Page 3 of Starside

His body is quickly thrown into the fire. The flames roar, then crackle.

Fire or stone. Death or life.

This is the Questral.

In a wave of weapons, the first ring of volunteers rushes forward, only to be met with a wall of king’s guards, all wielding the highest metal. Silver.

Metal is our last remaining magic—ore from the ground, infused with power. Some varieties hold more of it, making a weapon stronger. And silver is the strongest of all mortal metals.

They’re dead. I see their swords from rows away, and I know for certain they stand no chance.

Still, they lift their blades. They bellow as they lunge forward, ready to duel.

And one after the other, copper, tin, and aluminum swords shatter against higher metal.

Their wielders are run through. They fall. They all fall. Their bodies are kicked to the side, then thrown into the flames, before they’ve even taken their final breaths.

Fuck.

The next surge of volunteers is already rushing forward. More metal fractures and breaks.

Panic rises within me like a bitter tide. My eyes widen at the blood, already spilling rivers across the stone and dirt around it. But my thumb traces the etchings down the hilt that I carved myself, the curve of a flame that mirrors the one currently melting a pile of flesh and bone. A reminder of why I’m here.

For you. I’m doing this for you.

The hawk screeches a second time. One minute, already gone.

No more standing still. I use the chaos as a cover and duck, slipping through rows, eyes fixed on the glimmering stone. Five rows away. Four—another screech. Three.

Clashing metal sounds to my left. The crowd erupts in mayhem as nothing short of a legion forces itself through its center, curved shields creating an orb-like barrier. They march as one body, inching forward, shoving anyone in their way to the ground.

Only when they reach the platform do the shields part, and out walks a man wearing glimmering armor that mimics the sun itself.

It’s crafted from pure, unfiltered gold. Selling just a piece of it would feed our village for a year. It’s nearly impenetrable, crafted with the utmost care.

I know. It was made in Stellan’s forge.

The crowd murmurs to one another, but the displeasure doesn’t rise above a whisper because Cadoc is the heir of House Bolter, one of the five remaining Great Houses on Stormside. Thousands rely on the house for food, since the Bolters own most of the remaining fertile land on this side.

It isn’t an accident. Every Questral, House Bolter has sent its eldest through the gates, and they have returned with enough magic for another half century of prosperity. For themselves, at least. They’ve hoarded relics and knowledge that make it easier for their descendants to survive the next quest. Over generations, the house has ballooned in power.

Unlimited access to gold from their House’s mines doesn’t hurt either.

I don’t have a legion. Thanks to Stellan, I don’t need one. He taught me to be strong. Independent. Resilient even through tragedy.

You rise. You rise from the ashes like a phoenix, he told me when I was just a child who wouldn’t stop crying.

Phoenixes aren’t real, I told him.

“Not here,” he said. Not here.

It was the most he ever revealed about the place beyond the gates. The one we’re all now risking our lives to visit.

Starside. The land of magic and immortals. A place that is said to glimmer like diamonds and cut like teeth.

A paradise that is lusted after and feared in equal measure. Immortals don’t die from disease, they don’t bleed, they don’t need food and water to survive. Their eyes glitter like gemstones. They are the descendants of the gods. The gods themselves live on that side, imbuing their land with endless resources.

We kill each other for scraps of that magic.