“A letter came for you today.“

  Ysa barges into my office like a landslide on legs. I could swear she’s getting bigger or the office was getting smaller. Her hair is still red though, not like mine that had gone completely gray. Better that than bald, I suppose.

  I turn back to the paperwork. She’s right off the sparring field; I could smell the sweat and sand on her. She sinks in the chair opposite mine. A cloud of dust envelops her.

  “How did it go?” I ask as she rummages in her backside pocket to retrieve the letter she just sat on.

  “Lots of bitching, general loss of fitness and an unhealthy amount of self-assurance. You know, the usual. Ah!” I ignore the crunched up wad of paper she holds towards me.

  “You going to open it?” she says.

  I refuse to look at her. “I know what it says.”

  “No, you don't.”

  Ah, that reproachful tone. It could only be followed by a threat.

  “Open it or I will,” she growls.

  I groan and look up. She holds the envelope at me like a dagger. I snatch it from her hand, stick a finger in the side, give it a yank. I suck the air through my teeth; the paper slices right through the skin and gives the letter a nice crimson spot.

  “Good sign,” she says. I give her a sour look, sucking on the cut finger. I hold the letter with the other hand and flap it about until the envelope slides off.

  “Your petition for government funding has been denied,” I read.

  Ysa curses under her breath.

  “You didn't honestly believe they would approve it, did you?”

  She sighs. “I had hopes.”

  “The whole country is in ruins and you think they have the cash to support a rundown thing like this?”

  “I had hopes. So far, hope is free.” Her teeth are bared; they always were when we argue.

  “It won't pay off our debts,” I say. “Won't be long now before they come collecting.”

  “Not all will come for it at the same time. You made sure of that, didn’t you? First rule of borrowing money: spread-”

  “Spread the loan out, never owe anyone too much. Yes, I remember your god-given wisdom.”

  Coiled and ready to spring, her sour face promises a lecture, but surprisingly she lets it pass. “Our best hope–“

  “Our only hope.”

  “– is that the show succeeds.”

  I grant her my best sardonic smile. “Might as well pray on it.” Meant as her cue to leave me.

  The silence was a touch longer than expected. “Not your worst idea,” she says.

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  I thought that would be the end of it. “You get more religious with each year, don’t you?”

  “I’m serious, Luggo.”

  “Praying’s not my brand of brew, you know that.”

  “Can’t hurt, can it?”

  I roll my eyes. “Even if I was a believer, the Temple takes coin and we have none to spare.”

  “You still have your mother’s brooch,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I pierce her with a cold stare; didn’t have to say anything.

  It was our usual standoff. We sit in silence, competing for the title of being the most stubborn person in the room. I was the first to give in and no surprise there. “You're not letting go on this one, are you?”

  “Get your sorry ass out of that chair, down the street and go make an offering to the gods.”

  “Don’t think we can afford to bribe all hundred of them.”

  “You’re still sitting.”

  I snatch up my cane and get up. I make sure to give a loud enough groan to make her feel just a little bad. “You love to send me on long walks, don't you?”

  I limp past her and out the office door.

  The staircase creaks and protests. I can barely hear the sound of my cane tapping on wood. Doesn’t sound like victory to me. I thought we’d beaten the bloody Halmurri. I was still breathing by the end of it all. Thought it meant everything will go back to normal. How na?ve of me.

  It was a proper fight, that it was. We turned the whole damned Arena into a bloody fortress. Sealed up all the entrances, took in thousands that Gaston and his kids led here with their flying gadgets. Ysa even led a raid on the city garrison to fetch back proper weapons. We must’ve thrown them back at least five times that night.

  But with all that, Arena’s days of glory were over.

  Asterion was the first to leave. How could we expect to run this show without the main attraction? I told him as much as he was packing but he would not listen.

  I was surprised he didn’t take his flashy suit of mail with him. Instead, he prepped the old kit: leather armor with the large ‘heart-protector’ bronze disk. No greaves and of course, the conical Asturian helmet with the horse-hair crest on top and the facemask, used for protection as much as intimidation. Though in Asterion’s case, he didn’t really need it, his face was intimidating enough.

  He’d lost that fabulous sword of his in the Breach so now he carried his old falcata. Not as impressive but just as deadly.

  “I’m not leaving forever, you know.” He lashed his caetra shield on top of the pack, shouldered the whole thing and gave me that stupid grin of his. “Find me a champion that will give me a good fight and I will return.” He grabbed the soliferum javelins and walked out.

  There was nothing Ysa and I could do to keep him here. We could only wave him goodbye and watch him depart. We tracked him for a while due to the bull’s head sigil, painted on his caetra staring back at us. The devotees from his homeland had it made for him, told him he’s their famous warrior-king reborn. We lost sight of him in the multitude of other soldiers for hire, tromping out of the City.

  “Will he come back?” I asked Ysa who knew him better than I.

  “The gods alone know.”

  With Asterion gone, others had quickly lost interest. After all, Arena was his life. If the Primal himself skipped ship, it really was time to go. Slowly but surely, the number of fighters dwindled and the Barracks turned into a desolate place.

  Only the Withered Weirdoes remained, simply because we didn’t have anywhere else to go: myself and Ysa, Engis and Wrothgar. Hundolin said he was willing to come back and be my bookie. Rallus felt the same; being a common city herald was not good enough, never mind he was working in the richest part of the City. He wanted to be the Voice of Arena again.

  Shortage of employees was not the biggest problem. The final Halmurri assault had caused severe damage to Arena’s structure. ‘Unsafe to admit audience’ was what the Architects Guild called it.

  Of course it was unsafe to admit the damned audience if the bloody Halmurri bastards brought a fire spewer and nearly torched it!

  I had no choice but to pay for the repairs or close shop for good. Not the best decision I ever made; should’ve given the old girl the stab of mercy. As soon as the repairs began, Architects began finding new problems. Some of the faults were old and neglected by my predecessors; I was forced to pay for their bloody negligence.

  Repairs dragged on and the bills kept coming. Couldn’t afford to pay the fighters that still showed up for practice. Tried cutting down the expenses but it was no use. Before the repairs reached midpoint, I was broke.