Without any warning, the champion charges straight at me. What is this? I’m not a big one! Falling over and rolling to the side, I avoid the threat, and the incoming ballistic, little body flies past me. Before hitting the edge of the circle, he skids to a halt and turns to check on what went wrong. The crowd also silences their cheering in puzzlement.

  “Non afras?” the champion squawks in question, mostly to himself.

  “Afras? Non afras?” the crowd intermittently echoes to each other.

  Mostly a collection of gaping mouths and scratching heads, the rebel stands out from the confusion, now arguing with another in the crowd standing near a big rock. However, after only the briefest period of examination, I forcefully return my attention back to the incredibly dangerous opponent.

  “Yas afras? Non afras?” he continues asking in confusion, slowly walking back in my direction.

  “Don mad. Wat afras?” I question, squatting low to prepare in case he charges again.

  “Wat afras?” he responds, rigorously shaking his head in an even deeper confusion than before. “Non mad. Gob ennu. Agobs ennu. Hap afras.”

  “Wat?” I incredulously question, finding no clear explanation in his incredibly limited wording.

  “Har sirc. Afras,” he explains in an impatient frustration, pointing to the circle carved in the dirt, and then he points up outside the circle. “Der. Non sirc. Non afras. Agob gnos?”

  So inside the circle is danger, and outside the circle is safe?

  “Ah! Gob gnos,” I confidently confirm, immediately making my way to leave the circle.

  However, the surrounding audience at the circle’s edge doesn’t budge, maintaining their stance as a tight barrier. I try to politely push my way through but can’t seem to move them.

  “Agobs? Dur? Ood?”

  No one responds to me. Rather, they choose to ignore me and discuss the situation amongst themselves.

  “Non ood. Yas?”

  “Yas. Non ood.”

  “Yas.”

  “Een een. Yas.”

  Turning back in my direction, the confused goblins blocking my way stare at me expectantly in silence.

  “Agob een? Yas?” the champion yells over to the group standing near me.

  “Yas! Een een! Afras afras!” they all yell back in loud unison, little hands raised high in the air.

  “Gud gud!” the champion cries, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation. “Non dum. Afras!”

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  Spinning back around, I barely catch sight of the little bullet flying towards me. No time to dodge this time, the champion collides with his intended target, knocking me to the ground. We roll and roll and roll, a mess of furiously tangled arms and legs wildly swinging and mostly missing.

  Terror and fear energizing my body, somehow I manage to hang on. The memory of that dead goblin floods my mind. That was probably his last victim. The mind mud shivers as the deep mind insistently howls in a low, grinding baritone. I won’t let him do that to me. I don’t care if he’s my brother. I won’t!

  The scene in the memory shifts, and my first dream takes overlays on top of reality. A single goblin opposes me in the brutal struggle of one-on-one combat to the death. Gritting my teeth, I weather the storm of his fierce assault. The fight in the dream progresses forward, slightly ahead of ours. One hand awkwardly fends off the goblin’s attacks while the other extends out towards his face. Moving my hands to chase after the dream, I ready myself for what comes next.

  Flash. Burst. Burn. Flash.

  The dream sequence transformed hot fire using the stagnant remains of arcane energy within the host, directing it at the tiny opponent. However, spent from weeks of resistance and a final, foolish defiance, only sparks and matchstick flames scratch at the goblin’s angry face. One heroic man’s last stand, fought to the last, pathetic breath.

  I’m not the same. I’m different! Ready to finish synchronizing with the dream, I move energy from core to hand. Full reserves flooding the now thoroughly practiced circuit, it’s time.

  Flash. Burst. Burn!

  Desynchronizing from the dream, a forceful blast explodes into my tiny opponent’s face. The intense flames buy me a moment of reprieve. Eagerly seizing it, I quickly retreat to the opposite side to plan my next move.

  Checking my internal state, twenty percent of my energy reserves were spent for that single flame. This isn’t sustainable. How many will it take to defeat him? If another offensive capability isn’t used for balance, then I’ll end up spent and useless from energy depletion. If only that awful partner hadn’t torn all those daggers off my belt in Tranas! If only the strong one hadn’t robbed me as well. What else can I possibly fight with?

  My full awareness returning back to the danger, I ready myself for the next attack. The crowd is joyously screaming encouragement now that we’re finally properly fighting. How long has it been? Five seconds? Less?

  An awkward eternity passes and my opponent doesn’t respond. Slowly, the crowd’s cheers die down. Confused, a few begin their questioning chants for “afras” again. Finally, one goblin squeezes his head through the wall of bodies and eagerly yells something new.

  “Ood! Agob ood! Ood ood!” the rebel happily declares, laughing and pointing at the champion lying face down in the dirt.

  This again?

  “Agob ood?” I question while still holding my stance, nervous that he’ll spring back up and surprise me if I show any weakness.

  “Yas! Ood ood!” the rebel heartily repeats, excited.

  The goblin up on the big rock towering over the crowd screams back and objects.

  “Non! Non ood. Een! Een een!”

  What is this? We’re right back to the same state as when I first arrived.

  “Agob qiz,” I demand, pointing at the rebel and then at the champion. “Qiz der. Qiz agob. Bref?”

  The rebel narrows his eyes, suspiciously glances up at the goblin on the rock, and then back down at me.

  “Non! Agob qiz. Een afras. Gob ood. Ood afras,” he craftily refuses my supposed trickery.

  Quickly searching the others’ faces around the circle, no one else makes any attempts to help me. Assuming that they still won’t let me leave, I’ll have to check him. I must know. Inching forward, I keep both hands up in case I need another release of flames to put him down again.

  Arriving at his side, I kick him once. No response. Growing braver, I push him hard with one foot, rolling him over onto his back. His face now exposed, nothing but a charred, hollowed out, black cavern remains. It’s completely caved in, burned so deeply that nothing remains inside his skull. Forget breathing, he’s been utterly desecrated and destroyed.

  My brother. My comrade. My equal. What have I done?