The euphoria from my magical transformation faded. I felt a breeze from head to toe, quickly realizing I was wearing absolutely nothing. I frantically searched for my robes, and found them in a shredded heap covered in sand and soot. Large splits were on the sides and back of my shirt and trousers. My boots lay in leather fragments.

  Better than nothing, I guess.

  I carefully draped the dirty tunic around me and tore off a long piece from the unusable trousers to act as a belt to tie around my more undignified angles. I ended up looking like a caveman in a shredded blue toga.

  Then there was the smell. Singed hair and smoke and blood. It was overwhelming. I resisted the urge to gag.

  I quickly remembered I had more important things to worry about. Osner was thankfully still alive, but he was in a bad way. He was shuddering and breathing rapidly. His eyes were unfocused. Quivering droplets lined his brow. A steady stream of blood still flowed from his wound.

  Think. Think! What did DeAnna tell you about how to stop the bleeding?

  I sifted through my memories of my sister’s many lectures on the subject, but all I could remember was that I needed to put pressure just above the wound.

  I wiped off both hands on my dirty toga, which arguably made them worse. I gave up and pushed with both hands above the gash on Osner’s left side. Not knowing what else to do, I started yelling like Osner’s life depended on it.

  “Help! Someone’s hurt! Help!”

  I took a deep breath to yell out again, but startled as I felt a rock of a hand clap down on my shoulder. I hadn’t even heard him approaching. It was the man with huge shoulders in the orange tunic. He smelled like oak.

  He wasted no time, scanning Osner’s features intensely. His eyes lingered on the long gash. He abruptly pulled off his tunic and ripped it lengthwise. He wrapped the long piece of orange cloth around Osner’s midsection, just above the wound. He snapped off a sturdy branch from a nearby tree and began twisting it around the fabric, winding it tighter and tighter. Homeboy made a tourniquet from his tunic!

  The bleeding slowed a bit more, but Osner vacillated in and out of consciousness.

  “Not good.”

  The man’s voice was like gravel turning in a dryer. He reached up behind his ear. He touched a tattoo in the shape of a music note set in a simple diamond. A sound like gentle waves crashing on the shore emanated from just above his ear. He spoke again in what sounded like some sort of code or address.

  “Volani-Zrclado-Myria.”

  The sound intensified to a sound like harsh static, then dimmed as a woman’s voice rang through. Her words sounded like notes on clear crystal flutes.

  “Borst? Is there trouble?”

  “Need a healer.” came the man’s gruff reply.

  “Celestial above!” she hissed. “Borst, what manner is the injury?”

  The static went quiet. He removed his finger from the tattoo behind his ear.

  The beautiful woman in burgundy robes emerged from the denser forest. Her silver eyes cut across the landscape, first landing on Osner, noticing his grave injury. Her eyes grew wider as they came to rest on the alpha manticore. They shrank to slivers when she noticed me. I shrank back, all too aware of how goofy I looked. She glared at me. Dainty feet shuffled over in a flurry of movement, her streaked ash blonde hair doing an angry bob.

  “Explain this.” She demanded, her voice an angry bell.

  “I, buh-uh..” I stammered, looking away.

  “Myria.” the man named Borst cut in. She looked annoyed that he cut her off. She started to say something but Borst spoke quicker.

  “Save the banterin’. This guard needs healing.”

  Her nose flared as she sucked air in through her teeth. Her tone chilled.

  “Step away.” she told me.

  I obliged. Myria’s temper matched her beauty. I hated admitting to myself that she did in fact look cute when she was angry. At the same time, I couldn’t understand why she resented me.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. In a shocking change of tone, she began to sing. A melody at once wistful and beautiful flowed from her lips, in a language I didn’t recognize. She reached into Osner’s wound. I could sense the magic coursing through her fingertips. It smelled like cinnamon. After some time, she pulled her hand out.

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  “Borst, pinch the folds of the gash together for me.” she said. He did.

  Her miraculous song continued. Red lines like threads formed in woven bands across the mouth of the gash on Osner’s left side. The glowing thread pulsed in a fiery light with a smell of cinnamon so strong I could taste it, leaving scorch marks along its length with the flesh sealed together.

  The magic etched itself in my memory. It reminded me of mom’s lullabies when I was younger, of dad strumming on his guitar. It was nostalgic and sad, healing what once was broken, but reminding me of the things I lost.

  She wiped her head and hands on a handkerchief she produced from a robe pocket, then tossed it to the ground. Her shoulders slumped a little, probably from the fatigue of the magic.

  She addressed Borst, giving me the cold shoulder. She was back to her usual flinty self.

  “I stabilized him but he will need more adequate care within the capital.”

  Borst nodded. Then he looked over at me, nodding in the direction of the giant manticore.

  “You going to tag it?”

  “Tag? What do you mean?” I replied.

  Borst raised his eyebrows. Myria shot Borst an accusatory glance.

  “What inclines you to think that he - she waved a hand towards me, like I was a toad- slew the beast, and not this guard?”

  Borst shrugged. “He’s here. Fight’s over there.” He gestured to the chaotic mess: a flurry of feral footprints, scorched earth, and deep grooves from gouging claws. He continued.

  “Wound’s too thick for a sword. Dunno how, but young lord Alaster did it in.” I had a hard time thinking of myself holding that title. It didn’t fit well, like a too-short ugly sweater.

  Myria looked away and hissed. She balled her fists but kept quiet.

  Borst talked to me. “Something with your house’s color to claim it. Like this.” Borst produced what looked like an orange talisman attached to a fishing line.

  “I don’t have anything like that.” I admitted. Thinking quickly I added: “I guess I wasn’t expected to do well on this hunt.”

  Understatement of the year. Osner is right, Kalculus probably wanted me dead.

  Myria huffed, but I noticed her fists relaxed slightly.

  I tore another piece off my useless pants and laid it across the manticore's neck like a ghetto bandana. I guess it would have to do. All of this was a lot to process. I felt like an imposter. It should have been my corpse on the ground, but that impossible magic saved me.

  Bugles cleaved the awkward silence, trumpeting from the direction of the carriages. Borst pushed over a bruised sapling and tore it off by the root. He gingerly picked Osner up and placed him on the leaves, having made a rustic stretcher. He wordlessly started dragging him slowly towards the arriving riders.

  The once proud attendant was nursing an arm still unbandaged, riding bareback with a cohort. He rode behind a burly guard with large pauldrons and a greatsword strapped to his back. Two women rode behind them. They both wore grey robes with veils to cover their faces.

  Both parties met at the shattered remains of the carriages, with only a couple of the vehicles still intact. The large guard rode searching the deeper forest. The two women in grey dismounted wordlessly and crouched over Osner. They hummed as one, soft white light playing through their hands. The sharp smell of spearmint lingered in the air. Osner finally stopped shuddering. His breathing calmed. The two women waved towards one of the unbroken carriages and Borst carried Osner into it.

  I turned to ask Myria how I’d offended her, but she stormed off to the other undamaged carriage and slammed the door.

  Why does she hate me?

  Borst came back from the carriage. He read the expression on my face.

  “It’s not personal.” His response caught me off guard.

  “Sorry, what?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  He regarded me as though calculating how he could explain it to me in as few words as possible.

  “Myria, well - he paused to glance at the carriage she went in - she’s gotta work ‘arder to stand above the rest in her house. It’s not you she’s angry with.”

  “It’s hard to believe that,” I said glumly. “She looked angry enough to kill me.”

  Borst just shrugged, as if that were simply one of life’s many truths.

  That’s when a blur of red and white stomped into the clearing. Bulging veins and a scarlet face to match his set of armor. With long, black, and disheveled hair he leveled his battleax at me and roared.

  “Alaster!”

  I took that back. Now it looked like someone wanted to kill me.

  He stormed towards me. Borst moved slightly ahead of me, between me and the rampaging champion. The man in red continued his tirade, not noticing.

  “I will expose you as the thieving rat you are! How dare you make a mockery of this hunt! You stole your quarry in the way that your pilfering fingers have stolen your lordship. Filthy wretch, were I not a man of the law your entrails would cover the stone as gravy!”

  Panic swelled in my chest. When people got this angry, the only thing to do was wait for the storm to pass. Saying anything now would be a bad…

  “I vouch for him, Ignis.” said Borst. My heart half-smiled and half-winced.

  The man in red’s jaw dropped for a heartbeat. Then his anger redoubled on itself, now turning on Borst.

  “You will address me in the proper manner. To you I am and will always be Lord Ikron. Your head weighs denser than stone to honor this villainy!” He turned his narrow eyes back to me.

  “Today you think you have victory. But I dare you to contest me in a setting where trophies cannot be stolen. Enter the tournament of Locturne in one month’s time. Prove to me you are truly worthy of your title.”

  I didn’t need to prove anything to Ignis. But then again, wasn’t everyone thinking it? That I had stolen a title from a noble house from under their noses? I mean, isn’t that what I did? People would never be satisfied with the court of kin’s ruling.

  Something stirred within me. Something primal resisted the urge to walk away. That same defiance that gave me the force of will to subjugate the mind of the boar and take on the manticore. I looked Ignis square in the eye.

  “I accept your challenge.”