Chapter Text
“Who are you?” The girl’s voice was breathy from adrenaline, accusatory and slightly panicked.
“Wylan Hendriks.” He tried not to let her tone get to him, he extended a hand to shake.
“You’re not a champion? How’d you get here?” Her brow furrowed.
“I’m not too sure about that myself, I was inside of the tournament grounds when the Blood Veil fell.” Her expression changed at that, curious and perhaps a bit hopeful.
“What were you doing all the way out here?”
“I heard that the landmarks are quite the sight to see.” Not technically false, but certainly not the whole situation. Even if he were to divulge the entire truth, he wasn’t sure anyone with their head on straight would believe him. However, there was something in her eyes that told him she had a million more questions to ask. “What’s your name?”
“Briony Thorburn.” She mumbled, eyes flickering away in something akin to shame as she accepted his offer. Her hands were firm, calloused, and strong, it reminded him distantly of Matthias.
“Briony Thorburn?” Wylan frowned.
“Yes. My sister gave up her place in the tournament.” Briony’s eyes shifted from place to place, anywhere but directly at Wylan. The tell of an inexperienced liar.
“Is that so?” Wylan hummed but didn’t comment further. She had enough shame within her, he didn’t need to add onto it. “Did they capture you as well?”
“We’re making a deal, I think.”
He was about to ask a series of other inquiries when a loud crash drew both of their attention. The monastery was under attack, meaning that Wylan had a chance to sneak off amidst the chaos. That of course came with its own set of problems, one of which being that the door was still locked from the outside.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any hair pins, would you?”
After a moment of stupor, she hesitantly nodded and dug two out of her tangled hair. As soon as they were in his hands he got to work, bending them into something that kind of resembled lockpicks, if one were to squint. He focused the energy adrenaline gave him into maneuvering the lock open. They thankfully didn’t appear to be all that sophisticated and he heard that telltale click after a few moments of fumbling.
The door creaked slightly as he opened it slowly. The fighting didn’t sound very close, but he knew better than to assume that fact meant he was safe from any stray cursefire. His heart soared when he spotted his bag leaning against the wall opposing the door, and hurried over to reclaim it. Briony’s footsteps sounded from behind him. When he turned back, her fingers were once again covered in spellrings. She only cast him a wayward glance before rushing out the door to the courtyard and into the fight.
Wylan took a moment to duck into a different cell, checking his bag to make sure nothing had been taken out. Thankfully, everything was in place. All he needed to do from there was sneak away without being caught in the crossfire.
Sneaking closer to the door and peering out at the ongoing battle in the courtyard, he saw Finley, Elionor, Carbry, and now Briony all fighting back against the Grieve champion—Gavin, if he remembered correctly. There was a large crater in the ground just behind where Elionor stood. Gavin had seemingly begun to retreat, moving quickly but in a lethargic way that reminded Wylan of a drunkard, meaning that his opening for escape was limited.
He sucked in a breath and slipped out of the door, immediately heading towards the edge of the courtyard to conceal himself within the foliage. Creeping along the sidelines was somewhat painful and very arduous. He tried in vain to quiet his footsteps as branches and twigs scraped against his arms. The sweater he wore only somewhat mitigated the damage.
By some miracle performed by the Saints, he made it past the crumbling remains of the exit door just as the four champions began to converse. As soon as his foot landed on the unstable ground of the moors, he broke out into a sprint.
He wasn’t sure how long he ran—his lungs ached as though it were hours—and he tripped several times over stray rocks, but he managed to put quite some distance between himself and the monastery. He gasped uselessly for breath, hands on shaking legs as he tried not to collapse. The cool autumn air nipped at his cheeks, turning them a bright shade of pink, fingers both numb from the cold and slick with his own sweat from clenching them into fists as he ran. A disgusting feeling, really, especially when paired with the dirt and grime stuck in every crevice.
Now that he wasn’t running for his life anymore and the adrenaline had long since worn off, he realized that he didn’t actually know where he was supposed to go from there. Should he risk investigating the other landmarks? Should he lay low until the whole thing ended? Spotting trees over the horizon told him that he was nearing the forest again, which would at least provide better cover than the vast expanse of the moors. Though that protection had hardly been useful, if Elionor, Finley, and Carbry found him so easily.
His jaw stretched open into a yawn, throat dry and scratchy from lack of water since before the tournament had started. Perhaps there were more pressing issues than the longterm, such as not dying in a tournament he was never supposed to be part of. A quick glance at the large, imposing structure he recently passed gave him an idea. The lights were on, meaning that it had been claimed by a champion, but Wylan was no stranger to sneaking around in such places. The castle was apparently the biggest landmark out of the seven, giving him plenty of space to work with.
He was careful to not make any noise as he crept up towards the castle, and then made the journey around its perimeter. There was a single visible entrance; a large doorway in the front connected to a drawbridge that had just begun to recede. The castle did have windows, but the landmark was surrounded by a moat, and he did not wish to know what spells lay in that water.
So he chose the only real option, the main entrance.
With a running start, he vaulted himself from the last bit of land just above the moat, and caught the edge of the drawbridge. He had no time to celebrate when he stuck the landing because if he didn’t get his body over to the other side, his hands would be crushed and he would plummet into the water. He grunted as he forced his legs to swing right, and then left, and then right again to build his momentum, before finally hauling himself over to the inside.
Finally, he allowed himself a sigh of relief, sliding down the increasingly steep slope of the drawbridge and safely to the ground. In the expanse ahead of him, a figure stumbled off into the depths of the castle, each step clearly labored. At least it seemed as though they wouldn’t be putting up much of a fight if they were to catch Wylan. Quietly as he could, he crept along the wall behind the champion, and ducked into the first room available.
Said room just so happened to be a very large kitchen, with an equally lavish dining room attached. His stomach finally remembered how long it had been since he last ate and growled. He made quick work of checking the cabinets for food—of which there was plenty—and began to eat as fast as humanly possible. It didn’t matter what he ate at that point, just that he got something into his stomach, didn’t get caught while doing so, and didn’t accidentally poison himself. Salmonella was the last thing he needed on top of all his other much less trivial problems.
Once he was finished stuffing his gullet with enough food to last him until the end of the tournament, he snuck back into the palace proper. Quietly hugging the outer walls, ducking behind every piece of furniture, and praying he wasn’t spotted. All he needed was to find a place to rest for whatever remained of the night.
The next room he encountered appeared to be for exercise, likely not somewhere the champion would check for intruders, at least not immediately. Just as he went to tuck himself into the back corner of the room behind some piece of equipment he couldn’t name, a small, shimmering light caught his attention from the corner of his vision.
“You have five seconds to explain yourself before I blast your head clean off your body.”
Gavin Grieve stood in the doorway. Exhausted, clearly annoyed by his earlier loss, and aiming a charged spell directly at Wylan.
Shit.
“I mean you no harm, I’m not a champion!” Wylan frantically waved his arms around, hopefully showcasing his lack of spellrings.
“Then how the hell are you in the tournament?” Gavin’s eyes narrowed, tightening his fist, ready to fire.
“I don’t know! I was inside the tournament grounds when the Blood Veil fell, and now I’m stuck here!” He exclaimed.
“That should’ve killed you. The last guy who tried was ripped to shreds immediately.” Gavin’s face scrunched slightly with confusion instead of anger and his fist loosened. Good, he was no longer under active threat of death.
“Good to know?” Wylan tried to grin, though he was sure it came out more constipated than jovial.
“How did you get into the castle?” The interrogation wasn’t over apparently. “No one but me is supposed to be able to get past this landmark’s defenses, especially without spells.”
“I followed you in through the front door.” He gestured vaguely in its direction. “Whatever defense spells the landmark has, they must not affect me since I’m not a champion.”
Something changed in Gavin’s expression as Wylan spoke. A burning determination within his eyes, and a dangerous glint of curiosity.
“Does it work for every landmark?”
“I haven’t exactly tested it out yet. But if they’re the same spell, then I assume so.”
Gavin finally lowered his fist and the light dissipated. Somehow, Wylan feared that whatever the champion was going to do next was far worse than simply firing off a spell.