Author Games: Dawn of Nameless Desires

Task Two Entries: Trokya

William Pernelle

As it turned out, the elven messenger hadn't been alone. Sitting outside the manor was a grand carriage, the biggest one Wyatt had ever seen. Every inch of it was decked in blue and silver, with Trokyian flags painted on the sides. Guards stood stiffly around it, looking uncomfortable in their formal elven dress, each of them armed with short swords—Wyatt counted five guards at least.

He had to laugh. He had to. It was part parade, part prisoner escort, and all overblown nationalistic spectacle that, if he lived, would most likely embarrass him for the rest of his life.

A glance at the open stable door showed that the messenger had left, undoubtedly in an effort to return to the capital before sunset. Apparently, not even the queen's court liked running into bandits. It was good news, though: if he was lucky, the messenger hadn't had time to inform the guards that Wyatt was less than thrilled about the whole idea. And in this game, advantages could be key.

Two of the guards stepped away from the carriage, both with stronger builds than the typical elf, both identical in their stony expressions. Even at a glance, it was clear that he would not be able to overpower them easily.

Not that it was much of an option.

"You're Wyatt Pernelle?" one of them said.

He hesitated. Lying was an option, but with his father right inside, it wouldn't take them long to figure out the truth. Then he'd really be up a creek. "Yes . . ."

The guard inclined his head towards the carriage. "Get in."

Wyatt swallowed hard. The words had a finality to them that he didn't like at all. It'd mean accepting what his father had done, and agreeing that the queen had the right to draft him for the Tournament in the first place. Both of which made his skin crawl to think about. "Can I have a couple of minutes?"

"You're going to bid farewell to your parents?" the other one asked, his mouth curving the tiniest bit.

He'd planned on it, but the more he thought about it, the less appealing that became. What would he even say? Hey, Father, I'll be going now, hope you can find someone else to whip? His brothers weren't much better. As for his mom, well, he doubted she'd even notice he was gone. "Well—"

"Get in," the second guard repeated. The slight curve was gone. "It only gets harder."

Wyatt climbed in, deciding he'd rather do without additional bruises.

The other three were already there. A violet-skinned elf studied him for a long second before letting out a breath and turning her gaze back to the window. Her seatmate, a nobly-featured woman in ragged clothes, just sniffed.

That left the plain man on the other bench, who gave him a warm smile. "Greetings. I'm Taryn. And you are . . . ?"

Wyatt sat down next to him, mustering a shaky grin. "Wyatt."

A whip sounded outside, spurring the horses into motion. Wyatt flinched, his body instinctively tensing as he prepared for the pain. It never came. After several seconds, he let out a sharp laugh. Pathetic. He looked pathetic. What kind of champion flinches at even the sound of a whip? One who wouldn't last long, that was for sure. "Uh, sorry 'bout that."

Taryn's eyes were clouded. "Are you all right?"

The sudden kindness nearly brought tears to his eyes. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had said anything similar—more than a couple of years, for sure. Wyatt looked away, not wanting the near-stranger to know how much it'd meant to him.