Checkmate

Blunder

"Warriors, brace!"

The familiar sounds of combat rang in the air - war cries and grunts from the challengers, thuds, crunches and cracks as bodies hit bodies, the clang of metal on metal as swords and daggers clashed and the clack of wooden poles meeting, with the cheers of the observers adding to the noise.

There was an almost carnival like atmosphere around Clanholme, the combat fields were lively, with crowds of spectators gathered to watch every match, cheering on the challengers and passionately debating their individual merits. The Warrior Games were one of the highlights of the year, eagerly anticipated, and Clanholme pretty much shut down so that people could come witness our strongest and best Warriors and Guard display the Clan's strength. It was a blatant show of strength, designed to ensure that not only our own Clanfolk but those from other Clans knew what we could do. 

Personally, I didn't think this was a great strategy. It seemed a little daft to give people an insight into how we worked - if I were OutClan, that would just help me know who and what to target. It made more sense to keep quiet about what we could do and prove our strength when necessary. 

But then, that was my natural inclination for the shadows. 

I leaned against one of the tent holds off to the side, watching the challengers preparing themselves before their combats, watching as one young male had the Clan sigil and his name intricately painted across his back. I glanced down at my wrist, at my wristguard and the dagger it held. I slid it out, letting my fingers smooth over the cool black metal, lingering on the carved emblem at the base of the hilt - the same sigil the young male now bore on his back. 

Clan Enarda. Clan of the Black Wolf. 

I traced the sigil slowly, remembering the day Jax had given me this dagger. And the day I'd sworn my oaths on it. My fingers tightened involuntarily, I winced as I felt a sudden sharp pain in my palm, and when I glanced down, I saw that I'd cut myself on the blade.

For a moment, I could only stare at the dark crimson liquid on the darker metal. 

My blood on that blade. 

I'd shed so much blood for what this blade represented. 

From somewhere within, I felt a deep sadness welling up.

"Lio." 

I hastily sheathed my dagger, shielding my feelings and my wound from view, and looked up as one of the fastest and strongest of our Warriors approached. 

"Banf." I nodded briefly in greeting, taking in his apparel as he came to stand beside me. "The Gauntlet, I take it?" I named the most exacting of the events, a sort of obstacle race that ran through a combination of challenges, and one that only the Elite Warriors could participate in.

"And the speed race." He answered, as he pulled on his chestguard.

"Up against our Clan's Son." I remarked. "Give him a run for it."

Banf smiled slightly, glancing at me.

"Come and show us how it's done." 

I shook my head.

"Too easy." I said lightly. 

He chuckled, looking down at the buckles of his chestguard, adjusting one. As an Elite Warrior, he knew very well what I was and why I couldn't take part in the Games, so this was just idle banter.

"Too bad. That would be a challenge the Clan wouldn't forget." He smiled at me. 

"The Clan aren't out in force to watch the challenges, Banf." I said drily, looking over his tall, muscular physique and chiselled features, raising an eyebrow. "They're going to be lining up outside your bedchamber after this."