calmly placing the weight back on the ground. He was breathing with hardly any difficulty.

“Now, obviously, everything we learn in this class relates back to combat. What Dozer has helped me demonstrate here is a principle of exertion and conservation of energy.”

Dozer had taken his seat on the floor by Cego again, still breathing hard as Kitaka addressed the class.

“Any action taken in combat needs to be realized under pressure and likely will require continued exertion. Lifting an opponent over your head won’t do anything by itself. One needs to be prepared for an initial action, or lift, and then continued exertion or energy expenditure after that action. For example, after you execute a successful takedown, you can’t just stop and say you’re done. You need to exert pressure on your opponent, pass to an advantageous position, and finish them. You cannot overexert yourself on the initial lift—otherwise, your opponent may take advantage of your depleted energy,” Kitaka explained.

Dozer was nodding his head now. Cego had been afraid Kitaka’s demonstration was made to embarrass Dozer in front of the class, a technique Tasker Ozark had been fond of. This wasn’t the case. Dozer, and the entire class, had learned something from the demonstration.

Cego looked over again at Sol, still meticulously taking notes. He sheepishly slid his hand across his lightdeck to power it on and began to pay attention.

Murray sat at the kitchen table alone, tapping his foot nervously. His barracks were quiet without any of the kids around. Masa and Tachi were currently off on lease to PublicJustice. Though Murray didn’t entirely approve of it, the twin Grievar had insisted that they take on contract work to help pay the bills.

The Jadeans had originally come to Murray in rough shape, right off the back of a greatstorm on their passage from the Emerald Sea. The two had attempted to make the crossing on a Grunt dinghy made for island hopping. They’d washed ashore on the Ezonian coast, clinging to scrap wood. The twins had been picked up by the Enforcers and primed for shipping to the borderlands when Murray had bought them on a tip from the inside. He wouldn’t let that kind of darkin’ talent get wasted on harvest work.

Usually, Murray appreciated the lack of Jadean chatter, but now the barracks just seemed empty. Murray’s Scout work was on hiatus for the month after the Trials, so that left him without any clear objectives. Normally, drinking himself into a stupor every day would be on top of that list.

Something had changed.

Murray stood, paced around the kitchen, and walked briskly out to the barracks. He threw the cover off Violet and took out the wash bucket, kneeling as he started to apply another sheen of finish to his Circle’s already-shining surface.

Murray couldn’t get his mind off Cego. He couldn’t stop thinking about the kid’s experience in the Trials—in the Sim—and Command’s reaction to his performance.

Memnon’s words rang in Murray’s head. For the good of the nation. Murray spat onto the dirt floor of the barracks. He could fill his gallon wash bucket with spittle for the number of times he’d heard some politik telling him it was all for the good of the nation. Memnon was a pawn of the Daimyo. Those were their words in the high commander’s mouth. The Daimyo always needed more from the Grievar. They were never satisfied.

How had the high commander strayed so far?

Murray could still clearly recall Professor Albion Memnon’s class at the Lyceum. When the man was still a lowly deputy commander, Memnon had taught Grievar History. He’d been a great lecturer. He reviewed the histories with a passion, drawing his students into a world long past.

For millennia, we Grievar-kin lived in isolation from our brethren. We lived in the darkness of the Underground, on the broken Emerald Isles, atop the icy peaks of Myrkos.

Murray was a Level Five when he took Memnon’s class, still uninitiated in the grand scheme of things, but at that point, brash enough to think he was at the top of the fighting food chain. He could remember Memnon’s deep baritone voice reverberating throughout the Dome, the Lyceum’s largest lecture hall.

We kept to ourselves. Grievar lives were simple then. We gathered what food we needed, raised our families, and fought in the Circles, honing our combat skills. Our Circles were the glue that kept us together. Disputes were resolved, resources distributed, and justice delivered—all within the bounds of our Circles.

Murray could see Professor Memnon pacing on the stage, the eyes of the entire class glued to the man.

Those simple lives couldn’t last, though. While we Grievar lived peacefully, millions died around us. The Daimyo wars were fought with great numbers and devastating weapons, threatening total annihilation.

Though Murray had been distracted by the pretty blonde sitting two rows up, Memnon’s sudden whisper had caught his attention.

We could have stayed in solitude. We could have kept to ourselves. We could have watched from afar as our brethren destroyed themselves. We could have stood still as the world around us crumbled.

Memnon had stopped pacing. He stared at the class of wide-eyed Lyceum students.

That’s not what Grievar-kin do. We don’t stand still. We fight.

Murray could still remember the end of Memnon’s lecture with perfect clarity.

We came up from the Deep, we climbed down from the peaks, we sailed from the broken isles. We Grievar emerged from the darkness to stand before our Daimyo brethren in their time of need. We agreed to the Armistice—the pact signed between rival nations that stands to this day. We Grievar would provide the Daimyo a path away from their wars, and the Daimyo would provide us with a path to our destiny.

Memnon’s voice rang out across the Dome.

The weapons would be sealed away. Nations would no longer raise arms for land or resources or pride. The bloodshed would stop. The inevitable annihilation would be held back. In the place of the ceaseless Daiymo wars, we Grievar would fight. They would build great arenas across the world, and we would stand in the luminous Circles within them. Our fists would hold sway over the fate of nations. We would fight for the earth we stand upon. We would fight for honor. We would fight so the rest should not have to.

Memnon had said those words with such conviction, such passion that Murray had held them close to his heart for three decades.

Now those words meant nothing.

Now the Grievar were nothing more than a means to an end. Grievar fought for the Daimyo’s petty political gains, for land or resources or slaves. The Grievar were their tools—things they could experiment on, weapons to warp to their purpose.

What bothered Murray most was the fact that the Citadel was complicit in the whole thing. Murray never expected the Daimyo to have any honor—but High Command? Memnon? How could someone who knew the Codes by heart treat their own kin like some sort of experiment?

What could Murray do, though? He was only a Scout. He’d already broken the rules once in the Underground, and he knew another instance of wrongdoing would mean his expulsion from the Citadel. He knew if he asked around too much, it would get back to the high commander or to Callen and his network of spies.

Murray slammed his fist into the dirt.

He’d given Cego his word. What was he worried about? Himself? His own path and future with the Citadel? How could he even consider thinking like some pathetic, self-preserving Daimyo?

Murray needed more information, and there was only one Grievar he could trust right now.

Cego’s other two mandatory Level One classes were more of what he expected. Striking Level One and Grappling Level One reviewed many of the basic techniques Cego had already grasped firmly. Even so, he made sure to pay close attention and took Sol’s lead by constantly pulling vid clips onto his lightdeck so that he could review them later.

Professor Tefo’s first class began with an animated telling of his rise as a Knight.

“Back when I was a young Grievar, things weren’t quite so cushy. Being a Knight didn’t mean broadcasts up on SystemView, the adoration of fans, getting the best rooms when traveling, or spending all your time hobnobbing with noble folk. We did it all outside of the light. No one even knew who we were back then…”

Cego got the impression he was going to hear many more of these stories by the end of his semester with Tefo.

The rest of Professor Tefo’s class consisted of a series of striking drills. Tefo, in his booming voice, called for his students to throw combinations of punches, kicks, knees, and elbows into the heavy bags that lined the classroom. Tefo would circle the room and examine each student’s form, sometimes offering small corrections but more often just saying, “Hmm,” which made most of the students nervous and more likely to throw a mistimed strike.

The Grappling Level One Professor, Sidney Sapao, was a young but experienced teacher. It had only been five years since he’d graduated from the Lyceum himself, but his lightpath as a Knight had been cut short due to a permanent neck injury. Sapao had shown such promise as a Knight that the Lyceum immediately picked him up as a professor.

Professor Sapao concentrated his entire first class on the concepts of base and posture. The Level Ones took turns maintaining their posture on their knees and standing, all while a partner tried to break them down.

Cego was surprised to see that many of his classmates were unaware of the most basic concepts in grappling. They were fast to show off the new, flashy techniques they’d seen on SystemView or moves they’d learned from an older sibling, but when asked the best way to break an opponent’s closed guard, they were completely clueless.

Luckily, Farmer had stressed the basics throughout Cego’s training. Cego could remember the extreme frustration that came from practicing mundane concepts like posture for hours every day in the ironwood Circle. Now, watching some of his classmates struggle during class, he felt lucky to have had such a meticulous teacher.

Cego was amazed to see that all his professors assigned after-hours training assignments for students to review the techniques shown in the class.

“More class, even after class? What’s with this place? I just hope they assign us a trip to the dining hall soon,” Dozer said to Cego as they left Grappling Level One and headed downstairs toward the common ground.

Sol brushed past the two boys. “What’d you think? Knights were just magically made here without putting any hard work in?”

Compared to the complete lack of direction for what they called training at Thaloo’s, the Lyceum’s regimen was refreshing to Cego, though he was starting to worry about the workload already piling up on his shoulders.

Cego paused on the common ground with Dozer to take a deep breath between classes. A crowd of students had gathered to peer up at the large challenge lightboard. Rallying cries emerged from some teams as the challenges were posted. Matchups flickered across the board, starting with Level Six challenges at the top, all the way down to the Level Ones. Cego’s eyes found the bottom of the board.

TEAM TUSKER (LV. 2) CHALLENGES TEAM WHELPS (LV. 1)

“Already?” Dozer exclaimed. “First week here and we’ve already got a darkin’ challenge on our hands. And a Level Two team! What’s with that?”

“I’m not sure,” Cego replied. “I think we need to decide what to do now, though…”

“Didn’t you blocks read through the Lyceum’s Guide to Challenges?” Sol said from beside Cego as she gazed up at the lightboard. “It was part of our prescribed reading last night.”

“Um… I was planning on getting to that,” Cego said guiltily.

“Read?” Dozer responded. “I’m not gonna spend my night with my face in a lightdeck like some Daimyo clerk.”

Sol rolled her eyes at the two boys. “Well, if you two had actually taken the time to go over the guide, you’d have a clue as to what is happening right now.”

Both boys looked at Sol expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

“I see how this is going to be,” Sol said. “This is the last time I’m explaining things to you just because you are too lazy to do the work.”

The two boys nodded.

“We have to decide whether or not to accept the Tuskers’ challenge by end of day today. Each of us individually votes on our lightdecks,” Sol said as she swiped her device to show Cego and Dozer the voting screen.

“If we choose to accept the challenge, we’ll be put in the Circle against them this coming study intermission, three days from now,” Sol explained.

“But why would a Level Two team want to pick a fight with us?” Dozer asked. “I’ve never even heard of the Tuskers before.”

“Well, lucky for you guys, I made it through the strategy section of the Guide to Challenges as well,” Sol said with satisfaction. “Although they are not as common as intralevel challenges, there are advantages and disadvantages to challenging teams that are lower or higher level than your own. The most obvious reason the Tuskers challenged us is because they are looking for an easy way to boost their score. Even though we barely have any score to lose, they know we are fresh Level Ones and they think they can get an easy win off us.”

Dozer growled, “They aren’t gonna get no darkin’ easy win off me…”

Sol continued. “However, there are built-in disadvantages to challenging lower-level teams. The first is that the lower-level team always gets to pick the matchups.”

“You mean we get to pick who fights who?” Cego asked.

“Yes, if we accept, we pick three of our fighters to match up with any three from their team,” Sol said. “It gets a bit more complicated depending on the level difference of the teams involved. For example, if a Level Four team were to challenge a Level One, they’d lose a Grievar, meaning one of the Level Fours would have to fight two bouts in a row. The handicaps dissuade the higher levels from bullying the lower levels all the time.”

“How about a Level Sixer?” Dozer asked. “What prevents them from challenging us?”

“Well, nothing prevents them, but Level Sixers get the biggest handicaps. They’d need to take on three of us in a row with a single member of their team to win a challenge,” Sol said.

“Wow,” Dozer said, clearly amazed at the prospect of one Grievar taking on three fighters back-to-back.

“And what if we decline the Tuskers’ challenge?” Cego asked, though he could tell by Dozer’s determined expression that wouldn’t be as simple as it sounded.

“Well, if you decline a challenge, your score takes a hit,” Sol said. “Not as much as if you lose the challenge, though. It depends on how much risk the challenger is taking; a decline penalty gets bigger with the risk factor.”

“If there are so many disadvantages and risks, why even make a challenge?” Cego asked.

“That’s what challenges are all about,” Sol said matter-of-factly. “Torm Ironhand, the Grievar who created the challenge system, famously stated: Challenges are macroscopic versions of combat itself.”

Dozer snorted. “You actually memorized the darkin’ guidebook?”

Sol ignored him, continuing her recitation. “In combat, one has to take calculated risk in order to open an opponent’s defense. Eventually, one Grievar has to make the first move in combat, just as is the case in the challenge system.”

Sol added, “You’re right, though, Cego. Some teams play the defensive game and wait for other teams to make the challenges.”

Cego nodded as he listened to Sol’s explanation. Fighting was all about taking risks. Playing it too safe with any worthy opponent gave them the opportunity to slowly pull apart your defenses. But counterattacking was a valid strategy as well, waiting for an opponent to show an opening and then capitalizing on it.

Cego gazed at the screen to see that some of the challenges had already been marked as accepted in emblazoned red text. In addition, a small TC insignia had appeared next to some of the challenges on the board.

“What’s TC mean?” Cego asked Sol.

“Trade clause,” Sol said. “That means the defending team has accepted the challenge, but they’ve invoked a trade clause. Only a defending team can do this, and only if their calculated risk in accepting the challenge is high enough. If they win, they get to make a trade for a select member of the attacking team.”

Cego immediately thought about Knees. This was the answer he’d been looking for—a way to get Knees back.

“Is there any way to make a trade challenge directly?” Cego asked, trying to contain his excitement.

Sol shook her head. “You can’t challenge another team for one of their members, like you could for a trophy. A trade clause can only be invoked as a response to a challenge… I don’t like the sound of this. What are you thinking?”

“Well. I was just thinking about getting Knees back,” Cego said.

Dozer’s eyes lit up. “Yes. We need to make a challenge to get him back!”

“Didn’t you just hear me, you big block?” Sol said. “We can’t make a challenge for a trade.”

“But if the Bayhounds were to challenge us… then we could invoke the trade clause,” Cego pondered.

“Yes, but how would we get the Bayhounds to challenge us?” Sol asked.

“As you just said, Sol, this is all just a bigger version of a fight,” Cego responded. “We need them to think our hands are down because we’re too tired to keep them up. When they make their move, we counter at just the right moment.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Sol said. “Most challenges are attempts to bite into another team’s score. Currently, as our score is hanging right near zero, there is no real reason for the Bayhounds to challenge us. Plus, the trade clause can only be invoked if the defender’s calculated risk is very high. Ours is not.”

Cego sighed. He knew Sol was right, which was starting to become a trend this week.

They would need to play the long game.

“All right. Well, then, we need to start building our score,” Cego said as he swiped his lightdeck, voting in favor of accepting the Tuskers’ challenge.

Luckily, the day before the Whelps’ first challenge, Cego’s class schedule wasn’t as jam-packed. Cego was already painfully sore from the variety of grappling, striking, and endurance drills his professors had them running throughout that week, and he hoped to have some recovery time before getting into the Circle against a Level Two opponent.

After Cego had voted to accept the Tuskers’ challenge, Dozer and Sol had followed suit. The only decline to the challenge had come from Mateus Winterfowl, who pretty much did everything in opposition to what the rest of the team decided.

Cego’s final class of the week was Combat Codes with Professor Aon Farstead. Cego had received an alert on his lightdeck that told him he’d been accepted into the class. As expected, he’d been rejected from the more popular Stratagems and Maneuvers.

Unlike the rest of Cego’s classes, which were on level one of the Harmony, Aon’s class was on the other side of the Lyceum, in the Valkyrie. Cego walked the long hallway between the two buildings alone, watching the torches flicker along the walls. His heart had sunk when he’d received notice that Aon’s class was located in the Valkyrie—he hadn’t been back there since the Trials.

It was impossible to forget what had happened in there. Since the Trials, since he’d heard his brother Sam in that strange simulation, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Even now, hearing his footsteps down the empty hallway, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Cego was glad he hadn’t been given much time to consider the past. There was enough to worry about here at the Lyceum—classes, training assignments, scores, and challenges. Getting Knees back.

“You go to Professor Farstead class too, Cego?” A voice sprang from behind him.

Cego spun around and barely muffled a surprised yelp. Abel. The little Desovian was alarmingly agile. “You scared me there, Abel,” Cego said. “Yeah, I’ve got Combat Codes—you?”

“Yes… what privilege!” Abel said in near-breathless excitement. “My ancestors, in Desovi, still they speak of Aon Farstead in daily prayers. If only they could see Abel now.”

“In their prayers?” Cego asked as they continued down the long hallway.

“Yes. In Desovi at evening prayer, Grievar pay respect to those who came before,” Abel said. “Long list of famous Desovian Grievar. So long that Abel sometimes fall asleep. Aon Farstead on that list. In his young age, Professor Aon, he come to Desovi and teach our folk. He spread the Codes.”

Cego had thought that the Codes were always there, since the beginning. Like the black sand beach or the emerald waters of his home.

“I hope to find seat in Professor Aon’s class,” Abel said as they began to climb the stairs toward the sixth floor of the Valkyrie.

“Why, do you think it will be crowded?” Cego asked.

“Of course,” Abel replied. “How could whole Lyceum not be there to hear Professor Aon’s wise words?”

Abel’s jaw dropped when they opened the door to Professor Farstead’s classroom. It was nearly empty. There were only a handful of students sitting in a small semicircle. The room was set up informally and had the feel of a study, with wall-to-wall shelves of books, just like the sort Murray had stacked in the corner of his bedroom.

Cego quickly recognized the red braid hanging off the back of one of the chairs—Sol. They took a seat next to their fellow Whelp, who gave them a surprised look, perhaps because the rest of the students in attendance looked to be from the higher levels.

“Wow. I didn’t expect to see you two here,” Sol whispered.

“Why not?” Cego asked. “Professor Aon is famous. He’s even mentioned in daily prayers around the world.” He wasn’t quite sure why he’d added that detail, and he caught Abel smiling.

Sol gave Cego a quizzical look. “Well, I just didn’t think the Deep Grievar gave much credence to the Codes any longer. Isn’t it all about making a bit down there?”

“You’re right. Most folk don’t care about the Codes down there. But I’m not from the Deep,” Cego replied.

Sol raised an eyebrow and was about to say something when Professor Aon entered the study.

From his long grey beard to his wispy robe, the old Grievar oozed wisdom. The class stood as he entered, but Aon motioned for everyone to sit as he took a seat in the center of the semicircle.

“That walk from the Tower is getting longer and longer every day.” Aon chuckled as he straightened out the folds in his robe. Cego knew Aon was blind, but the old Grievar’s white eyes had a life of their own, never staying on one point in the room.

“Eight this year, eh?” Aon said. “Every year, a few less. When I first started teaching this class at the Lyceum, five decades ago, we needed to hold this lecture in the Dome to fit all the students. Now my quaint little study does the trick.”

Abel suddenly raised his hand.

Professor Aon cocked his head, somehow sensing Abel’s outstretched arm. “Yes, young Grievar?”

“Professor Aon, I would like to express honor I have to attend your class, and for those who do not come, I feel sorrow that they cannot hear your wise words,” Abel said stoically, as if he’d rehearsed the line.

“The honor is mine, young Grievar. And no matter how many students attend my class, I plan on being here, every year, until my body is more dust than bone,” Aon said. “Is that an East Desovian accent I detect?”

Abel smiled widely. “Yes, my parents from Thirkarsh, not far from border.”

“A wonderful place… and a wonderful people,” Aon mused. “Some of the best years of my life I spent in Desovi. Even at my age, I think I’d shave a few years off the top for one of those fresh sponge cakes right now. Threeksh mafalesta.” Aon made a quick signal with his hands clasped together.

“Threeksh mafalesta,” Abel replied in Desovian, making the same solemn gesture.

“The young Desovian here brings us to a good starting point for today’s lecture,” Aon said. He paused for a moment, as if listening to the quiet in the room. “There are Grievar around the world right now, each fighting for a different nation, different people, and a different reason. Why do we fight?”

The room stayed silent. The question seemed so simple. Aon asked it again. “Why do we fight?”

One of the Level Sixers responded. “We fight so the rest shall not have to.”

Aon nodded. “I’m glad you know the first precept of the Codes. Yet reciting directly from the Codes does not answer my question. Why do we fight?”

Cego thought about growing up on the island, which now seemed more a distant dream than ever before. Cego had sparred ferociously with his brothers, often so hard that his arms hung at his sides like sea slugs afterward. He fought then because he wanted Farmer’s approval. He fought on the island because he wanted Sam to look up to him, because he wanted to finally beat Silas.

In the Underground, Cego had fought because Thaloo had forced him to line the bit-purse of patrons and mercs and other nefarious Deep folk. He considered his time on the Surface so far. He fought to enter the Lyceum, to get where he was now. To study, to become a Knight. And then… Cego hadn’t really given much thought to what would happen after. He assumed that when he became a Knight, he would be fighting for his nation, for Ezo.

“We fight because we have to,” Cego said.

Aon’s ears perked up and he turned in Cego’s direction. “Cego, is it?”

“Yes, Professor,” Cego answered.

“Care to elaborate on that, Cego?” Aon asked.

“Um, well…” Cego didn’t realize he’d be put on the spot. “I don’t really know why we fight, to tell you the truth. Grievar fight. I was never given any choice about it. It’s not like with the Daimyo, who choose their lightpath. They get to choose to be painters or politiks or merchants or makers. I just knew from the start, a Grievar fights. That’s just the way it is,” Cego said.

“That’s just the way it is,” Aon repeated Cego’s words. “I’ve heard that many times before, young Grievar. Do you know what that usually means? It means that folk have forgotten why. That is the case here. Most have forgotten why we fight. We cannot forget, or all is lost,” Aon warned.

Aon waved his hand around the classroom at the tall bookshelves surrounding them. “These books are why we fight, young Grievar. They are filled not only with the Combat Codes, but also with our history. The history of this world, from before your time and even my time, as hard as that might be to imagine for some of you. These books are filled with tales of strength and honor, deception and cowardice, love and sorrow. These books are why we fight,” Aon repeated.

Cego swiveled his head around the room, taking in the shadows that the bookshelves cast in the dancing light.

“To truly answer the question—why do we fight?—you would need to read through every single word of every single book in this room. And then you would need to find every other book written by Grievar and Daimyo historians alike and read their words. After that, you would need to listen to every tale ever told, spoken from the crafty tongues of the Daimyo nobles to the pleading whispers of the Grievar slaves held in the deepest, darkest Underground cells.

“I do not say this to dissuade you from seeking the truth, my students,” Aon said. “After all, it has been the sole purpose of my long years on this planet to answer that question, and I shall continue trying to do so until my last breath. I say this to tell you that the answer to why the Grievar fight is in the very history of this world. It is in the blood that runs through your veins and in the light that shines up on our walls.”

Aon paused, as if examining each student’s reaction to his words.

“That is the purpose of this class. Though it is called the Combat Codes and we will certainly be studying those very texts, we shall also keep in mind that we strive for greater purpose than simply reading a text. We each are seeking our own answer to that question: Why do we fight?”

The question—why do we fight?—was notably absent from Cego’s mind as Gunnar Cavanaugh’s shin skimmed the top of his head.

The Tuskers’ team leader was bearing down on Cego, attacking him with a variety of strikes from unorthodox angles. Cego was defending ably enough, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to keep up the pace.

Cego sucked in his stomach, narrowly avoiding another blistering kick aimed at his liver. Gunnar didn’t look like he was slowing down anytime soon—the Level Two’s blue second skin was barely wet. Cego’s white second skin had completely soaked through after the first ten minutes of the bout.

The Lyceum’s challenge grounds were nowhere near as grand and looming as Lampai Stadium, yet somehow, Cego found this venue more intimidating. The room was utilitarian—unadorned walls, several rows of long wooden bleachers on each side, a canvas with three adjacent Circles planted at the center.

The intimidation stemmed from who was in this room: Cego’s peers and teachers, not just random spectators. The audience was made of Lyceum students who were levels above Cego, Fives and Sixers who were on the verge of graduating and becoming Knights. His own professors were also likely watching him from somewhere up in those stands, judging his performance.

Well into minute twenty of the fray, Cego was short on ideas on how to beat Gunnar. For a lanky striker, his opponent was surprisingly agile, with solid takedown defense. Gunnar had stuffed most of Cego’s shots and had easily returned to his feet after the rare takedown.

Though Gunnar’s attacks had more than occupied Cego’s attention, he had noticed Sol’s quick win in the next Circle over. The daughter of Artemis Halberd had proven herself an able grappler. Cego had heard the familiar crunch of bone and ligament as Sol had torqued her opponent’s knee to a vicious angle.

Mateus Winterfowl, who’d refused to join the Whelps during their strategy session, had lost his bout near minute five. Mateus had gone up against the Tuskers’ resident brawler, who’d overwhelmed him with what Cego could only describe as an ugly but relentless show of striking.

With the score tied up, it was up to Cego to take this first win for the Whelps.

Gunnar leapt in with two quick jabs, one breaking through to bloody Cego’s nose even as he tried to slip to the left.

Cego was fighting in rubellium, a familiar setting after the month of training in Murray-Ku’s Circle. Though Violet was technically a hybrid of rubellium and auralite alloys, she still had prepared Cego adequately for the push he felt now. The Circle’s red glow had urged him forward throughout the bout, but Cego had stayed calm, patiently waiting for his opening. He was still waiting.

He slipped another jab and tucked his hand against his jaw, taking Gunnar’s high round kick to the forearm. He’d feel that one tomorrow.

Cego responded with a spinning back fist. He’d attempted the technique several times so far with little success. Gunnar stepped out of reach again.

The Tuskers’ team leader was tall and corded, with short-cropped blond hair. Gunnar seemed confident in his every movement, not hesitating as he surged forward with another rapid combination.

Cego’s brother, Silas, had fought with a similar style. “Every punch needs potential,” Silas had said to Cego during one of their bouts in Farmer’s ironwood Circle.

“How about a feint?” Cego had asked his older brother. “What if I’m just trying to get you to react?”

“Even a feint needs potential,” Silas had replied. “Otherwise, your opponent knows it’s a feint. It loses its purpose.”

Silas had demonstrated his lesson on Cego firsthand, as he often did, throwing a series of quick combinations and breaking through with a cross that left Cego crumpled on the floor. “So, how do I win?” Cego had asked his older brother, holding a hand up to the gash under his eye.

“You don’t win.” Silas had flashed that mocking smile of his before walking away, leaving Cego alone in the Circle.

At the time, Cego had thought Silas was simply being arrogant. His elder brother had often treated him harshly, almost with disdain, not with the care he reserved for Sam.

Gunnar fought the same way Silas did, though—every attack he threw had the potential of causing damage. He didn’t throw feints haphazardly. If Cego didn’t get his hands up, he knew he’d pay for it. He was constantly defending, always one step behind Gunnar.

You don’t win.

Cego was trying to defend every attack, win every series. He was wearing down, constantly on the defensive. Eventually, Gunnar would catch him standing.

Silas was right. He wouldn’t win the standup game.

Cego took a deep breath as Gunnar threw a leaping cross, springing forward off his front foot, propelling his weight into the punch.

Cego kept his hands low as the blow caught him on the chin. He tried to turn away to lessen the impact, but the force still had him reeling to the canvas.

Gunnar was on him in an instant, taking the opportunity to pummel Cego on the floor. Though Cego was still spinning from the attack, he’d drilled the technique too many times to fail.

Every morning, under the island’s tangerine light, Cego had practiced off his back. Shooting his hips up, throwing his legs open, catching an invisible opponent’s neck, locking his foot in the crook of his knee, squeezing, and repeating the drill a thousand times more until Farmer’s rare nod of approval.

Wherever the island was, wherever Farmer and Silas and Sam were, it didn’t matter right now. Everything he’d learned from them was real—as real as the air he was breathing or the canvas he lay on. His body knew the technique. He was the technique.

Cego shot his hips up as Gunnar came in, latching the triangle choke around the boy’s exposed neck while trapping his arm. He found the perfect angle, reaching under Gunnar’s knee to turn his hips and thrust his leg forward. He locked on and squeezed.

As Gunnar went out, Cego saw his brother Silas standing over him, flashing his mocking smile.