Mikros Leonidas's Arc

Chapter 1 of 11

Mikros Leonidas stood barely as tall as the registration table, and the red clown nose on his face did him no favors. He wanted one thing: a champion's laurel at the games. But the official looked down, laughed, and slid his shield away. "The jester's tent is that way, little man," he said. "Warriors register here." Mikros gripped the table edge. His hands were small, but the calluses were real. "I trained twelve years. Test me." "Go make children giggle," the official said. He waved the next man forward, a fighter twice Mikros's height. The line laughed. Mikros felt his face burn hotter than the nose. He stepped away before they could throw him out. That was when the ground shook. Screams rose from the far end of the grounds. A shape climbed over the outer wall, purple and huge, with a lion's body and folded wings. A manticore. Its spined tail lashed the dust. Guards ran at it and scattered like dropped coins. The beast swatted a shield tower flat. The crowd fled toward the gates. The tall official froze, sword shaking in his hand. The manticore turned its yellow eyes on him. Mikros did not run. He looked up. Beside the arena wall grew a colossal beanstalk, its vines thick as columns, heart-shaped leaves spread wide above the beast's head. He measured the distance the way his teacher had taught him. Small meant fast. Small meant unseen. He grabbed a fallen spear and climbed. His hands found the twisting tendrils. He went up quick, past the leaves, until he hung above the manticore's back. The beast reared to strike the frozen official. Mikros let go. He dropped onto the manticore's neck and drove the spear behind its skull. The beast screamed and bucked. Mikros held tight, both fists on the shaft, and leaned his whole small weight into the wound. The manticore staggered, crashed against the wall, and went still. Mikros slid off into the dust. His clown nose had come loose and hung crooked. The crowd crept back. No one laughed now. The tall official lowered his sword. He stared at the dead beast, then at the tiny man who had killed it. His mouth opened and shut. "Register me," Mikros said. "Or explain to the crowd why you won't." The official swallowed. He pulled the scroll back to the table and dipped his pen. "Name?" "Mikros Leonidas." The pen scratched. It was done. Mikros was in the games. But heads turned toward him now, and not with mockery. A woman near the wall watched him hardest of all, red hair bright in the sun, a satchel of tools at her hip. She smiled like she already knew him. Mikros had wanted a place in the games. He had it. He did not yet know that killing the beast in front of everyone had made him something worse than a jester. It had made him a target.