The Tournament of the Plain. Part 1

The gathering commenced with a silence that cut through the ears. At the center of the plain, the air quivered, and from it emerged an entity—tall, cloaked, its mana blazing so fiercely it dazzled the eyes.

Its face was concealed beneath a hood, but the red eyes—those same eyes Vild had glimpsed upon the throne—burned from beneath the fabric. It raised its hands, and mana surged outward, golden and thick as molten metal, forcing the crowd to step back.

Scrolls flew from its palms, scattering toward the clans—to the elves, the Dakota, the orcs, the Aeri. Tal'vir, the scarred elf, caught one, unfurled it, and read aloud: "Tel'quar sin'tara vadis nara esh'tal. (Gathering, tournament, feast.)"

Vild stood beside him, his rasping breath blending with the crowd's whispers. The scroll outlined three stages: a council of affairs, a tournament of strength, a feast—an order that felt as ancient as the plain itself.

The entity vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving the mana trembling in the air. The clans dispersed, their voices buzzing as they discussed the scrolls, and Vild decided to wander, his feet treading the grass that smelled of earth and blood.

He observed the races—orcs with tusks, snarling at one another; dwarves with hammers, debating runes in low tones. The Aeri soared overhead, their feathers flashing gold and blue, while the elves—his elves—stood apart, their dark skin stark against their white braids.

Off to the side, he caught a sound—laughter, rough and cruel, mingled with cries of pain. He ran toward it, his body, tempered by the elves' training, moving faster than it had a year ago.

There stood a figure—beastlike yet nearly human, with tiger ears jutting from dark hair and a tail lashing the ground. Her arms were clad in fur, her fingers tipped with claws, and her yellow eyes gleamed with fear and fury.

Two orcs—massive, their bark-like skin taut over fists that could shatter stone—were beating her, their laughter booming like thunder. She struggled to rise but fell, her blood dripping onto the grass.

Vild didn't think—he lunged forward, his frail yet sturdy frame planting itself between her and the orcs. The blow came instantly—an orc's fist slammed into his back, dropping him to his knees, a rasping cough tearing from his throat.

He shielded her with his body, his trembling hands holding firm as the punches landed. The orcs roared, their tusks glinting, but he didn't yield, his crooked face twisting in pain.

The tiger-girl stared at him, her yellow eyes widening, her claws clenching into fists. She rasped something—not in Elvish, not in human tongue—but Vild understood: she was thanking him.

The orcs paused; one spat, the other kicked the dirt, and they lumbered off, snarling, "Trash defends trash." Vild remained sprawled, his back throbbing, but he turned his head to her, his hoarse voice forcing out, "Tel'quar… sin'eshar? (You… okay?)"

She nodded, her tail twitching, and Vild felt something stir within him—not uselessness, but a strength born of this act.