THE FIVE THRONES

Untitled Episode

Kyla's first blade missed Sunny's throat by a finger's width.

He felt the wind of it, the cold kiss of steel, and threw himself backward. She followed, twin blades spinning, her face twisted with fury.

"Stand still, gutter rat!"

Sunny didn't answer. He circled, watching her footwork, looking for an opening. She was fast—faster than anyone he had faced before. Her blades moved like extensions of her arms, flowing from one strike to the next.

She lunged. He sidestepped, caught her wrist, and drove his knee into her stomach. She grunted but didn't fall. Instead, she twisted free and slashed at his face.

He felt the blade open his cheek. Blood dripped down his jaw.

The crowd roared.

"First blood to Kyla!" the announcer shouted.

Kyla smiled. "I'm going to carve you up piece by piece."

Sunny wiped blood from his face. "You talk too much."

She attacked again—a flurry of strikes that forced him back. He blocked what he could, dodged what he couldn't. His forearms were soon crisscrossed with shallow cuts. Blood dripped onto the sand.

But he was learning. Every strike taught him something. Every movement revealed a pattern. Kyla was aggressive—too aggressive. She left openings when she overextended.

He just needed to survive long enough to exploit one.

She came at him with an overhead s***h. He caught her wrist with both hands, twisted hard, and heard her cry out. One blade fell to the sand.

"Now," he said.

He drove his fist into her face. She staggered back, blood spraying from her nose. He followed up with a kick to her knee, then another to her ribs.

She went down.

The crowd was silent.

Sunny stood over her, breathing hard. "Yield."

Kyla looked up at him. Her eyes were wild with rage and pain. But there was something else there too—something that looked like respect.

"I yield," she said.

The announcer's voice boomed through the arena. "Winner! Sunny of the Lower Quarter!"

The crowd erupted.

Sunny walked out of the arena, past the screaming spectators, past the gamblers counting their winnings. He found Kaycee waiting for him at the entrance.

"You're bleeding," Kaycee said.

"I noticed."

"You won."

"I know."

Kaycee grinned. "You're not very celebratory."

Sunny looked at him. "Something's wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"Kyla. She's a better fighter than me. She should have won." He paused. "She held back."

Kaycee frowned. "Why would she do that?"

"I don't know." Sunny wiped blood from his cheek. "But I'm going to find out."

---

The fighter's quarters were a series of small rooms beneath the arena. Sunny found Kyla in hers, sitting on a cot, pressing a cloth to her nose.

"You," she said when she saw him. "What do you want?"

"Answers."

She laughed. "You won. What more do you want?"

"You held back. Why?"

Kyla's smile faded. She studied him for a long moment. Then she said, "Because someone paid me to."

Sunny felt his blood run cold. "Who?"

"I don't know. A woman in dark robes. She came to me before the match. Offered me a thousand silver to lose." Kyla shrugged. "I'm a fighter, not a fool. I took the money."

"Did she say why?"

"No. But she said something else." Kyla paused. "She said you needed to win. That it was important."

Sunny's mind was racing. A woman in dark robes. Yasma's messenger, Tessa. Or Yasma herself.

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.

Kyla smiled. It wasn't a warm expression. "Because I don't like being used. And because I want to see what happens next."

---

Sunny found Yasma in her garden.

She was waiting for him, as if she had known he would come. She sat on her stone bench, surrounded by flowers, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

"You paid Kyla to lose," Sunny said.

Yasma didn't deny it. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because I need you to win." She rose and walked toward him. "You're the key to everything, Sunny. You're the rightful heir to the Tiger throne. If you win the tournament, you can claim what's yours. You can destroy the families who killed your father."

"So you rigged the match."

"I made sure you would survive." Yasma stopped a few feet away. "The tournament is rigged anyway. The families control everything. They choose who wins and who dies. I just made sure you weren't on the dying side."

Sunny stared at her. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to hate her for manipulating him. But he couldn't. Because she was right. The tournament was rigged. The families controlled everything.

And he was playing their game.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Now you rest. Tomorrow you fight again. And you win." Yasma smiled. "I'll make sure of it."

---

Sunny returned to the bakery basement to find Kaycee waiting for him.

"You look worse than when you left," Kaycee said.

"I feel worse."

Kaycee handed him a waterskin. "What did you find out?"

"Yasma rigged the match. She paid Kyla to lose."

Kaycee's expression darkened. "I told you. She's using you."

"I know." Sunny drank. "But she's also helping me. I don't know how to feel about that."

Kaycee was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "There's something else."

"What?"

"Francisco. He's been meeting with someone. I followed him last night."

Sunny tensed. "Who?"

"I don't know. A woman. They met in the Deep Market." Kaycee paused. "He gave her something. A package."

Sunny's mind was racing. Francisco was meeting with someone in secret. After everything he had said about loyalty, about honor.

"Maybe it's nothing," Kaycee said. "Maybe it's part of his plan."

"Or maybe he's betraying us."

Kaycee nodded slowly. "What do you want to do?"

Sunny thought about it. Francisco had been his mentor. His friend. He had known Sunny's father. He had promised to help.

But promises meant nothing in Ember.

"I'll confront him," Sunny said. "But not yet. First, I need to win the tournament."

"And after?"

"After, I'll find out the truth."

---

The second match was against a man named Draven—a former soldier with a reputation for brutality. He had killed three men in the qualifiers. He was favored to win the tournament.

Sunny watched him from across the arena. Draven was tall and heavily muscled, with a shaved head and dead eyes. He carried a sword—a real one, not a wooden training blade.

The announcer's voice boomed. "Second match! Sunny of the Lower Quarter versus Draven of the Northern District!"

The crowd roared.

Draven stepped into the arena, his sword gleaming in the torchlight. He looked at Sunny and smiled. "I'm going to enjoy this."

Sunny didn't answer. He just raised his fists.

The bell rang.

Draven charged. Sunny sidestepped, but the sword was faster than he expected. It slashed across his chest, opening a line of fire.

Sunny stumbled back, blood soaking his shirt.

The crowd cheered.

"First blood to Draven!" the announcer shouted.

Draven laughed. "You're slow, gutter rat. This won't take long."

Sunny forced himself to focus. Draven was strong, but he was arrogant. He would make a mistake.

Sunny circled, staying out of reach of the sword. Draven followed, swinging wildly. The blade whistled through the air, missing by inches.

"Stand still!" Draven shouted.

Sunny didn't. He kept moving, kept dodging, kept waiting.

Then he saw it. Draven's footwork was sloppy when he lunged. He overextended, leaving his side open.

Sunny struck.

He drove his fist into Draven's ribs, felt something crack. Draven gasped, stumbled, and Sunny followed up with a kick to his knee. The big man went down.

Sunny was on him before he could recover. He grabbed the sword, twisted it from Draven's grip, and pressed the blade to his throat.

"Yield," Sunny said.

Draven stared at him. His eyes were wide with shock and rage. But there was fear there too.

"I yield," he whispered.

The crowd erupted.

Sunny stood up, breathing hard. He had won again. He was one step closer to the throne.

But as he walked out of the arena, he saw something that made his blood run cold.

Francisco was standing with Yasma. They were talking in low voices, their heads close together.

And Francisco was handing her something. A small vial filled with dark liquid.

Poison.