Game 9 - Part 1

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“The only outcome you can accept is my defeat? There’s no possibility for cooperation?”
“None.”
“Why?” Arlo asked, his expression and voice both flat.
“Didn’t you already say it for me yesterday?” Ganyet repeated, word for word, the phrases he had used. “I’ve made up my mind to destroy you; taking up the captain’s insignia was just so I could trample you beneath my feet.”
Arlo sneered. “All for that?”
“That’s not reason enough? Fine, I do have other motives. I’m rather pleased to have the Council of Sages owe me a favor,” Ganyet leaned back slightly, her gaze dropping as if she had suddenly developed a keen interest in his sleeve draped over the table. “You were wearing this very robe on the day of your promotion.”
Arlo stared at her, uncertain why she had so abruptly changed the subject.
It surprised him equally that Ganyet recognized the green robe. Last year, at the time of his advancement, she had been secluded in ascetic practice on an isolated island.
Arlo was, of course, aware his portrait had appeared in the main newspapers of the City of a Thousand Towers. The months of attention and gossip were a glorious torment every new Magister had to endure.
Not only mages, but even ordinary children could recite all the Magisters’ names by heart. During games of hide-and-seek, they’d chant the names, each with its own nickname, as if invoking some protective spell:
“Magda’s best with fire, Uli’s hands are silver, Adonis gazes at the stars…”
But on Black Reef, the islanders cared little for the world beyond; timely publications found few readers there.
Was Ganyet’s resentment toward him so deep that she’d had the Osini household collect every scrap of his latest news, sending them along with other supplies to her island exile? The idea was ridiculous, and was effortlessly shattered by her next words:
“I went to the Sage’s Tower this morning.”
There was something odd in the way Ganyet fell silent, as if she’d impulsively torn away the second half of a letter she’d already written.
Arlo needed no further explanation. He knew what she had seen at the Sage’s Tower.
The Sage’s Tower was the heart of the city. At its summit, a circular gallery burned with white torches day and night, illuminating the portraits that lined its walls. Since the founding of the magical capital, every Magister had left an image of themselves in the Torch Gallery upon their promotion.
The Arlo in the frame wore this very dark green robe.
Ganyet also knew why he had suddenly fallen silent. Trivial memories rose, roaring, from the depths of the mind.
—Guess which of us will be the first to have a portrait hung in the Torch Gallery?
—Does it matter who’s first?
—I suppose not.
They would both have portraits there, side by side, their names recited together by children a hundred years from now. It had once been a certainty, and perhaps it still was. Only, what had once seemed natural had soured, turning into bitterness and frustration.
She blinked, continuing to discuss the benefits of having the Council of Sages in her debt: “If I help some acquaintances rein in your troublemaking and diminish your influence, they might agree to make an exception and let me undergo the advancement examination ahead of time.”

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Arlo said nothing, but his pupils dilated, and his breathing grew suddenly audible. She hadn’t digressed at all; his green sleeve was simply the signpost to her next declaration.
Ganyet was twenty-one this year, with one year left to surpass the speed of his own advancement to Magister.
“Prepare yourself,” she said with a thin smile, rising to face Arlo across the desk. “Not only will I take command of the Guard, but I’ll also seize the title of ‘youngest Magister in history’ from you.”
A silence stretched so long it seemed to swallow time.
At last Arlo gave a low laugh, his green eyes glinting with mockery. “To defeat and humiliate me is the sole ambition of the Osini heiress returned home? Should I feel honored?”
Ganyet scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You just happen to be standing in my way. I want to move forward, so naturally I have to kick the first stone out of my path.”
The vividness of the metaphor angered Arlo.
With a thud, he struck the desk with his fist. The heavy walnut table trembled in protest.
“You say I guessed wrong—I wish I had. But when have I ever stood in your way? Why must it be the Thirteen Towers Guard?!” He leaned over the desk again, repeating the question, his tone no longer the restrained, resentful one he’d used in the tavern.
“You’re the epitome of a distinguished heir, so of course you look down on new disciplines like interdimensional studies. Any magical academy would scramble to invite you; the classical factions control so many guards, they could easily make room for you as a leader. You could ignore the Silver Cloaks and me entirely—just as all your family’s friends do.”
Arlo seemed unconcerned that his raised voice might draw attention from outside; he only spoke faster.
“You have so many better, more suitable options, yet you insist on snatching up this new organization you consider beneath you, simply because I founded it. You refuse to cooperate, because you want me to fail and submit. You’re targeting me, all because it’s me—am I wrong? Have I misunderstood!?”
His words came in a storm, question after question. Ganyet, at her limit, snatched up the crystal paperweight and slammed it down.
The dull blow resounded like distant thunder; the last unspoken scruple between them quaked, then collapsed.
Her expression was glacial, her voice sharp with fury. “So what if I am?!”
Arlo gave a low laugh.
“What are you laughing at?!”
“At you.”
Ganyet’s grip tightened on the beast-shaped paperweight. Arlo’s eyes flickered; he noticed, but did not shrink back. His smile only widened, as if daring her to resort to violence.
“Because I’m the disgrace of the Osini family, you must defeat me in every way. Even your rush to become a Magister is just so you can do it faster than I did. Only by proving that Arlo Shaya is nothing but a trivial stain can you feel less miserable about yourself. You live in the shadow of your surname; it dictates everything—your magic, your enemies, your methods, your values.”
He gave a long sigh, as sharp as a needle in her chest.
“Honestly, Ganyet, doesn’t that bore you?”
For a heartbeat, her mind went blank. Pop—a full water bubble, pricked by the gentlest touch, burst unexpectedly on a distant ripple.
She held her breath; her heart seemed to stop. She stared at him, unmoving. Then, very slowly, she exhaled, emptying her aching chest of stale air, until her ribs and sternum compressed inward and a fresh suffocating pain spread through her.

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Ganyet said calmly, “Of course it doesn’t bore me.”
There was something in her voice that froze Arlo’s rising anger. He opened his mouth, but found no retort.
“After you left, Jasper and I had to face things to protect ourselves and the Osini name—things I’ve only let you taste a tenth, a hundredth of.”
He drew a deep breath. “How many times must I repeat myself? I have no idea what savage struggles your great and noble family has endured, and I don’t want to know. From the moment I left Flowrock City, that was your business, not mine. I’m just a banished, failed student—not the architect of all your misfortunes!”
Ganyet released the crystal paperweight and sat back down, her tone cold and impassive. “Very well, then let’s speak only as professionals. As the Osini heir, it’s my duty to punish the traitor who brought shame to our name. Aligning myself with the other classical elders and treating you as an enemy is only natural.”
She made an inviting gesture. “I’m simply doing what I must. You’re free to resist as you will.”
Arlo stepped back, his green sleeve ebbing from the table’s edge like a retreating tide, the sharp emotions from before vanishing with it.
He resumed his usual languid, insouciant air, shrugging. “You’re right, I do care about the success of the Thirteen Towers Guard. After all, many in the unit have waited ages for a real commission—and just as they’re getting it, they’re to be thrown back into obscurity? I’d feel bad for them. Convincing that pack of elders on the Council was no easy feat, either.”
He paused, deliberately dramatic, then softened his tone with a gentle smile. “But if you really think that’s enough to tie my hands, you underestimate me.”
“At worst, I’ll walk away with my people. Start from nothing again—it wouldn’t be the first time. What’s there to fear? If I could found the Thirteen Towers Guard, I can create a Fourteen, even a Fifteen Towers Guard. You’re welcome to try and take each one from me.”
Arlo’s words were blunt to the point of rudeness, and his gaze flashed like a naked blade—confidence sharp enough to wound.
Ganyet knew that expression well. His features still bore traces of the boy he’d been, but the man before her was undeniably changed—sharper, taller, wearing with ease the formal mage’s robe he used to mock so caustically.
What hadn’t changed was that irrepressible pride, heedless of rules and tradition.
For the Council of Sages to allow an additional Guard had already been a breach of precedent; to expect them to yield again was pure fantasy. Yet coming from Arlo, it sounded almost plausible.
When he’d been a teenager, he’d calmly declared he’d become a Magister one day. The other apprentices had laughed at his arrogance, daring to pursue the same goal as the heiress.
But he had done it. Perhaps ‘talent’ truly meant that whatever a person set their mind to, they would ultimately achieve.
If she wished, Ganyet could probably destroy Arlo’s Fourteen, Fifteen, even a Hundred Towers Guard, one after another. But if that were all she lived for, wouldn’t it prove his point—that her only purpose was to defeat Arlo Shaya?
Absurd!
“Oh, there’s another way,” Arlo said, watching her expression. “If you really hate me that much, then let’s duel.”
“What?” Ganyet didn’t follow.
“Any distance—ten paces, twenty, you choose. Three rounds. I’ll use only defensive magic. You can do whatever you like; no restrictions on how you attack.
“If I endure, you have to change your ways in the Guard. If I’m wounded or crippled, I’ll take full responsibility. If I die, then I was simply not your equal,” his pugnacious green eyes sparkled, “and if I really die, surely that will satisfy you.”