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“Not especially,” Jiron replies. Even when fighting in the pits, he never once became nervous or anxious. Some of the others had thought him somewhat odd because of that, but the closest emotion he ever feels at this time would be a sense of expectation.

Other people on the streets are heading in the direction of the courtyard, the word of the impending fight must have spread throughout the poor section. As they reach the inn, they find carriages of obviously wealthy individuals waiting out front. “Seems this goes on a lot around here, they even attract the nobles.”

Moving through the alley to the side of the inn, they make their way through the milling crowd. As they approach the courtyard, the press of people becomes thicker and thicker until they have to practically force their way through. Jokingly, Fifer says, “I guess we should’ve arrived earlier.”

“It would seem that way,” replies Jiron.

Near the end of the alley, a group of thugs are blocking the entrance to the courtyard. When Jiron tries to move past, one of them says, “Here now, who do you think you are?”

Without even pausing, Jiron strikes out with his fists and the man falls to the ground. His two buddies immediately turn on Jiron and before the others in the crowd even know something is afoot, Jiron drops them too. Stepping over their comatose bodies, he enters the courtyard and passes through the edge of the crowd.

“Needed a warm up,” he jokingly tells Fifer. “Glad those guys could oblige.” Fifer breaks into a laugh at that.

Passing through the edge of the crowd, they enter the open space in the middle of the courtyard. The barman who arranged this fight stands over to one side with several of his cronies. Upon seeing Jiron, he disengages himself and makes his way over. “Didn’t think you were going to show?”

“Sorry about that,” replies Jiron. “Was a little bit delayed.” Looking around, he asks, “Where’s my opponent?”

“They haven’t arrived yet,” the man replies. “They’re known for being fashionably late.”

Throughout the crowd are not only the riff raff of the area, but wealthy individuals as well as those in between. To one side a pavilion of sorts has been erected, the fact that it’s currently unoccupied leads Jiron to believe it’s for the group putting up the other fighter.

The barkeep asks, “So what weapons are you going to choose?”

Jiron pats the knives at his waist.

Looking in disbelief, the barkeep exclaims, “You can’t be serious!”

“Very,” replies Jiron.

“But you’ll not last a minute against their champion!” insists the barkeep.

“I’ll be fine,” asserts Jiron.

Bystanders begin to notice Jiron and the barkeep together and a buzz begins to circulate through the crowd as he begins to be pointed out as the challenger. Money changes hands as side wagers are placed.

Aside from the crudity of the surroundings, this place isn’t much different than the pits he fought in back in the City of Light before it was sacked by the Empire. Few places ever brought a feeling of peace to Jiron like being in the pits. At times that feeling bothered him, like he shouldn’t feel that way. Maybe it’s because he had made himself there.

From the far side of the crowd, a hushed murmur begins as the spectators begin parting for a procession of several individuals making their way to the fight area. “They’re here,” states the barkeep.

Five men come walking toward them, four of them obviously being from the Empire. The fifth man, larger than the rest is wearing a hooded cloak which covers his features. As the men approach, the one in the lead says, “We’re here. Where is the man to face our champion?”

Jiron steps forward and says, “Right here.”

Looking Jiron up and down, he grimaces and says, “I thought you had someone who would be more of a challenge than the last couple.”

“He can fight,” the barkeep says nervously. “I saw him in action myself.”

The man considers it for a moment and then nods his head, “So be it.” Saying something in their language to the rest of his group, they make their way over to the pavilion