Lina Invi's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Lina Invi crouched on a tile roof above the arena gates and counted the guards turning women away. Six so far this morning. She had crossed two countries to reach this place, and the man she came for was inside. Three years ago, in a tavern full of drunk soldiers, she had heard them argue over a champion who fought three days straight and walked off laughing. She set her cup down then. She had been moving toward him ever since. The problem was her clothes. Black wrap, mesh sleeves, the short blade at her hip — anyone with eyes knew a kunoichi when they saw one, and the champion's circle did not let shinobi near him. She had watched a woman in silk pass through the gate with a nod. She had watched another in a kunoichi's grey get marched back down the steps before she finished her sentence. Lina did not mind work. She minded wasted nights. Below, a crowd thickened around the arena steps. A man in an orange suit and dark glasses stood on a crate with a microphone, calling names and prices for the afternoon bouts. Starlark Grandstand, the placards said. He pointed his microphone at a huge fighter in purple trunks climbing the stairs. Mr. McMuscle Armstrong waved both arms and the crowd roared. Lina watched the gate guards laugh along, distracted, then snap back into line the moment a woman approached. She dropped from the roof into an alley behind a laundry line and stripped. She traded the black wrap for a merchant's daughter's day-dress hanging to dry, left two silver coins on the sill, and tied her blade flat against her thigh under the skirt. She rubbed flour from a barrel into her hair to dull the shine. She kept her sandals. A girl had to walk. She joined the line at the gate with a basket of pears bought off a boy for triple price. The guard looked at her hands first, then her hem, then her face. She smiled the smile she used on tax officers. He waved her through. She climbed the steps into the Champion's Ring Arena and felt the noise close over her head like water. She found a place along the rail and started counting men in the champion's box. He was not there. A second fighter caught her eye instead, stripped to the waist, two sword hilts crossed over his back, scanning the crowd the way she scanned it. Saber Warborn, the placard under his corner said. Their eyes met. He held the look one beat too long, then turned back to the mat. Lina set down her basket. The champion was missing from his own arena, and someone in the building knew where he had gone.