The Forsaken Hero

This was one of those "growing experiences" Korra was always talking about. The ones that supposedly helped me overcome some trauma or fear but always left me feeling incredibly awkward and usually ended with her laughing at my expense.

That was what I kept telling myself as I surveyed the vast field west of the camp, trying my best to ignore the ten thousand pairs of eyes watching me. I’d expected some soldiers to be interested in the duel, even more so because it involved an apostle, but all of them? Surely they had better things to do than watch two young demonkin try to kill each other.

It was a growing experience, I reminded myself, shooting a glare at Korra. I was acutely aware of my tail flicking back and forth in anxiety. Everyone in the army knew what that meant by now, and my blush only darkened at that thought. I was starting to doubt the sincerity of this "growing experience." She just wanted to watch Gayron and me fight. That had to be it.

Still, reluctant as I was, I wasn’t going to squander this opportunity. I preferred practicing my magic in solitude or with my trusted friends. But fighting in real-time put a unique kind of pressure on a mage, forcing them to adapt and stretch just like they would in a life-or-death battle.

I wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t exactly that. My greatest weakness was the Sun God’s curse, which left me vulnerable to even the simplest of attacks. Fable was by my side, ready to protect me, but if one of my wards failed and Gayron didn’t hold back, it could all end there. I wasn’t particularly worried that would happen, but I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind—another drop in the bucket of anxiety.

"Xiviyah, are you ready?"

Bethiv’s voice boomed across the field, a commanding presence that instantly silenced the assembling army. He’d taken charge of the duel the moment he’d heard about it, marking out an arena a little over a thousand feet wide. It would have taken me a few minutes to cross on foot, but against the blinding speed of a seventh-level warrior like Gayron, it felt claustrophobically small. He could be upon me in the blink of an eye.

I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. Bethiv turned to Gayron, who was standing entirely at ease. Whereas I wore a simple white dress with a red ribbon sash around my waist, he wore black armor that covered his entire body except his face. He held his longsword in one hand, resting the blade on his shoulder, entirely at ease.

"Just start it already," Gayron said.