What Vocht failed to explain was that, during the free hours before one of Dazeen's arena coordinators could get to him, he would be dragged through a darker abandoned walkway that ran between the underside of the bridge town and the arena's sprawling structure.
It was a multi-pinned, thin bridge, once used for repairs on the underside, but now a newer one had been built alongside it—more stable, with additional framework stapled across its length.
The walkway was barely wider than Arlen in his new attire, making their sneaking precarious at best.
Cold wind seeped through the criss-cross of logs, creaking the entire underside of Dazeen. The massive river roared below in a raging cry. Just when Arlen thought everything was about to collapse, a trap door appeared, Vocht holding one side open.
"This," Vocht began, "was one of the ways to get under and repair the bridge. Now it's hardly used, just a secondary entry point." He nodded upward, gesturing for Arlen to climb through.
The wooden square frame had aged poorly, its edges rough with uneven seams. Arlen winced as splinters gouged his fingers before he hauled himself into a dark interior—not night-dark, but the stillness of a closed chamber.
Vocht joined him moments later, closing the doorway before breathing silently. He began explaining while Arlen stood completely in the dark, uneasy and uncertain.
"This small building connects to another, mainly used for storage. The one to the right houses the mills where most work happens. It's too early for anyone to be around. That door there—" He pointed forward, the silhouette of his hand barely visible against deeper darkness. "—leads to a back path, a walkway used mainly in this neighborhood. No residents live here, and to the left of the path is a corner building. That's where the Gauging Halls are."
Arlen remained silent, understanding what Vocht was telling him, building an image in his head as the man described the layout of this small section of Dazeen.
"Vocht," Arlen whispered, then winced at the smell invading his nostrils—old wet wood, moss, mildew, something rotted. The darkness hid his expression from Vocht. "I don't want to violate Dazeen's laws and jeopardize your standing in town. We don't have to do this."
"That's true," Vocht replied quickly, his understanding tone puzzling Arlen. "But I'm very curious about this. I need to see what the Gauging pool reads of your Flare Presence, and honestly, I don't much believe you'll win the matches, so proper entrance into Dazeen feels like a distant dream for you. That's why we must do this."
"We don't need to, but if you don't mind breaking some laws, so be it. Not like I belong here anyway." Arlen disregarded caution after Vocht's unconcerned confirmation, feeling somewhat more at ease.
Vocht approached the door, where thin, barely visible warm light leaked through the seams, probably from lanterns outside.
The door creaked open halfway as Vocht peered out, scanning the walkway before signaling the all-clear.
Stepping outside, Arlen found himself on a narrow wooden path in the early morning. The fading blue sky cast a warm yet dark glow across everything. Lanterns and lamps lit the long walkway—a back path, as Vocht had called it. It resembled a boardwalk, wooden planks set into the ground, with lines of buildings on either side. The structures directly in front of them had their backs pressed against larger ones, probably homes.
To Arlen's amazement, the town seemed much larger inside than it had appeared from a distance. If he didn't know better, he might have thought it a proper city. His familiarity with urban centers put his estimation of Dazeen's population at roughly seven thousand.
"Amazing," Arlen murmured to himself.
"What?"
"Nothing." He composed his expression into something more formal and driven. "So, where's the place?"
"Right this way."
Vocht walked slowly to the left. The long path showed its age, floorboards cracked and lined with wear. They passed buildings one by one: Tanner's Yard with its engraved leather sign hanging above a chained doorway; Malian's Leathers; a small Cartwright building with dust and wooden debris scattered across the thin alleyway between structures; two individual ferrymen's posts, long buildings that eventually led to one called The Baths of Presence.
This final building differed architecturally from the others—taller, wider, curving to meet the walkway on the other side. Finer wooden pillars and careful woodwork lined the windows of what appeared to be two floors. The wood looked clean, well-maintained.
Vocht approached the front door before raising a cautionary hand. Silence fell as footsteps grew louder, approaching from around the corner. Sweat beaded on Arlen's temples.
They waited, and the footsteps gradually faded.
Vocht walked to the door, glancing back at the distant guard who wore no special attire—apparently, Dazeen didn't bother with uniformed guards.
The door was unlocked. Vocht twisted the bronze knob, which glinted in the early light while the sky still clung to night. Inside they stepped, closing the door slowly behind them. The fresh, cold air gave way to warm, dry but clean air scented with lavender, hanging lanterns casting a gentle glow.
A wide, spacious area with colored wooden flooring spread out before them. A grand, adorned staircase led up and split toward either side of the second floor. They halted their steps on the empty floors. White paint lined four streaks marked by black zigzags along each one. Yellow filled the spaces between, dotted with white incremental marks. The colors matched Eskadar's standard array, seen on ornate flags atop lordling towers or along borderlands to the far east.
Between them and the wide staircase at the back stood a large basin built of glossy clay turned white, dug into the floor.
Inside lay a large pool of water, similar to those Arlen had seen in Mazander.
"I assume you know what to do?" Vocht asked, and Arlen nodded.
They approached the pool, staring at the clear water. It looked freshly cleaned, as it would be after each use, especially given the building's endless supply from the river below.
"We probably have an hour," Vocht continued, "which is more than enough time. Best we start now."
"Right." Arlen drew his sword from its sheath. It gleamed in the faint light, looking different now under close examination. The center displayed a more silvery wave in the metal than before, almost like liquid caught between two faint hues of brass that met at the tip.
Arlen felt something beneath his thumb. Looking down at the hilt, he noticed two curving lines that thinned toward their points. The bottom was more angular, angling up then sideways, then down, almost resembling curving horns.
"Nice steel you have there," Vocht remarked. "Said it before, but that's something not many wield, at least no one ordinary. Not without coin worthy of such craftsmanship."
Worry crept through Arlen now. He'd been nervous during his first testing, but that feeling had faded even when he considered repeating the process months later. This time, an odd sensation tickled through him, as if another set of eyes watched from behind, weighing his every move.
He proceeded. Slitting a thin line across his palm, he winced at the stinging pain and let blood seep into the clear water, darker in the dim space. He continued until dizziness set in, until Vocht stepped forward with a rag already prepared, tying it around Arlen's wounded palm as Arlen began undressing.
Unsure of Eskian customs, he followed Mazandrian practice, which required nudity for such tests. As he stripped, Vocht turned slightly away, surprised by the display.
"All of it?" Vocht asked. "I don't think you need to remove your entire attire."
Arlen continued regardless. The armor came off smoothly, unclasping from corners and inlays unlike the rough, ragged hunting clothes he normally wore. The pieces were heavy—something he hadn't noticed until they dropped to the floor with a loud clank that made him grimace. His body felt strangely light, almost foreign to him.
He should have felt the armor's weight while wearing it, but somehow hadn't. Now unencumbered, he moved with unexpected lightness. He glanced at the saber still in his grasp, reimagining the same downward slash he'd attempted earlier. Before he could complete the motion, his instincts flared, unfocused and hazy, as Vocht dodged sideways with his own sword drawn, still faster than Arlen but not by much, their steel clashing.
"Arlen!" Vocht hissed, trying to avoid alerting any guards.
"Shit!" Arlen withdrew hastily. "I didn't mean to." He quickly set down the saber beside his chest plate and tatters.
"That's newfound speed," Vocht observed. "Why didn't you move like that during the fight with the rock-backs?"
"Because I couldn't move like that then, Vocht."
Arlen stepped into the pool. The water felt cold, brisk, and strangely heavy, hindering his movement like thick dough. This wasn't normal water—or perhaps it was, and his senses had somehow changed, playing tricks on him.
"What is this feeling?" Had'rial's voice suddenly announced, echoing through Arlen's head and making Vocht jerk his head up in surprise.