"The arena's ready!" a man bellowed, waving his arms as he headed toward the tavern. His shout drew a roar. The crowd jostled forward, desperate for a clear view.
All eyes turned to Weatherboot. He drained his mug with a final gulp, rose with a satisfied sigh, and the docks fell silent. Stainer snapped his ledger shut with a heavy thud—the betting was done.
"Enter the arena!" Weatherboot barked, tucking a wooden box under his arm.
The Dockmaster's Team moved first. Five young men strode toward the northern base with the swagger of those who'd already won. They rolled their shoulders, cracked their necks, slings swinging loose at their sides.
Thomas and I exchanged a glance. He wiped grease from the moss-hopper meat onto his tunic. I set my half-eaten skewer in the sand, stomach still too tight to eat.
We walked toward the southern base. The sand felt different here—looser, shifting under our boots as the dunes rose on either side.
We hung our knapsack and satchel on a pole near the entrance—no sense carrying extra weight into battle.
"Done with your strategy meetings, Soulbreakers?" Weatherboot called out, hands on his hips.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
I swallowed hard, jaw tightening. Curse him.
Weatherboot reached into his box and tossed me a leather pouch. It clinked with the weight of bleedstones.
"Two hits and you're dead," he announced. "Each team gets one pouch. When they're gone, they're gone."
He tossed a second pouch to the other team—noticeably larger, heavier.
"They have more," Thomas whispered, eyes fixed on the bulging bag.
I leaned close. "If we get close enough, target their pouch first," I breathed. "Older and stronger than us—they're useless without stones."
Thomas's eyes widened. A stifled giggle escaped. I nudged his ribs hard. "Quit it!" I hissed, dividing our meagre supply between us.
Weatherboot stepped to the arena's edge, boots grinding into sand. He spread his arms wide.
"Cheer all you like!" he roared. "Place your bets and scream your lungs raw!"
The crowd pressed closer, a wall of hungry faces.
"BUT—" His voice cracked like a whip. "You do NOT tell the fighters where their enemies are. No shouts of 'behind you!' No warnings of traps!"
He swept a deadly gaze across the throng.
"You break this rule," he said, slow and deliberate, "and I'll throw you into the pit with them."
Silence crashed down. Someone shifted nervously. A child whimpered and was quickly hushed.
Weatherboot's grin spread wide, golden tooth flashing. "This is a trial of SKILL," he bellowed. "Not a trial of who has the loudest friends!"
I felt a spark of hope. Without the crowd's interference, our traps might actually work.
"And hear this well," Weatherboot continued, jabbing a finger toward the arena. "No fists, no kicks, no wrestling. This is a trial of slings and stones—not brawling in the sand. You use your hands for your weapons, or you don't use them at all."
His gaze was sharp as a blade, sweeping from us to the five young men. They stiffened, nodding quickly.
"Now they can't just grab us," Thomas muttered, eyes gleaming.
I nodded. Maybe we had a chance after all.
"To your bases!" Weatherboot commanded.
We darted through the aisles of crates toward the southern end. The base was familiar ground—we'd studied every crate, every corner while the crew built.
Thomas scaled a rickety stack, claiming high ground as lookout.
I found a barrel with a rusted top hoop. Gripping the lid, I gave it a sharp heave until the wood groaned and popped free. The stench of sun-rotted kelp and dried shrimp shells hit me like a fist.
"Perfect hideout," I muttered. Not now—but later.
I watched Weatherboot. He stood at the edge, tugging his braided goatee. To the north, the Dockmaster's team had reached their base—arms folded, eyes squinting through salt spray.
A burly man approached Weatherboot, presenting an intricately carved box. Weatherboot drew out a shard of shell. Light caught its iridescent curve—the shimmering, bruised purple of a Deep-Trench Conch, a prize that usually cost a diver his lungs.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Weatherboot raised the conch.
"READY—"
High above, Thomas peeked over the crate edge, biting his lip.
I crouched behind a dune, sling loaded.
Weatherboot pressed the conch to his lips and unleashed a blast that thundered across the docks.
Seagulls exploded into the air, shrieking as they scattered from the beach.
The Dockmaster's Team charged.
Five against two, rushing across the sand like a breaking wave.
"Split!" I shouted.
Thomas leapt from the crates and sprinted toward the sail wall. I dove right, sliding behind a dune as sand filled my boots.
A bleedstone whistled past and burst against the sand beside me, spraying red dust.
The crowd roared.
Good. They were throwing early.
I scooped a fist-sized stone from the sand and snapped my sling once.
The rock flew low.
One of the dockhands jerked sideways, raising his arm instinctively.
Another stumbled into him.
They slowed—just for a heartbeat.
That was enough.
I loaded a bleedstone.
The sling snapped.
THUD.
Red powder burst across a sailor's chest.
The roar of the crowd turned into a scream of laughter.
"ONE HIT!" someone bellowed.
The dockhand staggered back, staring down at the stain blooming across his shirt.
My heart pounded.
One hit.
Nine to go.
