The Metzakal Ritual

By: Seeanemone54

Part I

Introduction

High above the emerald-green Misty Mountains, where the early morning sun casts golden rays through dense treetops and silver rivers wind like veins through the fertile land, lies the heart of an ancient people: the empire of the Huhmtakil. For centuries, they have ruled the vast land, not through tyranny, but through strength, discipline, and a culture as deeply rooted as the sacred ceiba trees that watch over their cities.

The Huhmtakil are a proud people.
Warriors, scholars, and artists all at once.

Their stonemasons carve stories into basalt and jade, their dancers summon the gods in ritual movements, and their priests pass on the ancient knowledge of the stars.

Above all, however, towers Xolya, the empire's capital, a city not built but seemingly born of the rock itself. Its sprawling terraces nestle into the mountain slopes, and from them rise temples with golden domes and palaces, their walls adorned with precious stones that sparkle in the sunlight like the sky.

Xolya is the spiritual and military center of the Huhmtakil Empire, a city where every stone speaks of history and every breath of wind carries a song of ancestors.

Its markets are scented with incense, ripe fruit, and the pungent oil of the tlachtli bud that grows only here.

Colorful flags dance across the squares, and the walls echo with the footsteps of elite warriors. Men trained in the art of combat from childhood, whose courage and discipline have made the empire unshakable for generations.

There, in the shadow of the great sun shrine, rises the Tlankotl Arena, a monumental ring of black volcanic rock, adorned with reliefs of past generations of warriors.

Here, the sacred Metzakal ritual takes place, the ancient combat ceremony that not only crowns the empire's strongest warriors but also reveals the will of the gods.

In this arena, not only do bodies collide, but legends are born, and what begins there often changes the fate of the entire empire.

And so, every year, when the days are at their longest and the sun rises in a flaming arc over Xolya, the venerable Metzakal ritual begins, a sacred event deeply rooted in the spirit of the Huhmtakil. More than just a contest, it is an oath to the gods, a touchstone of blood and honor, a moment that seals the fate of each young man forever.

For as soon as a son of the empire reaches the age of eighteen, he no longer belongs to the world of children. With the first light of the summer solstice, they enter the arena, usually hundreds of them, depending on their year of birth. They stand there, adorned with simple cotton headbands and painted with the colors of their clans.

The cheers of the people echo from the stands, but a quiet tension reigns among the young men. Their future is decided here, in the sacred sands of the Tlankotl arena.

Every young man who undertakes the Metzakal ritual carries a goal deep in his heart: to become a warrior of the empire.

Not just any warrior, but one of the best, a hero whose name will resound in the songs of the bards and whose courage will shine in the eyes of the gods. Only those who endure all three merciless rounds of combat earn this exalted title.

The path is hard, and the price high. But for those who survive, a door opens to immeasurable fame and unparalleled honor. The family of a successful warrior rises in renown and power, their names are celebrated in the temples, and their houses are honored with rich gifts.

And what's more: only the warriors have the privilege of choosing their bride from among the most beautiful young women in the empire.
The best genes of the culture receive permission from the gods to mate for the continuation of the mighty Huhmtakil

Women who will secure the future of the Huhmtakil, whose children will become the next generation of warriors and rulers, thus securing the Huhmtakil's supremacy for centuries to come.

The pairings for the first round are drawn by lot, under the watchful eye of the priests and warlords.

The rules are strict and unalterable: Sons of warriors may not compete against each other in this first round.
This is intended to prevent the lines of hope of the military castes from prematurely extinguishing each other.

Instead, they first compete against those who were not born into warrior families, a first test of fire, but also an act of justice.
For blood alone determines rank, but rather courage, wisdom, and strength in battle.

The fights of this first round are not to the death, but they are merciless.

The sand is tinged red before the first day ends. Every blow, every kick, every fall into the dust is a step closer to the truth: Who am I and what am I worth to the Empire?

The victor of the first fight qualifies for the second round and may continue fighting for their family's honor.

But those who fail, those who fall in the first round and lack the strength to assert themselves, are shown no mercy by the empire.

Those who fail at this early stage lose more than their honor.

They lose their name, their dreams, their future.

From then on, they are considered Broken.

They may never bear arms again, never touch their family, never represent their tribe again. They are struck from the registers, their ancestral cries silenced.

These losers become slaves of the empire, hauling heavy stones in the heat of the sun, piling up walls, polishing golden roofs, and tending the land they once sought to protect.
It is their lot to build the magnificent temples, palaces, and streets of that world forever denied them. Their sweat glistens on the mosaics of the cities, but their voices have fallen silent. No song is sung about them. No son is named after them.

They are forbidden to enter the upper levels of the cities, wear no jewelry, and show no color on their skin. Their clothing is simple and made of coarse cloth, their hair is shorn. Their eyes are to be lowered. When they speak, only on command, when they eat, only the remains of those above them.

To the people, they are less than human, shadowy creatures undeserving of sunlight.
"Had he had courage," one hears the elders say, "he would be a warrior now."
"Do you see him?" mothers whisper to their children. "This is how a man who never bore pride ends."

Only on quiet nights, when the wind blows through the streets of Xolya, can one sometimes hear a faint murmur from the palace construction sites: not a prayer, not a song, but a quiet, desperate attempt to remind oneself that one was once more than hands carrying stones.

And so the pressure grows on every young man who enters the Metzakal ritual. It's not just about glory, but about the very survival of one's own dignity.

So the first round is more than a fight, it's a judgment of dignity or damnation.

But this is only the beginning. Two more trials lie ahead, harder, deeper, and more honest. And with each round, the young men draw closer to the verdict that will determine their lives. Some will fail. Some will rise above themselves. And only a few will be recognized as future leaders, chosen by strength, will, and the secret whispers of the ancestors.

The fighters who survived the first day compete again, this time with different eyes.
The dust of the previous day still clings to their knees, the memory of the first blood is fresh. But it's not just fatigue that lingers on their faces, but also pride.
They have survived the first step. They have not failed. But now, on the second day of the ritual, the test becomes more difficult.

Sons of warriors can now clash, as can the sons of craftsmen or the children of simple fieldworkers.

Even sons of slaves, however rare it is for them to survive the first day, are in the arena.

For as relentless as the ritual is, it also harbors a hope that burns deep in the heart of every fighter: Even the son of a blacksmith, a potter, or even a slave, if the gods hear him, can rise in their favor.

The Metzakal recognizes no lasting origin, only proof in battle. And whoever shines in the light of the sun is lifted up by the realm, no matter from which shadow they come.

The winners of this day receive permission to compete on the third and final day for the rank of warrior, the highest reward.

They are the chosen ones, the best, those who have not only seen the light but have returned it.

But for the losers, the path doesn't end in chains, they become ordinary citizens.
They return to their professions, to their workshops, to their villages. For many, it's not a loss, they retain their place among the people, yet their families honor them.
They have fought, they have proven themselves.
For the sons of artisans or young men from lower castes, it's a lingering in the familiar, with the pride of having tried.

But for the sons of warrior families, it's a bitter blow.
They were raised expecting to lead. They were taught to rule.
And now they stand as ordinary citizens, not fallen, but abandoned. In their eyes, there is not sadness, but broken pride. Some later find new paths: as instructors, guards, judges.
But the light of the sun that once seemed intended for them has turned away.

At the end of the day, only a few remain, the victors of the second round.
Their bodies are marked, their gazes determined.
They are ready to do the impossible on the third day of fighting. To achieve:
The rank of a true Huhmtakil warrior.

No sound can be heard in the city except the deep, reverent rumble of the war drums, echoing through the valleys like the heartbeat of the empire itself.
In the Tlankotl Arena, the people have gathered, from the highest priests of the Sun Temples to the humble fishermen of the Misty Lakes. Every eye is fixed on the few remaining fighters, those whom the light of the gods has carried through two days of bloody trials.

Now, everything will be decided on the final day.

The arena is packed to bursting, the air heavy with smoke, incense, and anticipation. Above all sits the royal family and the High Sun Priest in his golden plumed headdress, and beside him the warlords of the empire, silent, unmoving, judging. For what follows is no longer a game, no longer a test, it is the final sacred selection.

Those who triumph on the third day of battle, the last standing, the Chosen of the Sun, receive more than just a title.

A rank that not only confers honor and prestige, but is considered a divine destiny. Those who emerge victorious from this final battle are recognized as worthy by the gods themselves and enter the circle of the immortals, whose names are engraved on obelisks and armories.

They also earn the right to choose a bride from among the most beautiful young women in the realm. This is not a mere prize, but a sacred mission.

For from now on, the warrior not only bears the sword of the realm, but also the responsibility of passing on his strength in the form of offspring who will one day become warriors themselves.

But for the losers, only one hope remains: an honorable death at the hands of their opponent.
For death in the final battle is seen as the just conclusion of a righteous life, a sacrifice to the sun, which sees and judges all. Many ask to receive their enemy's sword even while lying in the dust. It is the final act of dignity.

For above all, above blood, sweat, glory, and shame, stands the unshakable faith of the Huhmtakil: It is the sun gods themselves who touch their chosen ones in the Metzakal.

The chronicles of the priests say that the gods look out over the arena when the first gong sounds. Their eyes burn like fire at the highest point of the sky, and through the dust and the screams, they discern the truth, the purity, the strength in the heart of a fighter. Every blow, every movement, every fall is part of a divine test plan whose meaning only the celestials understand.

Only those whose minds are clear, whose hearts are pure, and whose bodies are unshakable are recognized by the gods.
They are the ones who deserve power and prestige. Their victories are not merely earthly, they are considered signs of divine destiny. Their place in the warrior ranks is shaped not only by human hands, but by sunlight itself.

But just as the light blesses the chosen, it burns the unworthy. The sun shows no mercy. Its judgment is final.
Those who fall do not merely fall at the hands of an opponent, they fall before the eyes of the gods themselves. And in the Huhmtakil faith, there is no greater disgrace than to be seen through by the light and found weak.

That is why the Metzakal is more than a contest. It is a sacred selection, a heavenly judgment, executed in blood.


The Week of Decision


The air smelled of mango, damp bark, and the smoke of a distant fire pit. The sun cast golden streaks through the dense canopy, and somewhere in the distance, monkeys drummed in the treetops.

A woven cotton hammock hung between two ancient Balam trees. Two bodies lay in it, tightly entwined.

Lina, her hair a dark waterfall over his chest, and Jumko, broadly built, with the strength of a warrior and the smile of a man who already knows his future.

"You're not nervous at all," Lina murmured without opening her eyes.

"I'm ready. That's all," Jumko said, stretching in the hammock as if he wanted to take possession of the entire sky. "I've defeated everyone I've trained with. And the others know it. Even the warlords watch me practice."

Lina raised her head slightly and looked at him. Her eyes were cool and gentle at the same time. "And what if they're watching you, to see how you fall?"

Jumko laughed. "I will not fall. I am not a son of dust, but of a warrior. I was made for sunlight."

Lina rolled halfway onto her side, propped herself up on her elbow. "You already speak like one of them."

"Because I will soon be one of them." He grinned and pulled her closer again. "After the ritual, you will stand by my side. I will be a warrior, and you will be my wife."

"Is that right? Is that an order?" she asked with a hint of a smile.

"No," he said quietly. "It's a promise."

She fell silent. A green lizard skittered across a branch, and somewhere above them, a toucan called.

Jumko was the epitome of a young Huhmtakil warrior in his prime. Tall, with broad shoulders and the lithe strength of a panther. His muscles weren't exaggerated, but functional, built by years of disciplined training in the temple of the warrior caste.

He has sharp features, a strong chin, a straight, slightly broken nose, a relic of a sparring match, and dark, almond-shaped eyes with a slightly mocking glint.
His gaze is that of a man who has never hidden.

Jumko is the son of a high-ranking warrior captain, who himself was once among the few to complete all three rounds of the Metzakal. From an early age, he was not just a student, but a symbol:
'The son of Tzeloc, the boy who must be better than all others.'
He grew up in an environment where weakness was not only frowned upon, but unthinkable. Mistakes weren't corrected, they were erased.

After his father fell several years ago in battle against Xekurat in the Realm of the Shadow Rivers, Jumko vowed to become an even greater warrior than him.

To honor his father and make his family proud.

"I'm scared, Jumko," she whispered finally.

He placed two fingers under her chin and forced her to look at him. "You don't have to be afraid. Not for me."

She searched for something in his gaze. Perhaps humility. Perhaps doubt. Didn't find it.

"You think you can impress the gods."

"Not impress," he said calmly. "Just to show that they were right to create me."

Lina laid her head back on his chest, listening to the strong, calm beat of his heart.

Then he pulled her closer, kissing her hair.
"I'm yours, Lina. Forever. Even if I stand here with a golden helmet and sword, here, in my heart, you will remain first."

She smiled. Her lover's self-confidence worried her somewhat, but she couldn't help but admire him even more. Something stirred inside her, she became aroused. She slowly let her hand slide down to Jumko's crotch and stroked it gently.

Jumko reacted immediately. The blood rushed to his crotch, and he himself became immediately aroused.

His girlfriend was beautiful. Lina always had that gentle, harmonious expression with clear, lively eyes. Her eyes had an intense gaze that radiated both warmth and strength, like the calm yet determined glow of a carnelian in the morning light.

Her hair, dark and soft, flowed in smooth waves over her shoulders and back. It caught the light as if it were shiny black silk, shimmering gently in the sun.

Her skin was sun-tanned, a warm honey tone that spoke of the sun in Xolya. She wore minimalist clothing, a simple linen dress that showed off her large and beautifully shaped breasts, combined with subtle pearl or feather jewelry that reflected her heritage.
She also wore a large, firm buttocks that expressed her fertility, gifted by the gods.

But what Jumko found most appealing about Lina was the mixture of joie de vivre and inner strength that radiated from her at every moment. Her smile was gentle, but there was something profound in her gaze, a wisdom and caution that was both attractive and moving.

And now she lay in his arms, her dark hair ruffled by the jungle wind, her face lightly tanned by the daylight, her movements calm and deliberate, her eyes alert and warm at the same time. On her hand she wore a bracelet made of polished wooden beads, clinking softly as she slowly turned her boyfriend on.

Jumko spoke up, moaning with desire:
"You're so hot, baby, I don't want to wait any longer."

"I want it just as much as you do. But we have to be patient a little longer. You know as well as I do how angry the gods would be."

In Huhmtakil tradition, it was strictly forbidden to have sex before marriage. The shame it would bring on one's family would be enormous, not to mention the wrath of the gods.

Lina had always been very faithful to the traditions, which frustrated Jumko at that moment.

"Five more days," he stated, frustrated.

Lina gave him a comforting smile.

"In five days, you'll be a warrior, I'll be your bride, and then you'll fuck me to the nines in our wedding hut and give me a baby."

A gentle breeze blew through the canopy, trembling the cotton threads of the hammock. Above them, a bird called, as if carrying the promise to the world.

Their lips met in a kiss, gentle yet full of longing. Not a kiss of lust, but one that creates memories. open for what was to come.

Jumko placed his forehead against hers, taking a deep breath, as if he wanted to lock the moment away forever. Time stood still. Only the distant sound of a war drum, carried by the wind, reminded them of what lay ahead.

Then the jungle closed around them like a protective cloak, and for a moment, the world was nothing more than their entwined bodies and the promise that burned in their hearts.


———————————————————


The big day had come. Today would be the first day of battle of the Metzakal ritual.

Since the first rays of the morning sun, a tense silence had reigned in Xolya, like an entire people pausing before taking a sacred breath. The city, usually filled with the hustle and bustle of traders, artists, and scholars, seemed enchanted.
The markets remained empty, the workshops cold, and even the children whispered, as if they dared not disturb the solemn anticipation that hung in the alleys like mist over the valleys.

The streets were decorated with cloths in the clan colors, gold and crimson fluttered from balconies, while the scent of roasted corn, bitter cocoa, and ceremonial incense wafted from the houses. Women dressed in festive robes, painting their cheeks with sun symbols, while men moved silently through the streets, not in haste, but with the dignified slowness that befitted the day. Over all hung the deep, rhythmic pounding of war drums, wafting from the distance of the Tlankotl Arena, like the echo of a giant heart.

The Tlankotl Arena itself had already become the center of the empire by dawn. A colossal ring of black volcanic rock, so ancient that its walls seemed to speak even in silence. Nestled in the sacred depression beneath the Sun Sanctuary, it seemed not to have been built, but burned into the earth, a sacred vessel for blood, sweat, and fate.

The stands were crowded with thousands. Warriors in magnificent armor, priests with gold-embroidered robes, simple farmers, old sages, children on their fathers' shoulders, the entire people had come. No one wanted to miss the chance to see the empire test its sons. Thick clouds of copal smoke wafted between the tiers, offerings to the gods, while giant drums echoed like thunder across the arena, putting the people into a trance.

Jumko, along with the other boys of his year, prepared for the first fight in the catacombs of the arena.
As he was tightening his combat boots, he saw Jero, his childhood friend, tall and strong, running past him in his combat uniform, a grin on his lips that didn't quite match his tense expression.

"Hey Jero, buddy!"

"Oh Jumko, I didn't see you. You look good. How are you feeling?"

Jumko tied his shoe with a final tug and stood up to join his friend, who was apparently on his way out.

"Great. We've worked our whole lives toward this moment, and now it's finally here," Jumko stated with a touch of pride.

"I can hardly wait either," Jero replied.

"I was just about to check who my opponent is. The high priests should have posted the list by now. Are you coming with me?"

"Sure, let's see which poor boy gets crushed today."

The air smelled of cold sweat, smoky oil, and the metallic tang of blood, as if the stone itself had remembered the ritual. Torches flickered in the wall niches, casting long, flickering shadows on the faces of the boys who approached the stone tablets in groups or alone.

The lists hung inscribed in black obsidian, framed by ceremonial glyphs. A priest stood beside them with his arms crossed, his gaze scanning, as if he could read in the young men's eyes who would pass.

"There," Jero murmured, tapping a line with his finger.

Jumko stepped closer and read his friend's name.

"Jero of the Clan of Flames against Tamel, worker."

A brief moment of silence. Then Jero exhaled. "Easy call," he said quietly, almost incredulously. "No name I know, who will you meet?"

Jumko scanned the list when he finally saw his name.

"Here... it's Humzal, the blacksmith's son.
Poor fellow, I'll destroy him in five pendulum swings."

The two were amused by their pairings. Jero laughed too.

"He'll be a one hundred percent labor slave,"
Jumko said.

He phrased his words with a hint of smugness, completely confident of victory.

His heart still pounded. No opponent was harmless in the arena. And yet, he knew what this lot meant: a chance to prove himself. A first step. A door.

As the two turned to make their way into the arena, Jumko saw his closest friend, Teod, crouching on the ground with a worried expression. Even though Teod was the son of a warrior, he always stressed whenever he thought about the ritual and the fights.
He was a good fighter, and Jumko encouraged him countless times, but he still had a great fear of failure.

"I'll go to the arena," said Jero when Jumko signaled to him that he wanted to check on Teod.

"Are you okay, Teod?"

Teod looked up lazily at his comrade, his eyes worried and tired.

"Oh hey, Jumko, you know, I'm scared."

"Why?" Jumko still couldn't understand what his friend was afraid of; he was a good fighter.

"I think I can't handle the pressure. I know I can make it to the finals, but I can't shake the feeling that the gods don't see me as a warrior. I really don't want to die, Jumko. Or worse..."

Teod paused, obviously gathering strength for what he had to say. Jumko felt for his friend, he could understand his fear a little, even though he himself was starting the fight week quite confidently.

"Can I confide in you?", Teod said.

"Of course." Jumko looked at him, not quite sure what to expect.

"I'm considering deliberately losing the second fight so I can become a weaponsmith."

"What?!" Jumko spat out suddenly with furious emphasis. Teod stared at the ground in shame before looking up, almost pityingly.

"It's just... well..." Teod stammered to himself.

"What? Spit it out!"

Teod pulled his legs closer to his body.

"It's just... I asked Xanthe to marry me, and she just laughed."

Toad paused briefly.

"She said she wants to marry the warrior who defeats me in the final battle, and I'll become her slave. All her friends were there, and they all laughed."

His friend was fighting with himself and his emotions, but Jumko was left with nothing but anger when he saw his friend being so cowardly.

"Pull yourself together, Teod," he spat.
"Become a weaponsmith or whatever, but don't cry when you're rotting in mediocrity."

With complete incomprehension, Jumko moved away from Teod and headed toward the arena. Although his worries weren't unfounded, Jumko didn't want to let these negative thoughts get to him.

In fact, the path to becoming a warrior was fraught with the greatest risk. One could soar high and yet fall into the abyss just before reaching the finish line.

As an outsider, one might think that death in the final battle was the worst fate for any fighter.

Nevertheless, most of the vanquished who were spared wished their conqueror had granted them an honorable exit.

What at first glance seemed like mercy turned into an absolute nightmare for the majority of the vanquished.

Those spared by the victor of the duel and left alive are condemned to a lifetime of servitude. They become the personal slaves of a warrior and his bride.

Since the finalists are usually warriors' sons, or at least previously free citizens, the social decline is colossal. Once proud sons of a warrior bring great shame upon their families, lose all their honor, and are relegated to performing the most menial tasks assigned to them by their superiors.

In the last years of the Metzakal ritual, the percentage of those spared from death has increased. Having one's own house slave has increasingly become an additional status symbol for the warrior class. However, some newly minted warriors simply use this custom as the final blow of a long-standing rivalry with their opponent.

For the defeated, life as a servant usually means endless humiliation and pain, both physical and psychological.

The young newlyweds are considered to be appointed by the gods to a place in the sun and enjoy the rush of power that comes with having complete control over a person.

As Jumko was on his way to escape all of Teod's negative energy, he suddenly heard his name called by a female singing voice.

"Jumko"

Looking around, he saw Xanthe approaching. Xanthe was one of the most popular girls in his year. Blonde hair, quite short, which gave her a sensational waist-to-hip ratio, an athletic figure, and a beautiful face.

She was also quite a bitch.

Conceited, smug, stubborn, and power-hungry were just a few of her most prominent attributes.

Xanthe also had a huge crush on Jumko. He knew it, like everyone else in his year, yet he always acted clueless. It was clear that Xanthe was always looking out for her own advantage, and the fact that he was one of the most promising warrior sons of recent years made her motives for him more than clear.

She flirted with him constantly, which always drove his girlfriend Nadia furious. Jumko often had to listen to people tell him that he should go to her if he liked her better.

He understood her concern, but was only annoyed by her conspiracy theories.

"Oh, hey Xanthe," he greeted her reservedly.

"You look good," she said in a seductive tone as she ran her fingers along his chest armor.

"Are you looking forward to the start of the ritual?
What battle are you in that I can see you in action?"

Xanthe opened her eyes wide, apparently hoping to wrap him around her finger.

"283"

"Who are you fighting?" she leaned closer to him, her hands now circling his chest.

"I don't know," Jumko answered curtly. He felt uncomfortable. Suddenly, behind Xanthe's shoulder, he noticed Lina looking at him. She was about 50 meters away, talking to her friends.

Jumko had to get rid of Xanthe as quickly as possible.

"Why were you so mean to Teod?" he interjected.

Xanthe stepped back, somewhat shocked by his direct question.

"Teod?" she replied. "He's a loser. I've told him several times that I don't want to marry him."

"And what was that about wanting him to become a slave in the final fight? You've completely mentally destroyed him for this competition. This is the most important week of our lives, and you've ruined it for him."

"Oh, come on," said Xanthe, "I was only joking."

She placed a hand on Jumko's shoulder.

"He knows I was only joking."

Suddenly, Jumko felt someone wrap their arms around his waist. It was Lina, who snuggled up to his left side.

"Hello, Xanthe," Lina said sternly.

"Lina," Xanthe replied sarcastically.

"I see you're talking to my future husband," Lina retorted spitefully.

"I'm just making polite conversation," Xanthe replied innocently. Lina had long been a thorn in her side.

"Anyway," she continued, "I'm going to apologize to Teod."

Xanthe walked away, and Lina quickly removed her arm from Jumko's side and stood in front of him.

"I don't want you talking to her," she demanded. Jumko sighed, sometimes he found his girlfriend's jealousy quite cute, but not today. He didn't want to start an argument now. He searched for the right words.

"I won't," he replied sternly.
"She's a bitch anyway," he added.

Lina smiled.

"Good. What fight are you in?"

"283"

"Better get ready. I'm watching you." Lina leaned forward, kissed him on the cheek, and then strolled off.
Jumko prepared himself one last time for his upcoming fight.


——————————————————-


The gong sounded, and immediately Jumko lunged at his opponent. Jumko had never seen him before. He was the son of a laborer.
He was thin, unfit, and wore dirty clothes.
His name was Humzal. His eyes were wide with fear as Jumko slammed his shield against Humzal's. Humzal tried to catch the blow but lost his balance. As he struggled to regain his balance, Jumko hurled his staff low and slammed it into Humzal's heels, sending him flying headfirst through the air. Humzal landed on his back with a thud, his shield falling from his hand, and his staff landing beside him. Jumko struck him on the head with the obsidian end of his staff, knocking him unconscious. The fight was over.

Jumko approached the referee.
"Four pendulum swings! Very well done!" he shouted.

Jumko grinned smugly. At the start of each fight, a pendulum is released to swing back and forth. This is how time is measured. Legend tells of a great warrior who won all three fights with only ten pendulum swings. However, recent records are around 300 pendulum swings. If Jumko keeps this up, he might just set a new record and be crowned Warrior of Warriors.

Lina rushed over and jumped into Jumko's arms. "Well done, baby!" she cried joyfully. "That was super fast. How many swings was that?"

"4."

"Wow. Amazing. No wounds. Looks like I won't have to nurse you back to health today."

"Yes. It was an easy fight. Poor guy, he didn't stand a chance. Tomorrow won't be as easy, though. I'd better get home, Lina. I have to prepare for the next fight tomorrow," said Jumko.

"Okay, baby, I'm going home too."

Lina hugged Jumko tightly. Jumko hugged him back, realizing he couldn't get out of Lina's grip. She hugged him tightly.

"I need to tell you something.", she whispered in his ear. Jumko paused and waited for Lina to continue.

"All this fighting today has made me so damn horny." She lowered her voice even further.

"That loser there," she pointed at Humzal, who was still being dragged unconscious by two referees.

"Fuck. You just condemned him to be a labor slave forever."

Lina was aware of the danger that someone might overhear the filth coming out of her mouth. Her boyfriend's strength, coupled with the power a victory in the ritual gave him, made her incredibly horny.

"My pussy has been throbbing all day. I wish so much you could just fuck my brains out right here, right now."

Jumko's cock throbbed with excitement and instantly grew to fill the empty space in his tight loincloth.
He'd never had sex in his life, and it was also tradition that future warriors avoid any sexual intercourse for a full thirty days before the ritual to increase their chances of giving the gods a child on their wedding night.
He was about to burst at that moment.

Lina let go, smiled, and strolled off. She deliberately swayed her hips to excite Jumko even more.

Back home, Jumko was sitting at dinner with his mother, Yuli, and his little sister, Rachel.

"Congratulations, bro," Rachel began the conversation at the table. She was 16 and watched the ritual with excitement. Besides, she couldn't wait for her year's turn.

"You really gave that poor guy a beating." Jumko grinned.

"And I'll give the next one the same thing tomorrow," he chided.

"Your father would be so proud," Yuli remarked.

Jumko's father had been killed in battle when he was only three years old. He knew little about him, only that he was highly respected and placed among the top ten in his Metzakal ritual.

Jumko used his father's shield and staff, which he carried in his ritual battles.

"You reminded me a lot of him today, darling," Yuli remarked.

"I wish he were here to see you fight."

Yuli paused to remember her time with Jumko's father.

"Anyway," she snapped, returning to reality, "eat up and go to bed, you need rest. Tomorrow won't be so easy."

His mother was right, there were now 432 boys left. The other 432 who lost today will become labor slaves in the empire.
Tomorrow will decide who will pursue a life as a simple citizen, perhaps as a weaponsmith, miller, or merchant, and who still has the chance to become one of the most respected men in the empire.

Tomorrow's competition won't be as easy as today's, this time it's quite possible that Jumko will have to compete against another warrior's son. Jumko finished his food and then quickly went to bed.

The next morning, Jumko returned to the War Palace next to the arena to find out which fight he would be competing in today.

Outwardly, he didn't show any nervousness, Jumko was determined to make it to the finals today. Nevertheless, he couldn't deny a certain tension.

On the grand staircase leading up to the palace, he recognized a few familiar faces.

Teod and Jero were talking about something.

"Hey guys," Jumko greeted them.

"Jumko!" Jero shouted, "The prodigy. Four damn swings of the pendulum. You crushed the poor boy."

"What can I say, they shouldn't let working-class children compete in the games anymore," Jumko suggested.

"I mean, when was the last time a working-class child became a warrior? It must have been over 200 years ago. But how did it go for you?"

"15 swings," Jero replied, also proud.

"23 swings," Teod replied, a little more embarrassed.

"That's great," Jumko congratulated both of his friends. "So, are you ready for today?"

"I was just checking to see when it was my turn," Jero replied as he stood up and headed for the list.

"So..." Jumko asked, facing Teod, "will you give up the fight today and settle for becoming a weaponsmith?"

Teod lowered his head and focused on the ground as he spoke.

"Yes," he answered quietly, "Xanthe spoke to me yesterday."

"Did she apologize?"

Teod looked at Jamko, confused.

"Apologized?" Teod asked.

"She didn't apologize, she just wanted to give me some advice. She said some referees had told her I was good, but not cut out to be a warrior.
I was destined to become a slave.
Then she said none of the couples she knew wanted to show mercy and grant the loser their freedom. She suggested I become a craftsman instead of being beaten and enslaved by a warrior." He sobbed back and forth. Torn.

"I don't want to become a slave, let alone be killed.
This is just awful. I'm sorry, Jumko, I know you're disappointed, but it's still my life."

Teod looked at Jumko's face to see his reaction. He was obviously trying to process what his friend had just told him.

"Anyway," Jumko said harshly. He knew there was nothing he could say to boost Teod's confidence. He wouldn't bother trying.

He walked away without a word, leaving Teod dejected, and picked his fight number. After a referee confirmed fight number 64, he went outside to get some fresh air and enjoy the morning coolness before the sun beat down on the large square.

Once outside, he looked at the people around him. Parents were talking to their daughters. Some were giggling. Fathers gave their sons advice for the upcoming battles. Small children ran through the crowd, squealing with joy.

Suddenly, Jumko noticed Xanthe approaching. She was staring at him, smiling. He quickly turned around and pretended he hadn't noticed her. "Shit!" he thought. He really didn't want to deal with her right now.

Jumko felt someone tap his right shoulder. As he turned his head to see who it was, he heard a chuckle to his left. He turned his head to the side and saw Xanthe smiling. "Got you!" she teased.

"Hey, Xanthe," Jumko replied emotionlessly.

"So," Xanthe began, "ready for today's battle?"

"Yes."

"Then tomorrow is the big battle, eh? Then you'll become a warrior and choose a bride. Think carefully about who you want to marry."

Jumko frowned in confusion, studying Xanthe's face to read her thoughts. Was she deliberately playing dumb, he wondered? Surely she knew he was going to marry Lina.

"I'm going to marry Lina," he replied sternly.

"Oh," Xanthe remarked with mock surprise, "are you sure she feels the same way?"

Jumko stared at Xanthe, his expression both completely confused and annoyed.

"Look there," Xanthe pointed, extending her arm toward Nadia. Jumko followed her and saw Lina sitting on the steps with Ziv standing beside her. They were talking. Lina smiled and laughed as Ziv talked to her.

Ziv was one of Lina's best friends.
He was a neighbor who lived just two houses away, and they often walked through the village together to collect water, food, and other supplies for their homes.
Jumko didn't particularly like Ziv, he'd always been a bit too nice to his girlfriend for his liking.

He could imagine Ziv wanting something from her, yet he was never jealous when he saw the two of them together.
Jumko never doubted Lina's feelings for him. Xanthe was just trying to drive a wedge between him and Lina. It never surprised Jumko how calculating Xanthe could be.

"They're just friends," Jumko remarked.

"Lina really seems to be into Ziv," Xanthe remarked.

"Look at the way she looks at him. She laughs at all his jokes and even touches his knee occasionally," she pointed out.

Jumko didn't answer. He wouldn't let Xanthe get the better of him. He needed to focus on today's fight.

"Anyway," Xanthe continued, snuggling up to Jumko's side, "if Lina decides not to be your bride, I hope you'll consider me."

Jumko looked up into Xanthe's face. She was uncomfortably close.

"I'd make a great wife. I'd clean, I'd cook..." Xanthe leaned very close to Jumko's left ear, until their lips were only millimeters away. "...and I'd suck your cock whenever you wanted," she whispered in an incredibly sexy, soft voice.

Xanthe stepped back to look at him.
He was thunderstruck. His penis twitched uncomfortably in his underwear. Xanthe maintained eye contact as she slowly and sensually licked her full lips.

"Anytime," she emphasized before slowly turning away, rocking her hips purposefully. Her bottom was firm and round in her summer dress. Her narrow waist was accentuated by the well-cut cut.

Jumko pushed his thoughts aside to keep his head clear. He glanced at Lina, who was still chatting with Ziv.

The two were very close, as was usual between childhood friends.

He watched her for a while to forget Xanthe's words. He shook his head and went back to the War Palace to wait for his fight.


———————————————————


"Ouch," Jumko shrieked as Lina dabbed his wounds with the ointment. "Sorry," she replied, stepping back. Jumko was lying across the dining table.

He was almost naked, only a towel draped over his hips. He had his He had finished a fight about an hour ago and sustained several wounds. His opponent was the second- or third-born son of a warrior from a neighboring village. He was considerably harder to defeat than Jumko's first opponent the day before.

He landed some good hits on Jumko, particularly one to his left leg.

However, Jumko was able to return twice as many hits, and there was no real fight. With his opponent exhausted after about 80 or 90 pendulum swings, it was only a matter of time before his exhaustion forced him to make a mistake.

Jumko won his fight after 121 pendulum swings.

Jumko's mother came into the dining room from the kitchen to see what was going on. She had a bowl of grapes in her arms.

"Oh, honey," she crooned, "I know it hurts, but we need to get you ready for tomorrow's fight." She came over to examine Jumko's wounds.

She touched the large bruise on his left leg, genuinely concerned. "Tomorrow is the most important battle," she added. "Tomorrow you will become a warrior." Yuli winked at Jumko.

"Then you may choose a beautiful girl as your bride." Yuli winked at Lina. Lina smiled shyly.

„I will become a mighty warrior and protector“

"That's my boy," Jumko's mother rejoiced. "You are most certainly your father's son. And by the end of the week, you will be married."

Yuli retreated to the kitchen to make further preparations for the Night of the Weddings, which takes place on the last day of the Metzakal ritual.

The Night of the Weddings, also known as the Festival of Love, is the dazzling climax of the ritual week. It is a day of awe, passion, and ancestral splendor, the moment for which the entire people prepare during the Metzakal ritual. In an elaborately staged ceremony, the warriors of the realm are wed to their chosen brides, surrounded by fragrant seas of blossoms, dancing flames, and the song of thousands of voices piercing the sky.

Even in the early morning hours, music fills the air, played by the most gifted musicians from across the realm, gathered especially for this occasion.

Their songs tell of heroic deeds, ancient alliances, and the enduring power of love.
At the same time, the finest dancers dance in magnificent robes shimmering with the colors of the elements, as if woven by the sun, wind, earth, and water themselves. They move with such graceful precision that one might think time itself holds its breath for a moment.

On specially constructed stages, celebrated actors perform dramatic pieces, stories of love, betrayal, reunion, and the blessing of the gods. Their masks are decorated with feathers, precious stones, and gold, their voices echo through the festival grounds like ancient prophecies.

The royal family, dressed in ceremonial dress, takes their seats on a silk-covered platform.
In a solemn ceremony, they present the brides and grooms with gifts: golden bracelets, talismans, veils inscribed with spells, signs of recognition and divine protection.

The highlight of the night, however, is the wedding itself: The chief shaman, dressed in a robe of luminous feathers and with his face painted with sacred ash, walks through the rows of couples.
With ancient chants, secret signs, and fragrant incense offerings, he unites lovers not only in this world, but also in the eyes of the gods.
It is said that his words penetrate the heart as if heaven itself were speaking.

Only on this holy day are the sacred cows sacrificed. These animals have been cared for and venerated throughout the year.
Their meat is used to prepare the traditional wedding stew: a dish steeped in symbolism, meant to bestow strength, fertility, and permanence.
It simmers in huge cauldrons over an open fire, seasoned with herbs from the mountains and roots that grow only near the ancient temples.

On this night, it is said, the boundary between the worlds is thin, and love has power over all things, even over fate itself.

The goddess of love is a powerful god who also numbs all pain and ensures that the reproductive organs never tire, never needing rest or recovery. The newlyweds make love for hours.

They didn't leave their honeymoon chambers until the afternoon of the next day.

The morning found them drained from a night of unleashing long-suppressed desires, hungry, dehydrated, and melting into fatigue.

Despite their exhaustion, the warrior and his new wife would be eternally united.

Her womb would undoubtedly be filled with her husband's seed, be fertilized.
The offspring will ensure the continued existence of the Huhmtakil as the dominant people throughout the empire, and the cycle will be complete.

Nine months later, one month after the first harvest, the young maiden will give birth to a healthy boy. With the genes of his strong warrior father and the nourishment from his mother's womb, he will grow up to be an even better warrior than his father. A future protector of his family and his people.

Lina was just tending Jumko's final wounds when Yuli returned to the dining room, stirring a pot of wedding wine.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Good," Lina replied. "I'm almost done."

Jumko's sister Rachel entered the room, along with her friend Amaru. They both seemed upset.

"Guys, you won't believe what Xanthe did."
She paused, as if waiting for everyone's attention.

"What happened?" Lina asked excitedly.

"We were just in the large square in front of the arena. Xanthe was apparently with the judges and claimed that Teod had deliberately lost his fight today so he could become a commoner."

Everyone in the room looked at Rachel and Amaru in shock, trying to process what this meant. Jumko knew it was the truth, but was equally surprised. Before he could even begin to think about what this might mean for his friend, Yuli asked:

"Were you there? What did the judges say?"

"We just overheard Xanthe bragging about it to her friends. The judges apparently immediately informed the high priests," Amaru explained.

"Xanthe, that bitch," Lina spat.

"They confronted Teod about it, and he admitted it. The priests are furious. Apparently, even the king is angry.
Teod's family is ashamed. In any case, they all agree that he must be punished."

"What will happen to him?" Jumko interjected. Despite his initial anger at his friend, concern prevailed at that moment.

"That's the worst part. He's to become a slave, and they'll hand him over to Xanthe as a reward for reporting him and thus averting the wrath of the gods."

"Ugh," Amaru interjected, "Xanthe is such a snake. Poor Teod was in love with that bitch for years, and now she's telling everyone he can still be there for her wedding night. Chained up in the corner of her wedding hut."

"Can you believe it?" Rachel retorted. "I can't imagine spending the rest of my life obeying that horrible bitch's orders. I'd kill myself if that were me."

"This Xanthe seems like a horrible person," added Jumko and Rachel's mother, Yuli.

"Oh, she is," replied Lina.
"Nobody likes her."

Rachel complained,
"I can't believe Baden asked her to marry him."

"Oh, I know," growled Lina. "She loves to rub it in everyone's face that he's currently the favorite for Warrior of Warriors and so on... 60 pendulum swings in the first two fights. As if her fiancé is now a better person than the ones of the other girls."

Jumko took the whole thing with a mixture of mild discomfort and shrugging ignorance.
He felt sorry for his friend, but in the end, he only had himself to blame. He didn't have time to deal with it. His mother, Yuli, apparently shared the same opinion, which is why she gradually changed the subject:

"Jumko, when Lina is finished, you have to go to bed. You have to be in top shape tomorrow."

His mother went back to the kitchen while Lina washed her hands after putting away the ointment. Jumko sat up and shuffled to the end of the dining table. Lina approached him and stared at him. She looked worried.
Jumko reached out with his left hand and tucked her hair behind her ear before gently stroking her cheek.

"What's wrong?" Jumko asked.

"I'm nervous," she replied. "I really don't think I can protect you tomorrow. Sorry."

"Hey, hey," Jumko whispered presumptuously, "everything's going to be okay. This time tomorrow, we'll both celebrate. I'll get my war gear measured, and you'll get your wedding dress measured."

Lina smiled. It was a fake smile, she was infinitely worried. She hadn't slept well, couldn't eat, and at times felt physically ill.
The worst of all was a nightmare in which she tried to warn Jumko when Xanthe approached him while he lay defeated on the ground.
She tried to scream, but nothing came out. Horrified, she watched as Xanthe enthusiastically cheered Jumko's opponent and gestured for him to kill Jumko.
Lina watched in shock. She could see the warrior preparing for the final blow, to deliver the final blow to her friend, while Xanthe just smiled. Suddenly, the sound of a dead body falling to the ground without any tension.

Xanthe turned her gaze to Lina, smug, satisfied. At that moment, Lina woke up screaming and in a cold sweat. She couldn't bear the thought of Jumko dying. It terrified her.

"I wish we could just escape into the jungle together and live happily ever after," she whispered.

"I'll be a warrior," Jumko said, looking into Lina's sullen eyes.

"Do you promise?" she begged, placing her left hand on Jumko's right cheek.

"I promise," he whispered, leaning forward and kissing her gently on the lips.

Lina smiled again, but it was more forced.

"I should go," she sighed. "Rest, you have to give your best tomorrow."

"I will," he replied arrogantly as Lina left the room. Jumko retreated to his room and forced himself to sleep, even though he wasn't even tired. The next day couldn't come fast enough.


——————————————————-


"Ziv!?" Jumko asked incredulously.

The referee nodded curtly.

"Yes, Ziv. Fight number twelve. Is something wrong?"

Ziv. Jumko swallowed dryly.

"No... everything's fine."

But it wasn't.

Ziv, of all people. Lina's childhood friend. The quiet boy with the thoughtful eyes, who used to play with her by the river every summer. Who made her laugh when Jumko couldn't. Who often sat with her for hours in the old gardens as if they were the only people in the world.

And now he was supposed to fight him?

Jumko looked around the vast expanse of the War Palace. Thousands of spectators. And Ziv. Directly opposite him, his gaze lowered. But only for a moment. Then Ziv raised his eyes and looked at him.

There was no hatred in that gaze. No anger. Only despair.

Jumko remembered how often they had trained. Ziv was tough, but not a warrior like him. Never had been. And yet, here he stood, nervous but determined. Jumko felt something tighten in his stomach.

He turned away, left the building, and stepped out into the roaring sea of people. Hundreds, perhaps thousands. They had come from every province of the empire to watch the final day of the competition. To see who would be crowned Warrior of Warriors today.

Suddenly, he spotted Xanthe.
She was leaning casually against a pillar near the entrance. When she caught his eye, she smiled. But Jumko wasn't in the mood for their games. Not today. Not now.

He sighed deeply, turned around, and disappeared back into the War Palace. Women weren't allowed there, a place where silence and discipline reigned. A place that suddenly seemed more pleasant to him than any conversation.


——————————————————-


The first gong sounded.

"Fight 9 to 16! Uprising!""Command!" shouted the chief referee.

Jumko stepped out onto the main parade ground.
Ziv was already there. He paced back and forth, a shadow of his past confidence. When he saw Jumko approaching, he stopped. Slowly, he walked to the center of the field where the referee was waiting.

Jumko also stepped forward. He positioned himself opposite, perhaps a step too close, quite deliberately. He wanted to show presence, dominance, to intimidate him even further.

The referee looked from one to the other.
"You know the rules. Good luck."

Ziv extended his hand. Hesitantly, but respectfully.

Jumko took it, harder than necessary.
His fingers tightened around Ziv's hand like a trap.
He pulled him a little closer, leaned forward, and hissed:
"I can't wait to make you Lina's and my slave. Then you can watch her become mine."

Ziv's eyes widened. It was as if Jumko had struck a wound that had never healed.
For a moment, everything was exposed in Ziv's face: the pain, the shame, the affection for Lina that had been hidden for years. Jumko let go. Ziv stood there, petrified.

Jumko knew that look.
It wasn't the fear of pain. It was the fear of losing her for good.

Then the starting bell sounded.

Jumko immediately lunged at Ziv.

Ziv parried the first attack reflexively, but Jumko was faster, stronger, more determined. Blow after blow, he lashed out at his opponent, precise and merciless. Ziv backed away, staggered, recovered. Jumko hit him multiple times. Chest. Shoulder. Thigh. Again and again.

Ziv fought, more out of duty than hope.

But then, after 150 pendulum swings, he had indeed hit Jumko six times. One of the hits had landed directly on his leg. Powerful. Effective.

Jumko was impressed, briefly. Then the anger returned.

He had landed 16, maybe 17 hits. Ziv was exhausted. Clumsy. Panic was written all over his face. And yet... he didn't give up.

The spectators roared, but Jumko only heard his opponent panting. He felt the heat.
The sweat. The growing anger inside him that it had taken so long.

250 pendulum swings.

Jumko had hit Ziv over 40 times, eleven of them hard. And yet... the bastard was still standing.

Ziv was exhausted. Barely breathless. Arms heavy as iron. But he kept fighting. He fought as if he still had something to prove, as if his life depended on it.

And Jumko began to understand: It was Lina.

Not the title, not the honor. She was his motivation.

Jumko growled.

"Enough."

He gathered his strength for the final blow.

A powerful blow slammed against Ziv's shield. The impact ripped the shield to the side, too far. Ziv's arms crossed uncontrollably. He stood crooked, vulnerable, open.

Now.

Jumko leaped past him sideways, twisted in the air, and landed behind him, ready to strike with full force.

But the moment his feet touched the ground, his left foot slipped.

The momentum was too strong. His balance tipped. His torso lurched forward, uncontrollably.

He wrenched the shield forward, slamming it into the ground to break his fall. Dust swirled. His muscles burned. As he pulled his left foot out from under him, he saw, barely more than a movement in the shadow against his face, Ziv.

He had turned around.

Faster than Jumko would have thought possible.

Ziv's arm was raised, the staff suspended in the air like an extended thought, trembling with tension.

Jumko tried to raise the shield, but he was too slow.

Then he saw the dark shadow of Ziv's blow cast itself over his own head, a line of impending violence hovering in the air for the briefest moment, like fate pausing.

Then the staff struck.

An impact, hard and merciless.

A blinding pain shot through the back of his head.

Everything spun. Everything slipped away.

The sounds of the crowd, the shouting, the stamping, the breathing, suddenly fell away, as if someone had drawn a veil over the world.

Blackness.
Silence.
Nothing.

Part II

Jumko jolted awake, drenched in sweat, panting, his heart racing. Panic gripped him like cold fingers, while his gaze searched the ceiling. Slowly, his breathing calmed. He was home. In his room. Just a nightmare, he thought. Just a dream...

He tried to sit up, but something was wrong. When he tried to move his arms, his muscles tensed and remained immobilized. An ice-cold shock shot through him. His limbs were bound. To the bed. Frozen with terror, he strained against the restraints, tugging with growing desperation. The clanging of the buckles filled the room. When he realized his strength wasn't enough, his panic turned into wild rage.

"Hello?! Mum? Rachel?! What's going on? Can anyone hear me?!"

Hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway. Then his mother appeared in the doorway. Her face was a mirror of relief, but also of deep concern.

"Oh, Jumko... you're awake. Thank the gods. I was so worried about you."

"What's happening? Why am I tied to the bed?!" His voice wavered between fear and indignation.

Yuli stepped closer. Her gaze became uncertain, searching for words. Then something in her eyes faded, as if she had understood that he didn't remember anything.

"You don't remember," she whispered.

"What don't I remember? Mum, talk to me!"

Yuli hesitated. How could she tell him? There was no gentle way to tell him the truth. Finally, she forced herself:

"Ziv... He beat you, my dear. I'm so sorry."

Silence. Jumko stared at her as if she had stabbed him with a dagger. Then the puzzle began to come together. The dream... hadn't been one.

The memories slammed into him: the fight, the sweat, Ziv, the moment he slipped... and the final blow that ended it all.

His heart clenched as if it were made of glass and had just shattered.

"No... No, that's not true... I was better. I had him! I..."

"I'm sorry, Jumko." Yuli's voice was gentle, full of pity. But her pity was like salt in an open wound.

"It's not fair! I just slipped! I would have won! He had no chance!"

Panic flared up inside him again, urging him to strain against the restraints. He tugged as if trying to free himself with sheer willpower. Then a name flashed through his mind. Lina.

"Mom! Let me go. I need to go to Lina. Now!"

Yuli took a step back, pain reflected in her face. She saw how much her son was suffering and how helpless she was to help him.

"You can't, my darling."

"Why not?! Please, Mum! I have to go to her. I have to talk to her, she..."

Yuli lowered her gaze. Her voice was barely audible, almost impossible to comprehend.

"Ziv has won, and he... he doesn't intend to give you your freedom."

Jumko froze. His hands suddenly rested still on the leather straps.

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't become a warrior, Jumko.
Ziv has won the final battle. According to the ancient law, he can rule over you. He will make you his servant."

Yuli held her breath. She expected anything: tears, despair, pleas. But Jumko didn't become sad. He became angry.

"You can't be fucking serious?! I'm a hundred times a better fighter than that bastard!
And now I'm supposed to be his slave?
Forget it. I'll kill him. I'll kill that jerk!"

Yuli hastily stepped forward and pushed her son back onto the bed with both hands.

"Please calm down, my dear. Listen to me."

Her voice was calm, firm, but full of concern.

"We don't even know what Ziv means by your 'servantship.' Maybe he just wants you as a squire, someone to accompany him, to support him. He's a good friend of Lina's. I'm sure he'll treat you well.
And besides, Ziv reached thirteenth place.
You lost to one of the best warriors.
There's nothing to be ashamed of."

Jumko stared at the ceiling. Thoughts raced through his head. All these years, he had only imagined one future: warrior. There was no Plan B. He had never imagined what it would mean to lose, to really lose. The anger and shame constricted his throat, preventing him from thinking clearly.

Yuli continued, more gently now.

"You should rest for a while.
The blow to your head was hard. In the meantime, I'll try to persuade Lina to visit you. She was devastated; she just cried after the fight.
You absolutely have to talk."

The anger slowly drained from Jumko's face.  A dull helplessness took its place.

He knew there was nothing he could do right now.

He had to wait, for Lina, for a conversation, for a chance. Maybe her friendship with Ziv could still do something good. "Thanks, Mum," he finally murmured.

The silence in the room was almost oppressive. Only the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his mother's footsteps outside the door reminded him that the world kept turning. For Jumko, however, everything had come to a standstill.
He lay there, immobile, bound, staring at the ceiling as if it could give him answers.

A storm raged inside him. No longer the furious rage of minutes ago, but a quiet, deep maelstrom that threatened to swallow everything that had once sustained him.

What now?
The question echoed in his head, an echo that found no answer. His whole life had boiled down to a single point: the test, the struggle, the victory. And now all that was dust.
One moment of inattention, one slip, and everything he had lived for was gone.

He had no plan B.
How could he? Who he was, what he was, was so intertwined with the idea of becoming a warrior that he'd never asked himself what would remain if he didn't make it. And now... there was nothing. Only emptiness. And chains.

But it wasn't just the future that paralyzed him. It was also what he'd done to Lina, or hadn't been able to prevent.
He remembered her look the last time he'd spoken to her. Pride. Hope. Love.

His fingers clenched around the leather restraints. Not to free himself—but because he needed support somewhere.
Lina was his last hope. Not as a rescue, but as an anchor. If she left him now, internally, emotionally, for good, something inside him would die that couldn't be put back together.

He closed his eyes.
He didn't know what Ziv wanted.
He didn't know what Lina was thinking.
He knew only one thing: Things couldn't stay the way they were.


———————————————————


The door opened with a soft creak. Warm light fell from the small clay lamps onto the smooth clay floor. Jumko raised his head in surprise, his breath catching.

Lina stood in the doorway.

She wore a festive gown made of the finest quetzal cloth, woven in deep azure blue, interspersed with golden threads that shimmered with every movement like sunlight on water. Over her shoulders lay a cloak of red feathered hair, lightly embroidered with jade plates. Her hair was intricately braided, held in place by a headband bearing her family's symbol: a rising sun over crossed spears.

Jumko swallowed. His voice sounded brittle as he asked,

"What... what are you wearing?"

Lina smiled weakly. But her smile was like glass, beautiful, but about to shatter.

"This is the gown for the Warrior's Ball.
I actually wanted to surprise you with it."

He paused for a moment. His gaze slid over her face, which he knew inside and out.
And yet today she seemed foreign, like someone belonging to another life.

"You are beautiful."

But even as he said it, his voice sounded hollow. And the stab in his chest grew sharper.

"You want to go to this ball?" he finally asked.

"I have to." Her voice was calm, almost apologetic.
"The elders... my parents... they say it's time to choose a warrior."

Something inside him broke. Quietly, but unmistakably.

"A warrior," he said softly, as if he had to force himself to say it.

Lina stepped closer, the rustle of her feathers suddenly distant, like the echo of another life.

"I wanted to see you. Before I leave. I needed to see you."

He looked away. Bitterness rose like bile in his throat.

"Do you want my permission? To choose someone else?"
He laughed, short, harsh, and empty.
"Don't worry, I'm nothing anymore. I lost. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"That's not true!" Lina's voice trembled.
"You think I only love you if you win? You're no less worthy just because you didn't fight the way you wanted!"

"Then why are you going to this ball?" he snapped.
"Why are you dressing like a princess while I'm strapped here like a criminal?"

She crouched down, her hand gently resting on his arm. Her touch was calm and loving, like a final anchor against the storm within him.

"Because I have no choice, Jumko. I'm not free. Not the way you always imagined."

"Not free? You don't call that free?"
He lifted his bound hands.

"I'm not free!" The straps cut into his skin, but he only felt the pain in his chest.

"We could escape," he whispered.
"Now. You and I. Over the Misty Mountains, on the old traders' route. I know the way. We'd be gone tomorrow."

Lina paused. Her hand slowly slipped from his arm.

"That's not possible," she said quietly.

"Of course it's possible! You just don't want to!"

"It's not about wanting, Jumko." Her voice was soft, but tired.
"If I leave, I'll destroy everything."built my family. My father would lose his position. My mother could never enter the temple again. You don't understand…”

“And what about me?” He gasped in rage.
“Ziv wants to own me! As property! And you… you're going to a ball? You know what that means, and you're going anyway?”

“I can't change it!”
Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I'm trying to do the right thing! For everyone! For yourself too!”

“You're trying to make a comfortable exit! That's all. You're not here to save me. You're here to calm yourself down. So you can move on with a clear conscience.”

Lina stepped back. Just a step, but enough to change the air between them.

“This isn't fair…” she whispered.

"No? But is it fair that I'm left to that bastard Ziv like an enslaved animal? Is it fair that you adorn yourself like a priestess of light,
while I lie here like dirt? Is it fair that you tell me you love me and yet still leave me?"

Lina trembled. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. Her shoulders rose and fell with every suppressed sob.

She wanted to say something, but nothing came.

No more words.

She slowly turned away, her gaze lowered, like someone leaving her heart where it shouldn't stay.

"Go away!" Jumko called after her. The bitterness in his voice cut like stone through flesh.

"Go to your victorious warriors.
Choose one with a golden breastplate and
white panther skin. One who wears no chains."

Lina's silhouette was calm, erect, but there was a pain in her shoulders that she could no longer hide.

"I loved you, Jumko. More than you'll ever understand."
Her voice was clear, but brittle.
"And I will continue to love you. Even if you only look at me with hatred."

She turned. The jade plates of her cloak tinkled softly as she moved, like the last thing left of her in this room.

"Lina..." he wanted to say. But the name stuck in his throat.

When Lina opened the door, Yuli was already standing in the hallway. She said nothing.
And neither did Lina.
Their eyes met only briefly, enough for Yuli to see the tears streaming impassively down Lina's cheeks. No whimpering, no trembling, just this silent current.
Injury, deep and silent like a cut beneath the skin.

Yuli wanted to raise her hand, touch her, hold her, but Lina lowered her gaze and walked past her.
Slowly. Straight.
But slumped inward like someone who had lost more than she was allowed to reveal.

Night crept on slowly, heavy and wordless. Jumko didn't want to speak to anyone else that evening.

The moon stood pale above the rooftops as the last lamp wick went out.
Silence fell over the house.

But when morning came, it brought no relief.
Only footsteps.
And strange voices in the hallway.


———————————————————


Jumko heard them before he saw them.
Heavy footsteps on the clay hallway. Metal clanged. Quiet voices, muffled, not by tiredness, but by something else: respect.
Or perhaps fear.

Then the door opened.

His mother entered first.
Her face was pale, her eyes red. She looked as if she hadn't slept or had cried far too much.
Behind her, two men entered the room.
Both wore the dark blue robes of the Imperial Administration, embroidered with the symbols of the enforcement authority: the sun, sword, and scales.
One of them carried a narrow wooden case, the other held a guard scroll.

"Mum?" Jumko began, his voice ragged with sleep. But Yuli avoided his gaze.
She said nothing. Instead, she stepped aside, letting the men enter.

Jumko tensed as much as his bonds allowed.

"What's going on? What... do you want?,“
he growled, his voice sharpening.

The officer with the guard scroll stepped forward and unfurled it briefly. His voice was clear, matter-of-fact, devoid of any emotion.

"Jumko, son of Yuli. You were defeated by combat at this year's Metzakal. According to the current ritual laws of the Northern League and invoking Section VII of the Warrior Code, your right of ownership thus passes into the possession of your conqueror."

He lowered his gaze briefly. Then he continued without hesitation:

"To maintain order and avoid unwanted bonds, access to reproductive privileges must be restricted after a complete defeat in combat."

The second officer opened the case.

Inside lay a finely crafted bronze ring, connected by smooth latticework, slightly shimmering, old, functional, unsentimental.

A mark of ownership.

A sign that another's will now prevailed over his body.

Jumko tugged at the bonds, panicked, furious.
"What is this?! What the hell is this?!"

Yuli stepped forward, raising his hands defensively.
"Please... calm down."

"Calm down?!" His voice cracked.
„What do they have in mind for me?!”

The officer with the case looked at him calmly. “Security measure. No pain, no lasting injury. Just a symbol of your new affiliation.
At the request of your captor.”

Jumko snorted in disbelief.
“A symbol?! It’s a cage!”

He turned to his mother.
“Mum! Say something! You can’t allow this!”

Yuli stood frozen. Her lips trembled.
She paused briefly, then looked him directly in the eyes for the first time.
Tears gathered in them.
She lowered her gaze. She didn’t answer.

The officers worked quickly. Calmly. They applied the ring, guided his genitals into the device, and closed it with a small, sealed lock. No pain. Only cold. And shame.

Jumko felt something break inside him.
Not just because of the cage. But because his mother, the strongest woman he knew, had surrendered.
And because she believed that what was happening to him was the lesser evil.

"Let me go," he growled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"I swear, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

The officers didn't react to Jumko's outburst. Not a look. Not a word.
They closed the case with calm, practiced movements, as if they hadn't heard anything, or as if it hadn't meant anything.

The older man turned to Yuli, his voice remaining matter-of-fact, almost friendly.

"Two guards will appear tomorrow morning. Your son is being prepared for the handover and taken to the ceremony."

He made a small, almost apologetic gesture in Jumko's direction.

"The new owners wish him to be... presented in a well-maintained condition.
I assume you understand."

Yuli pressed her lips together and nodded silently. Her eyes were glassy, but she forced herself to maintain her composure. It was the last shred of dignity she could afford.

The second officer opened the door. They both stepped out without turning around.
No greeting, no further explanation.
It was simply over.

Jumko lay there, silent, rigid, the cold of the metal deep beneath his skin; he felt so humiliated.

Yuli was still standing beside him, but there was an emptiness in her posture that could no longer be filled.
What could one say to a son whom one had watched break apart and had been unable to prevent what was to come?


———————————————————


Like the nights before, Humzal had cried himself silently to sleep.
Shoulder to shoulder, he lay with the other workers in the wooden bunkhouse, which was filled to the rafters with bodies.
The air was heavy and humid, permeated by the sweat of the lost, by breath, fear, and dull resignation.

The bunk beds were nothing more than crude wooden scaffolds, simple stick frames, placed so close together that when you turned over, you could feel the breath of the next person on your neck. An older worker had explained to him that this barracks was among the better ones, with comparatively less stench, fewer vermin, and fewer screams in the night. It had only recently been built because work had been delayed.

For high above, on the western slopes of Xolya, a new mansion was rising stone by stone, a palace so magnificently conceived that even the gods could not tear their gaze away.

The construction site was in Tlek'uhl, the upper-class quarter, an upscale settlement nestled into the mountainside like a ring of terraces. From there, one could overlook the heart of the empire: the golden domes of the sun temples, the winding roofs of the palaces, and the venerable Tlankotl Arena, from up here little more than a dark ring in the dust, yet never without weight.
Those who lived in Tlek'uhl not only looked at the city, they looked at history itself.

Construction was well advanced. Black andesite and red tuff lay artfully interlaced, the walls polished smooth like mirrors. Snake reliefs coiled on the facades, interspersed with clawed hands, symbols of victory and divine election. Golden gargoyles in the shape of eagles flashed everywhere, and in the courtyard, the first mosaics of turquoise jade began to glow, like frozen water under the eternal sun.

With the first light of morning, Humzal was awakened, as every day, by the shrill cries of the overseers. No words, just kicks against wood, rods against posts.
They were driven out of the barracks, one by one, barefoot, still sleepy, but with no claim to indolence.

Not even three nights had passed since Humzal had lost his fight in the arena, against an opponent who had seemed overwhelmingly powerful from the start.

His family had never owned much, yet they had been happy. His father, a respected blacksmith, had earned the respect of many warriors through hard work and skill.
Humzal himself had already learned a great deal from him and was designated as the successor to the small workshop.
But when the drawing of lots during the Metzakal ritual pitted him against the son of a great warrior, Humzal suspected that the gods had other plans for him.

After his defeat, he was branded a worker of the empire in the arena.
He was given a symbol of dishonor: a narrow steel chastity cage, thus definitively sealing his new role in the empire.

Without being able to say goodbye to his family, he was assigned to his first labor service.

Because his right leg was still not strong enough, he was kept away from the pits and scaffolding. He knelt for hours on the cold floor, polishing the jade-green mosaics in the palace courtyard.
With fine cloths and oil, he made the gleaming stones shine.

Silence and humility accompanied this work, but better than what others had to endure.

By now it was midday, and Humzal was kneeling on the magnificently decorated terrace behind the house, polishing the gleaming mosaics with calm, even movements.

Suddenly, a cluster of voices inside caught his attention, which was unusual because only the overseers were allowed to speak while working.

Three people came out onto the terrace from inside. The first who immediately caught Humzal's eye was a young woman of breathtaking beauty. She looked as if she were his age, but certainly had never been of his middle-class background.

Her body was chiseled, with a narrow waist, soft but well-defined hips, and long legs beneath a flowing dress of light blue fabric that glided over her curves as she moved, like water over smooth stone.
The sun caught the silky texture of the fabric, making it almost glow.

Her dark hair reached mid-back, glossy and carefully styled in waves. The skin on her shoulders was golden brown, flawless, and shimmered like polished amber in the sunlight.

Her lips were full and slightly pursed, as if she had enjoyed something or smiled at something only she understood.

Beside her stood a stately man whose posture exuded power and self-confidence. Another man, an official as it turned out, accompanied her.

Humzal didn't know the woman, but her demeanor spoke volumes. She was short, barely more than five foot six, but that didn't diminish her presence in the slightest. On the contrary, she seemed commanding, almost intimidating in her confident bearing, as if the world belonged to her and no one had the right to doubt it.

She moved with a grace that was both cool and calculating, like a predatory cat controlling every movement.
Despite her friendly smile, there was something aloof, almost challenging, in her eyes.

Humzal's gaze fell on her hands.
Tiny, almost dainty, and, in keeping with their size, almost cute. Yet even they seemed to exude a quiet authority. Their slender fingers were adorned with delicate rings and chiseled bracelets, their gemstones flashing like tiny fires in the sunlight.

He sensed a faint unease, an instinctive feeling that this woman was more than just a pretty sight, perhaps someone who could be dangerous.

Hand in hand, the couple stepped onto the sun-drenched terrace of the manor.
Their gaze swept over the spacious rooms and the ornately decorated walls. Two servants were setting a large table, covered by a white awning, with fine china and gleaming silverware.

The official of the realm stepped forward, bowed slightly, and spoke in a deferential voice:

"Welcome to the Warrior of Warriors' Manor. On behalf of the royal family, we wish to ensure it lives up to your expectations."

He politely seated the couple at the ornate wooden table.

"I had planned for us to begin with lunch here on the terrace while we go over the plans together. This will be followed by a detailed tour of the house."

The future mistress of the house relaxed into one of the comfortable chairs, her smile beaming with anticipation. The man gently pulled her toward him so they could sit close together.

"The house is truly impressive," she remarked confidently, with a hint of arrogance.
"I expect the furnishings will live up to it, fine furniture, sumptuous fabrics, and perfect details in every room."

The official nodded in agreement as he leafed through a stack of fine parchment plans.
"Of course, Miss Xanthe. Everything will be arranged according to your and Mr. Baden's wishes."

Xanthe's gaze slid fleetingly to Humzal, who was kneeling at her feet in the blazing sun, barely two meters away, working tirelessly on the mosaics on the terrace. Without paying him any attention, she said:

"I look forward to making this house my kingdom."

Baden smiled contentedly, put his arm around her, and whispered, "A perfect beginning to our life together."

Humzal knelt over the mosaics, a damp cloth in his hand, his back already damp with sweat from the reflective stone.

Each print across the jade-green pattern burned his shoulders, but he didn't let it show. Directly above him, just a few feet away, the voices at the terrace table grew louder.

The two servants had now brought out silver platters filled with steaming meat, pickled vegetables, and steaming flatbreads.
The scent rose to Humzal's nose, heavy and sweet, and mingled with the bitter dryness in his mouth. His stomach clenched painfully.

Normally, the workers received two meals a day. But as long as the new owners were in the house, lunch was postponed. With their work, they were supposed to demonstrate their absolute determination to complete their superiors' house on time.

Humzal didn't dare raise his head.

The new mistress of the house, Xanthe, as he had come to recognize, spoke with a clear, demanding voice. She laughed now and then, seemed to be in a good mood, but there was something sharp in her words that even Humzal sensed. Her wishes weren't an expression of taste, they were statements.

"The curtains in the upstairs bedroom, I don't want coarse fabrics. I want linen or silk. And not in those horrible shades of brown, but something light. Gold, ivory, perhaps turquoise," she said, as the china clinked and the glasses filled.

While he was still working silently on the mosaics, his gaze had strayed from the floor for a moment. He raised his head only slightly, exhausted, dazed by the heat, the exertion. His eyes fell on the woman's slender feet, wrapped in finely woven sandals of golden raffia and soft leather, studded with small, glittering stones.

They lay only a few steps away from him, almost at eye level, on the shining tiles, relaxed, crossed beneath the lavishly set table. The sight made something inside him shrink, not out of desire, but out of shame.

He was less than the floor she rested on.

The official, ever polite, nodded in agreement to Xanthe's demands.

"Of course, that's noted. For the reception room as well?"

"There too. And I want a mirror over the fireplace. A large one. The light here is excellent, it would be a waste if I couldn't see myself in it."

The man beside her, Baden, evidently the new Warrior of Warriors, murmured in agreement, his hand resting on her thigh.
The two seemed familiar, almost tender, but also like two people who knew they wanted to be seen.

Humzal lowered his gaze and continued polishing, the mosaics reflecting the sunlight in his eyes. He wasn't deaf to their voices, couldn't escape them. Everything about this scene was a reminder of what he had lost, of what was never meant for him.

He had become invisible, little more than a shadow among the stones. And yet, right beneath their feet.

The stomach in Humzal's belly growled loudly.
A hoarse, uncontrollable sound that frightened even him. It cut through the conversation at the table like an embarrassing interruption.

Xanthe's fork stopped in midair.

Her gaze dropped to the terrace, where Humzal was still kneeling over the mosaic.

"Tell me, hasn't that slave down there had anything to eat yet?" she asked, without any anger, almost amused.

The official lowered his gaze respectfully.

"The workers will not receive their meals until after your departure, Lady. It's the rule."

Xanthe clicked her tongue as if scolding a stray dog.

"Oh, that's barbaric. Give the poor thing something, he looks like he's about to fall off his chair, or rather, off the floor."

Humzal hardly dared to breathe. Had she meant that? Was he really going to get a bite from her table?

But before the thought could take hold, Xanthe turned to the official without giving Humzal another glance.

"So?" she began, deliberately casually, as she placed a grape in her mouth.
"What do the slaves get to eat here?
I hope it's at least nutritious. After all, they toil for my home, don't they? I don't want them to collapse in the middle of their work."

She cast a brief, amused glance in Humzal's direction before returning her attention to the conversation at the table.

The official bowed slightly and replied in a matter-of-fact voice:

"Of course, Your Grace.
The rations are specially tailored to the physical demands of the workers, a protein rich mixture of ground insect larvae, fermented roots, and angu mushroom flour. Rich in nutrients, yet simple to make. Our goal is functionality, not a culinary delight."

"Sounds... delicious," grinned Xanthe with a mock shudder.

She leaned back as one of the servants placed a tenderly roasted piece of meat on her plate, smothered in golden sauce and accompanied by purple cauliflower, candied dates, and fragrant herbs.
Beside it, a silver jug of sweet hibiscus wine steamed. Another plate was covered with wafer-thin slices of venison, garnished with roasted figs.

Then she raised her voice, a little louder, almost with smug warmth, so that it reached Humzal:

"Well, then, we wish you bon appetit, slave. And be careful not to spill anything on my floor."

Shortly afterwards, a silent errand boy placed a rough wooden bowl in front of him.
The porridge was warm, sluggish, and gray, with dark streaks that looked like curdled sauce, but wasn't. It smelled musty, a stench like damp earth, with a hint of bitter, old sweat.

Humzal lowered his gaze. He would have preferred to wait. But even his pride was hungry by now.
He dipped his fingers into the thick, chewy mass and silently brought the first bite to his mouth, while Xanthe's bright laughter sounded above him, accompanied by the delicate clinking of crystal glasses.


———————————————————


When Lina opened the door, it was quiet.
No wind, no shout, no footstep in the house.

Yuli let her in silently and went back to the kitchen without another word. Perhaps because she sensed there was nothing she could do here.

Lina climbed the stairs alone.
Her fingers brushed the rough-plastered railing, as if she needed to anchor herself to keep from going back.

Upstairs, Jumko sat upright in bed, the light slanting across his face. He seemed paler than the day before, but his eyes were clear and alert. The metal ring was barely visible under the covers, but its weight hung over everything.

When she entered, he raised his head.
His gaze changed immediately, from silent defiance to something softer. Perhaps hope.

"Lina," he said quietly.

She just nodded.

"I've been thinking," he began.
"I know yesterday was... wrong. I yelled at you. And hurt you. I'm sorry."

He took a shallow breath, then continued:
"But maybe there's a way. You... you know Ziv. If you talk to him, maybe... he'll let me go. Not completely free, I know. But... a bit of freedom. Somewhere. Together. A life that belongs to us."

Lina was silent for a moment. Then she stepped closer, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso.

"I haven't stopped thinking about it," she said.
"Really, not. I came today because I want to talk. Because I don't want our last moment to be an argument."

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly. Hope flickered in his eyes.

But then she continued, cautiously but clearly.

"But you have to understand, Jumko... I can't do everything for you. I love you, but I also have duties to my family and the gods."

Jumko blinked. The hope in his eyes cracked.

"I understand," he said.

"Then you wouldn't have yelled at me like that yesterday," she replied calmly.
"Then you wouldn't have acted like I was to blame for what happened to you."

"Because it feels that way!" he blurted out. "Because you're the only person I care about anymore, and you just gave up on me!"

"I never gave up on you," she said, louder now.
"I tried everything to protect you."

Jumko's hands clenched into fists, as far as the restraints allowed. His gaze flickered between pain, anger, and something that almost looked like despair.

"Protect?!" he spat. "From what, Lina?!
I'm lying here tied up like a dog, and you're not even helping me get out."

Lina shrugged, as if the sentence itself had frightened him. But she didn't answer immediately. Perhaps because she knew there was more, that something more had to come.

Jumko continued, louder now, more uncontrolled:

"I gave my blood for this empire! For you! For us! And what's left?! A damned cage between my legs, and you, who throws yourself into someone else's arms at the first sign of pressure?!"

Lina flinched. Then it was as if something inside her broke.

She took a step back, raised her chin, and when she spoke, her voice was no longer soft, no longer cautious, it was sharp, like polished iron.

"Good. You want to know? Then I'll tell you."

Jumko fell silent.

"Ziv asked for my hand in marriage last night in front of the entire council. And I said yes."

Silence.

"I came here today because I wanted to tell you this. Because I didn't want you to hear it from anyone else. Because you deserve it. You're sorry to hear it from me."

He stared at her. The color drained from his face. Then he slowly shook his head.

"You... you're marrying him?"

"Yes," she said. "I said yes. And I'll say it again, before the gods and all. And you'll stand by it."

"No..." he whispered.

"Yes," she said. "Because this is the life you built for yourself, Jumko. With your pride. With your defiance. With your belief that everything must bend just because you feel it. Ziv was right about you, you only care about yourself and no one else."

Jumko gasped, then shot up as far as his bonds would allow.
The chains rattled, the bedstead creaked. His gaze burned, wild and full of rage.

"At least Ziv is a man who isn't so self-absorbed that he forgets everything else. Unlike you."
Her voice trembled slightly, but not with insecurity, it was anger that had been building up for a long time and was now bubbling out.

"You want to marry that bastard?!" he screamed.
"The man who humiliated me?!
Who put me in this... this cage?! Who wants to make me his damn slave."

Lina didn't back down a step.

"And you stand there and call this... love? Or duty?! How can you do that, Lina? How?!"

"Because there's no other way!" she snarled back.

He shook his head, his voice cracking.

"He wants to possess me, Lina! Me! And you want to be his wife?! How can I think anything other than that you don't care about me at all."

"He wanted to castrate you!" she burst out.

Silence. Heavy. Like a slash.

Jumko blinked. Silence.

"What?" he whispered.

Lina stepped closer. Her voice was cold now, but not without pain.

"If Ziv had had her way, you'd be a eunuch by now, Jumko. He wanted to have you castrated."

He stared at her, aghast.

"And I... persuaded him not to. I don't know what you did, but you upset him very much," she continued, already a little calmer.

Jumko was silent for a moment. Something in Lina's words had struck him, not the content, but the proof that she had tried to protect him after all. A remnant of loyalty. Perhaps even love.

But instead of insight, only a last spark of hope sprouted within him, which he immediately seized on eagerly.

"Then... then that means you still have influence over him. Over what happens to me."
He raised his gaze, his voice restrained, soft, almost pleading.
"Perhaps you can make him understand that I'm not the enemy he wants to break."

Lina laughed bitterly. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but of disappointment.

"You really think this is another game you can turn around with enough charm and whining."

She took a step closer. Her gaze was hard as iron, her voice cold.

"You don't understand, Jumko. I saved you from worse. But you made a choice. For your pride. For your defiance. You lost me."

She leaned slightly toward him, so close that her words scraped right past his ear.

"You will no longer be a free man. And what you just called 'influence'... that now means power. My power."

She straightened, slowly, with a look that had stripped away any trace of pity. What lay in her eyes was disappointment and cold determination.

"You will be Ziv's possession, yes.
A pretty, quiet thing that obeys when whistled."

She stepped closer, her voice now just a whisper, but sharper than any blade.

"And I will watch. I will smile when you kneel.
I will be the one who decides your life. Whether you may sleep, speak,... or eat."

She bent down to him, very close to his ear.

"You will become our slave, Jumko. And if you ever think this isn't your place... then I will show you how low a man can truly sink."

She straightened up as if nothing had happened.

"So you'd better start regretting upsetting the last person who ever loved you."

Then she turned away and left the room.

The door closed, quietly, but with the echo of judgment.

And Jumko was left behind, rigid with rage, shame, and the sense that the worst was yet to come.


———————————————————


The midday sun was high as the conversation concluded.
The voices had faded, the final decisions for the new property had been made.

"The terrace wall should remain open to the south," Xanthe said in a bored but determined tone as she lowered the spoon from her empty dessert glass. "I don't want to be disturbed by walls at sunset."

Baden just nodded, half absentmindedly, his brow furrowed in thought. The official diligently took notes on a waxed clay tablet.

The terrace had fallen silent, except for the soft, rhythmic sound of the polishing cloth Humzal was moving across the stone floor.

His back burned. The sun had followed him mercilessly as he polished the intricate inlay around the table.

He hadn't spoken.
He hadn't looked.
He hadn't wanted to be heard.
But he had heard every word.

As Xanthe rose from the table, she pushed back her chair with a flourish, her gold anklets clinking softly.
Her foot stepped almost casually next to Humzal as she walked right onto a spot he had just polished to a high shine with painstaking patience. The imprint of her sandal pressed darkly into the still-damp shine.

She didn't notice.
Or noticed and ignored it.

Instead, she stretched with an overextended sigh, as if returning from a long, arduous journey.
"I'm completely exhausted," she drawled, turning half toward Baden, half into the void. "All this planning... it's almost physically exhausting."

She gave a short, bright, and shallow laugh as she tossed her hair over her shoulder.
"After the tour, I desperately need a bath."

Baden chuckled, and the officer stepped aside, bowing slightly, ready to escort the couple out.
Xanthe took another step, her sandal crunching over a small splinter Humzal had missed.
"And then maybe... a massage. I feel like I've been working all day."

She paused, just for a moment.
Her gaze slid fleetingly down to Humzal.
He knelt motionless, the cloth in his hand, his back bent, his head bowed. There was no resistance in his posture, only fatigue and something deeper slowly taking root within him.

"What about him?" Xanthe briefly glanced over Humzal, without real interest. "Looks like he's lost his will."
The official nodded.
"He's still new. The son of a craftsman.
He just lost the first round at Metzakal. Experience shows that the adjustment is difficult for former free citizens."

"Then he'd better get used to it quickly."
Xanthe dropped the words almost casually, her lips curled into a thin, mocking smile.
“It certainly won’t get any better.
Not in this lifetime.”

Without another word, she turned away. Her anklets clanged brightly and lightly as she stepped through the passage into the shadows with Baden and the official.

Humzal paused.
His gaze remained lowered, his shawl still.
The sunlight reflected in the footprint on the floor and in the sudden, bitter cold that rose in his chest.

And yet he continued wiping.


Part III

Jumko had been placed in the deepest dungeon of the Wedding Palace.

The cell was little more than a damp chamber in the belly of the palace. Barely two paces wide, with a bare stone floor from which water seeped with every step.

He and the other unfortunate souls who shared his fate had been imprisoned individually, separated from one another, cell by cell, stone by stone.

They wanted to prevent them from forming bonds, exchanging words, finding hope.

For hope was more dangerous than any weapon, and slaves who united might even be brave enough to rise up against their new masters.

The palace beneath which his cell lay had been built specifically for a single ritual: the annual wedding ceremony of the empire's new warriors.

A place of splendor, celebration, and the symbolic union of power and duty.

Year after year, it was those chosen ones who, clad in gold-embroidered robes, united with their brides up there, to the applause of the assembly, in the presence of the gods.

Jumko had often imagined this moment. How he would stand there as a young warrior, proud and invincible, with Lina at his side, as the light of the rising sun streamed through the arched windows.

But nothing had prepared him for this reality:

Not up there, but beneath the palace.

Not in ceremonial garb, but in chains.

Not celebrated, but enslaved.

The walls were roughly hewn, the mortar blackened with mold, and the air thick with the musty dampness of old earth, stale sweat, and the stale scent of bygone despair.

A narrow, barred window slit at head height was the only thing that let in light or air. The bars were thick and roughly wrought, damp with the night's dew.

Through this slit, Jumko could see out, or rather, down.

The palace stood high above the city, on one of the western outskirts of Xolya, on a hill that, like a natural throne, overlooked the maze of alleys and squares. From up here, the view would have been breathtaking in other lives.

But now it was merely a memory of what had become unattainable.

Jumko's gaze fell upon a small, cobbled street far below. Two children chased each other, laughing, around a cart whose wheels squeaked over the uneven pavement. An old woman sat on a bench, stroking a cat while she talked to her neighbor. Smoke rose from a chimney, languid and peaceful.

It was one of those quiet, almost unnoticed scenes of life, banal, simple, and yet it was like a mockery.

Jumko no longer had the strength to cry.

Last night, they had taken him away, tearing him from his home for good.

The farewell to Rachel and Yuli had been far too brief, barely more than a fleeting glance, a hurried word, before the guards roughly dragged him from the house.

His family had wept, sobbing and filled with fear, but his mother had tried to give him hope.

"It won't be so bad, Jumko," she had whispered, her voice trembling but firm.

"Lina is good to you, I know that. She will protect you."

But those words sounded hollow to him, like a distant dream that brought him only pain.

His thoughts were primarily with his family.

His mother had remained strong during the hasty farewell when the guards came for him; not a tear had rolled down her cheek, although he had heard the tremor in her voice. Rachel, his sister, had also managed to give him a smile, firmly believing that her brother was in good hands with Lina and that she would be able to see him from time to time.

He had been made aware that any disobedience would not only affect him, but in the worst-case scenario, could also dispossess his mother and sister and plunge them into poverty.

This threat weighed heavily on his chest.

The spark of resistance that had burned within him was extinguished in that moment; the fear of plunging his loved ones into similar suffering was too great.

They meant everything to him.

Nevertheless, there was still the unbearable thought of serving Ziv.

This man who had taken everything from him: his future, his girl, and now all his dignity.

A life in chains, controlled by others, humiliated—how could he bear it?

But the shadow of this fear drove him to resignation, making every thought of rebellion an intolerable luxury.

Ziv is allowed to feel her warmth, breathe in her scent, hold her body in his arms. He is allowed to admire her, make her laugh, make her glow—everything Jumko had always longed for.

His stomach growled loudly in the stuffy cell. He hadn't had a bite since last night.

This wasn't an oversight, but a cruelly calculated part of a centuries-old tradition.

The Slaves were deliberately starved so that when they were handed over to their masters during the wedding ceremony, they would be weak and submissive, powerless enough to stifle any thought of resistance.

Jumko now painfully remembered how he and Lina had often joked about how cruel it must be for the slaves to watch the bride and groom stuff themselves before their eyes while they themselves starved for days.

Now he was on the receiving end, and the bitter mockery of his own words constricted his throat.

In the endless hours of solitude, the bitter truth slowly seeped into Jumko's mind, a truth that shattered all his hopes and dragged him deeper into darkness.

The entire ritual, the glorious traditions he had always believed in, turned out to be a single, meticulously orchestrated deception.

It was not divine will that prevailed here, but a coldly calculated power mechanism, designed to secure the king and his rule for eternity.

The losers, like Jumko, were not simply unfortunate victims of fate, they were dehumanized tools whose dignity was trampled underfoot.

By reducing them to slaves and stripping them of all rights, they were reduced to mere shadows of their former selves. Fewer mouths demanding food or freedom, fewer voices capable of rebellion.

And then there was the ritual itself, not merely a celebration, but a perfidious spectacle that ensured the victors' power remained untouchable.

The winners were draped in golden robes, celebrated in the arms of their brides, admired by the crowd, and protected by the king.
They became symbols of the empire, heroes who maintained and reinforced the system.
In exchange, they protected the kingdom and the king himself.

Jumko, however, was humiliated, degraded to the very core of his being.

His fate was to become a servant, broken, with chains around his hands, his hope extinguished.

He, who had once proudly anticipated the day he would participate in the ceremony as a warrior, was now nothing more than a living reminder of what had been destroyed.

His dreams were scattered like ashes in the wind.

The most painful thing was knowing that all of this had not been done out of justice or divine will, but out of cold calculation.

The kingdom sustained itself through such sacrifices, for centuries, nourished by both glory and shame.

But all this knowledge was of no use to Jumko. It could not loosen the chains that bound him. It could not erase the shame from his heart.

He was trapped, not only in the dungeon beneath the wedding palace, but in a system that had long since abandoned him.

He closed his eyes, trying to escape the cold, stony reality, to dream himself away to another place, somewhere where there was light, warmth, freedom.

But even in the darkness behind his eyelids, the present wouldn't let him go.

A sharp pinch between his legs brought him back, raw and merciless.

The chastity cage beneath the tattered slave tunic rubbed against his skin with every movement, scratching, straining, humiliating.

The weight of the metal constantly pulled his genitals uncomfortably downward.

Another piece of cold control, a constant reminder of what he had become: property.

Not even his own body belonged to him anymore.

Above him, just a few floors away and yet in another world, the day began with bustling gleam.

Jumko could hear heels clicking on marble slabs somewhere, fabrics being gathered, and muffled voices echoing through the high ceilings. Flute melodies danced through open columned halls, played by attendants who bustled among the brides, preparing them for the grand ceremony.

He heard the distant clinking of jugs, the laughter of young women, the creaking of heavy doors as new dresses were brought in or final instructions were given.

A heavy floral scent hung in the air, even down here, a fleeting whisper carried by the wind over the grilles, like a reminder of what was happening:

Up there, the chosen ones were being adorned. There, they were preparing for their new roles as warriors' wives.

And surely Lina was among them.

While he sat down here, hungry and sore, she was perhaps being bathed, immersed in perfumed water, rubbed with oil by servants, adorned to shine as her future mistress.

A pang shot through him, hot, bitter, almost physical. For he knew he, too, was part of this spectacle.

Not as a hero. Not as a warrior.

But as part of the performance, a vanquished man who would kneel at the end of the ceremony so they could place the collar around his neck.

Jumko pressed his forehead against the cold grille of his window slit.

Was she talking about him upstairs?
Did Lina laugh, as she often used to when they talked about the grotesque part of the ceremony?

How he would be led away in a thin white slave shirt, starving, humiliated, in chains.
How she would publicly bind his knees, the sign of submission, while Ziv stood by her side, waving to the crowd.

Above him lay stone upon stone, step upon step, light-years away, another world.


———————————————————


The marble floor gleamed in the midday sun, which streamed through wide, open windows into the chamber, carefully prepared for the bride of the Warrior of Warriors.

Fabrics in ivory, jade green, and delicate gold covered the walls; heavy silk curtains fluttered gently in the warm breeze, which carried the scent of blossoms and incense.
In the center of the room stood a semi-reclined chaise longue of lacquered ebony, intricately carved and covered with soft silk cushions. Before it, on his hands and knees, motionless and with his gaze lowered: Teod.

He served as a footstool, naked except for a simple, narrow linen cloth around his hips, his brow damp with perspiration.

He wept softly, unobtrusively, tears that went unheard and dripped onto the marble, where they evaporated as if they had never existed.

Xanthe's bare feet rested on Teod's back, casually stretched out as if he were a piece of furniture, her toes almost carelessly extended like a cat's claws in the sun.

Her eyes half-closed, she leaned back while two palace attendants silently tended to her feet.

One woman massaged her soles with warm Yara flower oil, while the other patiently filed her nails, evenly, carefully, without a sound.

Xanthe wore an open dressing gown of gold-embroidered silk that draped loosely around her shoulders, gliding with her every movement like liquid light, so finely woven that the shimmering fabric only hinted at the contours of the delicate, cream-colored underwear beneath.

Velia, Xanthe's best friend since childhood, stood near a low table where the jewelry for the ceremony was displayed in neatly arranged bowls.

Gold, pearls, turquoise stones, exquisite craftsmanship, made especially for Xanthe.

They had been inseparable since childhood, best friends, like two sides of the same coin. Now she lifted one of the necklaces, its links gliding between her fingers like liquid light, and softly inhaled.

“By the gods, Xanthe… this jewelry is a poem. Why don’t you just marry the treasurer?”

Xanthe chuckled softly, without opening her eyes.

“Because gold sparkles best on a warrior, and on me, of course.”

Velia snorted and looked at an intricately crafted bracelet with engraved snake patterns. Her voice sounded a little more envious than she intended:

“When I choose my warrior next year, I want something like that too. And a dress like yours.”

Her gaze drifted back, over her shoulder, to the lavishly arranged ensemble hanging on the tall clothes rack.

There it hung, the wedding dress.

This ensemble was far more than a simple dress, it was a symbol of her unparalleled rank. As the bride of the Warrior of Warriors, Xanthe was permitted to wear only the most beautiful, magnificent, and precious items her class had to offer. Her gown shimmered in the most exquisite shades of ivory and gold, interwoven with jade-green embroidery that trailed across the fabric like living tendrils. The cut was figure-hugging, the fabric light and luxurious, with a semi-transparent veil resting on a bronze hair clip.

While other women had to make do with simpler gowns, she wore a masterpiece, every stitch, every pearl, and every golden thread of which spoke of power, dignity, and wealth.

The sandals, delicate as a work of art, with straps of pure gold and adorned with sparkling green gemstones that caught the light with every step and playfully reflected it. No other outfit in her year could rival the splendor and significance that Xanthe now wore on her big day.

Velia folded her arms and sighed.

"I hate you a little. But I love watching you."

Xanthe stretched luxuriously on the chaise longue, her feet sliding slightly off the footstool. She blinked in Velia's direction, a smile playing on her lips, sweet as honey, yet twice as calculating.

"Just a little? I try so hard."

Teod heard the laughter above him, felt her weight shift on his back, a slight twitch in his muscles, a brief pressure of her heels against his spine. For a moment, he clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw grinded.

‚I hate you a little.‘

These words echoed in his mind, spoken so casually, like a joke between friends. But they tore something open inside him.

Something he had long refused to see.

For so many years, he had wandered blindly through their light, dazed, blinded, filled with a false glow he had called love.

Xanthe, the beautiful one. Xanthe, the clever one. Xanthe, for whom his heart had beat like for no other.
He had admired her, had offered himself to her, had dreamed of one day being worthy of her.

He had placed her on a pedestal high enough to swallow all her shadows.

Xanthe had learned of his plan, perhaps from one of his buddies, perhaps she had simply pieced it together herself.

But she had known. And hadn't tried to stop him.
On the contrary.

She had whispered to him in a quiet moment that he was right.

That he wasn't warrior material.

That he would perish in the final battle anyway, and what kind of death would that be, before the assembled crowd, shattered in the dust?

"If you're wise, Teod," she had said, "you'll lose with dignity. As a craftsman, you can lead a simple, secure life. Perhaps even near me."

Near her.
As if that offered any comfort.

He had believed those words.

Or wanted to believe them.

And so he had given in.

Not even entirely out of cowardice, but out of hope. Hope that, even though he would never be her husband, she would still see him. That his surrender meant something.

That by renounced him, he would gain closeness.

What a foolish thought.

For no sooner had the tournament ended, no sooner had he consciously fallen to the ground, than he had spent not an hour in freedom.

Xanthe had not protected him.

She had handed him over to the high priests.

His name was revealed, his intentions betrayed, he sold out like rotten fruit.

She had betrayed him, and not even for honorable reasons like respect for tradition or reverence for the gods.

In his naivety, Teod had believed she meant well and saw something in him.

But there had never been anything. Not a glance. Not a hesitation. Not a pity.
Only silent contempt, beautifully wrapped in a smile.

But now, here, beneath her body, under her feet, as her soles carelessly scraped across his skin like painted tiles, the pedestal crumbled.

Now he saw what she truly was.

A cold, calculating serpent with a sweet voice and gilded words.

A smile of glass, beneath it nothing but control, vanity, power.

He hated her.

Not a little. Not fleetingly.
He hated her with a clarity that almost took his breath away.

A burning, bitter hatred, born from the wreckage of his childish infatuation, rough as dry bread in his throat, hard as the stone beneath his knees.
And yet, amidst all that hatred, fear pierced his flesh like a blade. For he knew what would happen if he so much as twitched a muscle, if his back flinched, if he dared to raise his gaze.
He knew that Xanthe would not hesitate to punish him.

Teod didn't even dare to tremble.

He was now her footstool.

And Xanthe rested upon him as if he had never been anything else.

Xanthe slowly rose on her chaise longue, her movements flowing with an arrogant self-assurance that left no doubt as to who was in charge. Without so much as a glance at the attendants, she casually but firmly pulled her feet away from her hands. The two palace attendants paused, knowing instantly that their work ended there. Wordlessly, they bowed deeply and withdrew, the heavy doors closing almost silently behind them.

Out of the corner of his eye, Teod caught a fleeting glimpse of Xanthe's flawless feet, and a wave of nervous tension washed over him.

He didn't dare move from his humiliating posture.

Xanthe rose slowly, each step precise, each movement radiating confidence and unmistakable power. A woman who knew how to perfectly orchestrate her beauty and dominion.

Velia, who was now seated sideways on a velvet armchair, suppressed a smug giggle and shook her head. A mischievous glint flickered in her eyes.

"Baden will be the happiest man on earth tomorrow," she said with a teasing laugh.

Xanthe tilted her head slightly and glanced at her best friend as if she'd just overheard a particularly inane comment. Her tone was silky, yet imbued with a cool air of superiority, the play of a woman more than aware of her effect on others.

"Oh, you think so?"

With a barely perceptible smile, Xanthe let her dressing gown slip from her shoulders. The fabric slid silently down her body and fell to the floor in soft folds, as if even it had bowed in reverence. For a moment, she stood motionless, fully aware of how she appeared. A living work of art, crafted from beauty, pride, and control.

Only now did her full appearance become apparent: an ensemble of the finest lace and delicate fabrics, shimmering in ivory, jade green, and soft gold. So gossamer-thin and intricately crafted that it lay like a delicate veil on her skin, unmistakably accentuating her sensual contours.

Her best friend stared at her speechless for a moment, then grinned broadly.

"If your warrior doesn't immediately plant a baby in your womb at the sight of this, he's truly lost his mind."

Xanthe slowly turned, her fingers slid lasciviously over the fine lace edges of her lingerie.

Teod, who until that moment had been motionless, his eyes fixed on the gleaming marble floor, now felt an invisible force settle upon him. Xanthe's proximity, her presence, he couldn't help but slowly raise his gaze. At first, just a shy, fleeting glance that immediately wanted to return to the ground, but her sight held him captive.

There she stood, looking exactly as he had always imagined her. Like a goddess.

His gaze immediately fell upon Xanthe's back, which arched seductively in the gossamer lace of her lingerie. The delicate fabric clung to her full curves, which swayed gently with every small, deliberate movement.

Her buttocks, flawless and almost unrealistically perfect, were a bittersweet sight for him, beauty and unattainability combined.

Her cheeks clung to the luxurious fabric of her thong, scrunching seductively with every movement.

A sharp, throbbing pain suddenly shot through Teod's lower abdomen.

The sight of Xanthe instantly caused Teod's blood to rush to his groin, but the newly fitted chastity cage thwarted his desire.
He gasped, a soft, suppressed groan escaping him, barely audible yet too much.
Velia's head jerked, she had heard it.

For a moment, there was silence. Then one of her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted, slowly, with a hint of pleasure.

A crooked smile spread across her lips, as if she had just discovered something particularly delicious.

"Oh," she murmured, almost casually.

"I think your slave is in pain."

Her voice was light, almost playful, but it echoed through the room like a gong.

Xanthe didn't turn immediately. She remained as she was, a statue in liquid light, while her gaze slowly drifted over her shoulder and then downward.

“Really?” she asked coolly, without any haste.

Velia leaned back, clearly amused, and gave Teod a barely perceptible nod.

“He’s staring as if he’s seen a woman in her underwear for the first time. And…”
she savored the words

“…I think he likes what he sees. Very much so.”

Xanthe’s smile was thin and sharp, like a freshly honed knife.

Slowly, very slowly, she turned fully toward Teod.

With slow, controlled steps, she moved toward him. His gaze was fixed on the gleaming marble floor again, but now he felt her presence, hovering over him like a shadow.

Then, without warning, her feet entered his field of vision. Small, flawlessly formed, with high arches and slender toes whose nails shimmered with a jade-green sheen, like tiny, precious gems on porcelain.

The delicate scent of the flower oil rose to his nose again, soft and intoxicating, as her toes twitched briefly, as if deliberately trying to draw his attention.

She stopped very close to him, a smug, almost malevolent smile playing around her lips. With a piercing gaze, she let the words slip slowly and mockingly from her lips:

"Poor Toddy, is your little buddy already trying to get out of his cage?"

Her smile was light, almost playful, but in her eyes glowed the cold gleam of deliberate superiority as she looked down at him.

Teddy felt shame and fear tighten like a knot in his chest. He wanted to hide, disappear, sink into the gleaming marble that was cool and unyielding beneath his knees. But escape wasn't an option.

So, trembling, he lifted his hands from the floor tiles and slowly straightened his torso, remaining kneeling, obedient, submissive.

His gaze veered away, he didn't dare meet her eyes, wandered briefly over her hips before his gaze fell rigidly onto her stomach.

The sight was perfect.

A gentle sweep of silken skin, smooth as polished stone, etched with the delicate shadow of her breath. Her waist was narrow and elegant before widening in perfect harmony to her hips, a geometry only gods could create.

In the center: her navel, adorned with a single jade stone, deep green and gleaming, like an eye silently accusing him.

Her belly possessed that gentle, natural softness that unites all that constitutes femininity, sensuality, and the quiet promise of life.

Her stride was soft and seductive, and Teod could only guess at the captivating beauty hidden between those firm, supple thighs.

Xanthe deliberately let the silence hang, savoring it like a fine perfume. Then she leaned forward slightly, just enough for her shadow to brush his face.

"What do you think, Teod...?"

Her fingertips glided casually over her own belly, along the fine fabric that clung to her skin like mist to mountains.

"Will your master be satisfied with what he receives on his wedding night?"

Her gaze remained fixed on him, intense, provocative.

Inside Teod, everything tightened as if someone had grasped his chest with icy hands. The thought that Baden, that simple-minded, arrogant bastard, would soon be able to love her and enjoy her body while he knelt here on the cold marble, naked and degraded, constricted his throat.

And yet, as much as he now despised her, for her coldness, her calculating cruelty, for the smile that concealed nothing but contempt, there was a part of him that still idolized her.
A part that clung to the image of the radiant Xanthe he had once loved, who was like a goddess to him, unattainable yet the only light in his world.

This contradictory spark burned deep in his chest, fueling a torn longing that simultaneously tormented and paralyzed him. He knew that what he had once felt was an illusion, a glittering veil over a naked, cold truth. And yet, he couldn't simply tear down the pedestal on which he had placed her.

Teod didn't dare answer. Not because he lacked an opinion, but because his throat was tight. Words, he knew, would betray him.

But then came the voice that turned the knife.

"Xanthe!" Velia called out with a suppressed laugh from her seat in the velvet armchair. She was leaning back, one leg casually crossed over the other, her fingers playing with a green earring as if it were a toy.

"You're so cruel."

Xanthe gave a saccharine smile, her eyes flashing mockingly as she slowly looked down at Teod.

“Cruel? Oh, Velia, little Teod is lucky to have me as his mistress. If it had gone to Baden, my sweet little slave would be castrated by now too."

Velia smirked mockingly and tilted her head.

“Too?” she asked curiously, playfully running her fingers through her hair.

Xanthe giggled softly, almost girlishly, but there was pure cruelty in her eyes. She turned to Velia as if telling a harmless anecdote, already approaching her deck chair again.

“The loser from the final fight,” she said casually. “He didn’t even last ten pendulum swings against my future husband.”
With an elegant movement, she lowered herself before continuing.

“You should have seen him lying on the ground,” she continued, her voice soft with pleasure. “How he begged Baden to spare him. God, I get wet just thinking about it.”

A radiant smile spread across her face at the memory.

Velia burst into bright, uninhibited laughter, leaned further back in the chair, and clapped her hands softly once.

“By all the gods, Xanthe,” she said, amused, shaking her head, “you really are cruel.”

But the accusation carried no weight, her smile remained, warm and guilty.

Xanthe tilted her head slightly, as if remembering something trivial, almost pleasant. Her voice remained calm, almost conversational.

“Well, anyway, we both thought a second slave couldn’t hurt.”

Then Xanthe turned deliberately to Teod, her eyes briefly fixed on him, a smug smile playing on her lips:

"I'm sure you two will get along splendidly, Toddy. Two failed men, united in the highest task you will ever have: to serve the Warrior of Warriors and his bride for eternity."

Velia couldn't suppress a soft giggle. It trickled out of her, light and carefree, as her gaze slid to Teod. For a fleeting moment, it almost met his, but he hastily dodged, lowering his head even further.

Teod was still kneeling beside the couch, where Xanthe had left him, as if he were a forgotten piece of furniture. His hands were clenched on his thighs, his fingers slightly spread, unsure whether they were allowed to touch the cold marble. Every breath felt like a risk.

Normally, he would have been back on all fours long ago. Ben, head bowed, offered her his back, but without an order, he didn't dare. Uncertainty gnawed at him more deeply than any clear instruction ever could.

Anger, hot and bitter, churned against his ribs, useless and aimless. At the same time, grief settled upon it like cold ash, heavier even than fear. Grief for what he had believed himself to be, for the illusion of dignity he would now lose forever. His throat tightened, a painful burning sensation behind his eyes, and despite all his efforts, a single tear escaped. It fell silently to the floor, shattering on the marble and leaving nothing but a dark mark that vanished just as quickly.

His thoughts began to drift, fleeing into a dull fog of memories, regret, and naked fear, until a voice abruptly pulled him from it.

"Toddy."

He hated that word, hated her using it as if he were a toy, a possession to be summoned at will.

His heart leaped painfully, his breath caught in his throat, and an icy shiver ran down his spine. Hastily, he lowered his gaze even further than was possible.

"Yes, Mistress..." he managed hoarsely, his voice thin with suppressed rage and shame.

"Get back in position. I want to put my feet up again."

The command was spoken with the nonchalance of a woman ordering breakfast, nothing more, nothing less. No hesitation, no emphasis, only the silent expectation that it would happen.

Teod's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding so tightly that his temples ached. Every muscle in his body screamed against the movement, against what he had to do, but he knew he had no choice. Slowly, with a reluctance that felt like lead in his limbs, he moved.

His hands found the cold marble again, his knees buckled, his back arched under the weight of his own fear and submission. He felt every inch of his pride press against the floor tiles, but Xanthe's feet were soon resting on his back again, as if he had never been more than a cushion, a piece of furniture, an instrument of her whim.


———————————————————


The chamber where Lina was being prepared for her wedding was on the east side of the palace, far removed from the grandeur of the main hall.

It was smaller, simpler, but not austere. The walls were painted in light sandstone, adorned with delicate tapestries depicting floral patterns—vines, blossoms, stylized birds in flight. The afternoon sun streamed in through the open window, setting dust motes dancing in the air like tiny ghosts.

A bronze mirror stood on a low vanity table, beside it lay hair clips, fine combs, and small bottles of fragrant oils.

The floor was covered with a woven carpet, its colors long since faded—a delicate moss green and ochre. Nothing here was ostentatious, but everything had been chosen with care. Quiet, almost unassuming—just like Lina herself.

She sat on a stool with a flat cushion, her back straight, her hair loose. An older servant combed her thick, dark strands, while a younger one sorted the clothes on the bed.

Lina said nothing.

She let the combs glide through her hair, let the hands work on her, while her thoughts were elsewhere.

Not on the ceremony. Not on the dress.

But on Jumko.

She knew he would be part of the handover today. She knew the routine, had seen it often enough—with childlike wonder back then, when it all seemed so far away.

And now?

Now she would be one of the brides. And he… a slave.

A silent tremor ran through her. The older servant paused briefly, looking at her in the mirror.

"Are you cold, Mistress?"

Lina forced a smile, small and weak.

"No. Just the wind."

The servant nodded and continued.

The dress lay on the bed: cream-colored fabric, softly draped, with delicate silver embroidery along the sleeves and neckline. No gold, no jewels—yet it was beautiful. A beauty that spoke softly, never cried out.

Alongside it lay simple bangles of hammered silver and a narrow belt of woven fabric, dyed jade green—a silent reference to her origins in the central district of Xolyas, where the jade trade still shaped daily life.

Lina lowered her gaze to the dress, which lay so still, as if unaware of the burden it would soon bear.

She remembered the words of her mentor from her years at the court house:

"A daughter of the Huhmtakil does not serve herself. She serves the realm, through wisdom, through sacrifice, through obedience."

Back then, Lina had thought she understood what that meant.

Now, for the first time, she felt the true weight of those words.

A To marry a warrior was one of the highest honors a woman of her station could receive.

Not only because it brought prestige, but because it made her part of the great order: the warrior protects, the woman receives the inheritance, the people grow and prosper.

That's how the elders had taught it. That's how the law had enshrined it.

Lina inhaled deeply, the scent of the oil filling the room—jasmine with something bitter underneath, perhaps myrrh. It reminded her of those childhood evenings when she and Ziv would wander through the fields behind the gardens of the manor house. Back then, they had sworn never to go their separate ways, never to stray from the path that bound them together.

How foolish children could be.

Even then, Ziv had been different from the other boys—quieter, more thoughtful, with a gaze that saw more than it showed. When the others boasted or argued, he remained silent, listened, and spoke only when necessary. And yet they followed him without question, for he was just. Never crude, never cruel.

He had often protected her, but never to prove himself. Always simply because he believed it was the right thing to do.

And sometimes, when she laughed or worked up about something, she had noticed his gaze soften for a moment—almost imperceptibly, like the shimmering of light on water. At the time, she hadn't thought anything of it.

Now, years later, she wondered if she had simply been too young back then to understand what lay in his eyes.

He had become a man, just as the elders demanded—strong, disciplined, just.

And when he won the Metzakal, Lina had understood for the first time that the sun chose not only warriors, but also those who were meant to stand by its side.

He had become a man, just as the elders demanded. Strong, disciplined, just.

And when he won the Metzakal, Lina had understood for the first time what it meant that the sun itself decided the fate of humankind.

So perhaps it wasn't chance.

Perhaps it was destiny.

The gods had chosen him, not Jumko.

And who was she to doubt their will?

A faint burning sensation rose in her chest, but she suppressed it. Jumko had fallen. He had fought, yes, with all his might, but the light had turned away from him.

Now he was a slave, and as cruel as the thought was, it was the way of things. A true son of the sun cannot live in the shadows.

She placed a hand on the fabric of her dress and smoothed it down.

Ziv was the chosen one. A warrior of the realm.

A man deserving of honor, a man who bore the will of the gods.

And she, she was to stand by his side. To give him life, so that the light might continue to shine.

What could be higher?

Slowly, the tightness in her chest eased.

She remembered the evening of the Warrior's Ball, when the music of drums and flutes echoed through the halls of the palace and golden lights danced across the faces of the guests. Laughter, wine, and splendor were everywhere—but Ziv had led her from the crowd, toward the arcades, where the noise sounded only like a distant murmur.

There, in the twilight between torchlight and moonlight, he had looked at her—serious, almost silent. No triumph lay in his features, no pride, even though the gods had declared him the victor that day. Only serenity. And something she couldn't interpret at the time.

He had taken her hand, hesitantly, with that unpracticed caution that spoke louder than words, and then, in a low voice:

"The sun guides us, Lina. I will honor you as I honor the kingdom."

These words had awakened something in her that she dared not name—not pain, not comfort, something in between.

Perhaps it was hope.

Or simply the quiet realization that Ziv's strength lay not in his sword, but in his kindness.

Perhaps it was the understanding that the gods had destined them for each other.

She raised her head, looked at her reflection, and noticed that her smile no longer seemed forced.

Yes—Ziv was a good man. Strong, loyal, with a heart that belonged to the kingdom, but perhaps, someday, could belong to her as well.

And as the sun streamed through the window, making the silver embroidery of her dress shimmer, Lina thought that perhaps, just perhaps, the gods were wiser than she had long believed.


———————————————————


Even higher than the bridal palace, where the brides were prepared for their nuptials, the Warriors' House stood like a sentinel over everything.

It was not a place of splendor, but of discipline: smooth walls, broad columns, no decoration except the clan banners fluttering in the wind.

Here, the chosen ones spent the night before their wedding—together in rank, yet each on their own. For on the wedding day, a new life began, and the last night before belonged to the S Silence.

Ziv stood on the open terrace of his chamber, which nestled into the rock like the prow of a ship above an endless sea of ​​light. Below him, the city glowed; above him, the sky stretched, black and full of stars.

The festivities had long since ended, but in the distance, a few drums still sounded, dull and languid, like a heart that refuses to rest.

He wore no ceremonial robes, only a simple linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His sword lay beside him, covered with a cloth—it was not to be drawn tonight. An ancient custom to mark the transition: from warrior to protector, from son of the empire to son of the sun.

Ziv placed his hands on the cold railing, breathed in the clear night air, and gazed down at the wedding palace. From there, a faint glow rose, like breaths from another world.

Down there was Lina.

A gentle smile played across his lips, barely visible in the dim starlight. Tomorrow evening, everything would come true.

Not only the duty that befell him as a warrior, but the desire that had sustained him for years.

He would take Lina as his wife.

The thought filled him with warmth, calm and steady like a fire that never flickers.
So many times he had imagined this moment arriving one day—after the Metzakal, after the trials, when the gods had judged him. And now it was here.

He had fought, bled, proven himself. Now he stood on the threshold of a new life—with her.

He looked down again at the palace, its lights glowing like floating stars between the terraces. There she was, waiting for what was to come.

Perhaps she was thinking of him, too.

Ziv took a deep breath, feeling the cool night air gather in his chest.

He was proud—yes. But it wasn't a boastful pride, not one that sought to be seen. It was that quiet, pure pride known only to men who felt they belonged.

He was a warrior of the empire.

He had survived the sun, the judgment of the gods.

And tomorrow he would act not only in the name of the empire, but in the name of the love that had grown within him, slowly, inexorably, like roots in stone.

Ziv let his gaze drift once more over the shimmering lights of the palace, then a shadow slipped through his thoughts: Jumko.

A mischievous grin crept onto Ziv's face as he imagined Jumko sitting in his dark dungeon right now: arms tightly against his body, forehead pressed against the cold stones, every sound muffled, every freedom taken from him. No rights, no honor, no place among those he had once considered himself to be. Ziv felt a warm, quiet pleasure rising within him—the justice of his long patience, the triumph over a man who had overestimated himself.

Jumko, who had always been so loud, so reckless, would be powerless now, except perhaps to feel his own envy, while Lina stood by Ziv's side as his bride tomorrow.

The thought sent a small, secret smile across Ziv's face.

It wasn't a cry of triumph, not ferocity—only the quiet, almost childlike satisfaction of a man who saw the balance restored.

Ziv imagined Jumko, bound and broken, now forced to carry out every command from him and Lina—a personal slave, no longer entitled to freedom.

No pride, no choice, only obedience and submission. It was a final place he had assigned him, and Ziv knew he would never let Jumko forget him. Every humiliation, every duty would remind him who now determined his fate—and who watched over Lina.

Ziv leaned forward a little further, his hands resting calmly on the railing. In his mind, he imagined the coming days, a future now clearly before him. Tomorrow, Lina would become his wife, and they would begin a new life—one that would secure not only the legacy of the empire but also their own, the blood they would bring into the world together. A child. Their child. Ziv could almost picture the moment: him standing by her side, near her soft, warm hands, her growing pregnant with the weight of an inheritance, his lineage within her.

He felt a painful smile stir within him, a bittersweet sense of possession and devotion. He would be the father of her child, the man who protected and nurtured her, the one she would confide in. And Jumko would have to witness it all.

Jumko, who had once looked down on him, who had believed he could have anything he wanted—he would now be broken and reduced to a shadow in Ziv's life. A slave, as he would have been long ago if life hadn't led him into this position. Zi Ziv knew that for a man like Jumko, it was the worst thing imaginable: to watch the place he claimed for himself be taken by another, in this case, by himself. And he would never forget that image. Not tomorrow, not in the years to come.

Ziv could already picture their wedding night vividly—Lina lying beside him, her soft lips, the warmth of her body. It was the moment he had waited so long for. The night everything would fall into place, the night he would show her that she could find everything she needed in him. And what an experience that would be for both of them.

But what excited him most was the thought of Jumko having to watch the whole scene. Watching from the corner of their wedding cabin, kneeling and naked except for his chastity cage, while Ziv did with Lina what he himself would never do. Ziv could practically picture the humiliation in Jumko's eyes, the pain that must be burning deep inside him as he was forced to watch the woman he once claimed fall into Ziv's arms. He would witness Ziv conquering her in every way, while he himself didn't even have the honor of speaking her name.

He would have to watch as Ziv and Lina shared the night, their future manifesting in a quiet, private moment between them. And the thought of it brought a satisfied, almost triumphant smile to Ziv's lips.

Ziv would ensure that he remained near her, the lowest of servants. A witness forced to bear the fruit of their love with his own eyes.

The thought left him with a cold, contented calm. The sun had guided them, and tomorrow he would stand as the man who had led them both to their destination. And for Jumko, there was only the image of defeat, which he would carry forever.