The Festival of New Growth

The Festival of New Growth had transformed Vicus Virelia from a modest market town into a riot of colour and sound. Bright banners in green and gold fluttered from every building, and the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, fresh bread, and spring flowers. Cassius wove through the crowds, his family moving as a unit through the familiar chaos.

"Stay close, Lucia," Livia called as the youngest Virellius darted toward a puppet show. "The competitions begin soon."

"But Mother, they're doing the tale of the Knight-Commander!" Lucia protested, even as she obediently returned to Cassius's side. "With real fire effects!"

"After the sparring," Cassius promised, ruffling her hair. "You can cheer for me first, then we'll watch the puppets set things ablaze."

Merchants hawked their wares from colourful stalls—early spring vegetables, leather goods, small Aether-touched trinkets that glowed faintly in the morning sun. A group of traveling minstrels performed near the fountain, their lutes and drums adding to the festive cacophony. Even the usually dour Baron Tiberius had relaxed his stern expression, though he kept a protective hand on his coin purse as they passed the gaming tables.

"Young Master Cassius!" A voice called out. Brennus, one of the household guards from yesterday's hunt, raised a cup of ale in salute. "My coin's on you for the youth spar!"

"Don't spend your winnings before I've earned them," Cassius called back, but he appreciated the vote of confidence.

The sparring grounds had been set up in the town square, the usual cobblestones covered with packed sand. A raised platform allowed the judges—three retired soldiers from various households—to observe clearly. Rope barriers kept the crowd at a safe distance, though 'safe' was relative when excited townspeople pressed forward for better views.

"Fourteen competitors this year," Marcus observed, consulting a chalk board where names were listed. "You're in the third match. Against... hmm, the Thatcher boy. Should be straightforward."

Cassius nodded, already assessing the other young competitors warming up. Most were familiar faces—sons of merchants, minor nobles, and prosperous farmers. Their movements were predictable, their training evident in every practiced form. But one figure drew his attention.

Gaius Macer stood apart from the others, his practice strikes making the air whistle. At fourteen, he was already built like a legionary, all broad shoulders and thick muscle. Where Cassius was lean and quick, Gaius was solid as a fortress wall. His technique was textbook Aethelian military—powerful, direct, and devastating when properly applied.

"Admiring the competition?" The voice dripped with condescension. Baron Fulvius Macer had approached, his ample belly straining against his festival finery. "My Gaius has been training with former Legion champions. Real warriors, not house guards playing at soldier."

Tiberius's expression cooled. "Decanus Gallio served with distinction in three campaigns. His instruction has served my son well."

"We shall see." Baron Macer's smile was all teeth. "Though I worry about young Cassius. Such a slight boy. Gaius might accidentally break him."

"Cassius knows how to avoid being broken," Tiberius replied evenly. "Sometimes the indirect path proves most effective."

The two Barons locked eyes, decades of petty rivalry condensed into a moment of silent challenge. Then the trumpet sounded, calling competitors to the square.

"Good fortune, my son," Livia murmured, squeezing Cassius's shoulder. "Fight with wisdom."

"And don't let that oaf flatten you," Marcus added quietly, surprising Cassius with the support. "Show them what a Virellius can do."

The early matches passed quickly. Cassius dispatched the Thatcher boy in under a minute, using a simple redirect of the boy's overenthusiastic charge into a controlling throw. His second opponent, a merchant's son with decent footwork, lasted longer but fell to a combination of feints that left him off-balance and vulnerable to a precise palm strike.

Gaius's path to the finals was less subtle. He simply overwhelmed his opponents with crushing force, his strikes landing like hammer blows. One boy yielded after a single punch cracked his wooden practice shield. Another was driven out of the ring by sheer momentum. The crowd loved it—the visual spectacle of raw power on display.

"Efficient," Cassius murmured to himself, watching Gaius dispatch a semi-finalist with a brutal shoulder charge. "But predictable."

"Talking to yourself?" Servius appeared at his elbow, face flushed with excitement. "Half the town's betting on Gaius. The other half's on you. My da put a whole silver on you, so don't make us poor!"

"Your faith is touching," Cassius said dryly, but he was already moving toward the ring. The final match. Him versus Gaius. The crowd pressed closer, their energy palpable.

"Rules are simple," the head judge announced. "First to yield, fall unconscious, or leave the ring loses. No eye gouging, no groin strikes, no biting. Otherwise, show us the future of Aethelian warfare!"

Cassius and Gaius faced each other across the sandy circle. Up close, the size difference was even more pronounced. Gaius outweighed him by at least thirty pounds, his arms thick as young trees.

"Going to dance around like your lessons teach?" Gaius sneered. "Or will you fight like a real warrior?"

"I'll fight like a winner," Cassius replied calmly. "The method is secondary."

Gaius's face reddened. The judge dropped his hand. The match began.

Gaius charged exactly as Cassius expected—a straight-line rush designed to use his superior mass. Cassius didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped into the charge at an angle, his palm finding Gaius's elbow and redirecting the force. Gaius stumbled past, his momentum carrying him almost to the rope.

"Lucky," Gaius snarled, whirling around.

This time his approach was more measured, fists up in proper guard. He threw a series of heavy punches—technically sound, powerfully delivered. Cassius weaved between them, not opposing the force but moving with it, always seeking the angle Gaius didn't expect.

When Gaius threw a particularly committed right cross, Cassius dropped low, his leg sweeping in that same unorthodox combination he'd used against Gallio. But Gaius had been warned. He lifted his forward foot, avoiding the sweep, and brought his knee up toward Cassius's descending head.

Cassius converted his motion again, hands hitting the sand as he rolled aside. Sand sprayed up, momentarily obscuring vision. When it cleared, Cassius was behind Gaius, his heel hooking the larger boy's ankle just as he tried to pivot.

Gaius went down hard, but he rolled with surprising agility, coming up with sand in his fist. He flung it at Cassius's eyes—not technically illegal, if unsporting. Cassius had anticipated it, already moving, using the moment of Gaius's distraction to close distance.

The next exchange was pure controlled chaos. Gaius's strength versus Cassius's speed and angles. They traded strikes, blocks, and counters in a blur of motion. The crowd roared approval as Gaius landed a glancing blow to Cassius's ribs, then groaned as Cassius used the impact to spin inside Gaius's guard.

"Yield," Cassius said, his palm pressed against Gaius's throat, other hand controlling the larger boy's wrist.

"Never!" Gaius tried to power out of the hold, his greater strength beginning to tell.

So Cassius did something unexpected. He let go.

Gaius, pushing against sudden nothingness, stumbled forward. Cassius was already moving, his foot finding the back of Gaius's knee while his hands guided the larger boy's momentum. Gaius hit the sand face-first, Cassius's knee planted firmly between his shoulder blades.

"Yield," Cassius repeated, applying just enough pressure to make his point.

For a moment, Gaius struggled, pride warring with reality. Then, muffled by sand: "I yield."

The crowd erupted. Cassius helped Gaius to his feet, offering a respectful nod that was not returned. Across the square, Baron Macer's face had turned an alarming shade of purple, while Tiberius maintained his composure despite the obvious satisfaction in his eyes.

"Cassius! Cassius! Cassius!" Lucia's voice cut through the din, and Cassius saw her bouncing on Marcus's shoulders, waving wildly. Even his older brother was smiling, caught up in the moment.

"Well fought," the head judge declared, raising Cassius's hand. "Victory to Cassius Virellius!"

The next hour passed in a blur of congratulations, backslaps, and free drinks pressed into his hands (which his mother discreetly redirected). Cassius found himself demonstrating the hand-plant sweep to a group of eager young boys, while merchants tried to gift him their wares for the "honour of the champion wearing them."

"You made me look foolish," Gaius had found him near the puppet show, where Lucia was finally getting to watch Knight-Commander Aurelius battle wooden dragons. "Those tricks won't work twice."

"Then I'll use different ones," Cassius said simply. "That's rather the point."

Gaius's fists clenched, but his father's hand fell heavy on his shoulder. "Come, Gaius. We have... matters to discuss." Baron Macer's eyes were cold as they met Cassius's. "Congratulations, young Virellius. Enjoy your small victory. In the greater game, established strength always prevails over clever tricks."

They departed, leaving a wake of uncomfortable silence. Tiberius appeared at Cassius's side, voice low. "You fought well. But Baron Macer is not entirely wrong. Cleverness without power to enforce it has limits."

"I know, Father." Cassius touched his ribs where Gaius had landed his blow, feeling the bruise already forming. "But until I have that power, cleverness will have to suffice."

"See that it does. And Cassius?" A rare smile touched his father's lips. "Well done."

As night fell and the festival continued around them, Cassius sat with his family, watching fire-breathers and acrobats perform. His body ached pleasantly from the day's exertions, and the warm weight of Lucia sleeping against his shoulder grounded him in the moment.

Yet his mind was already moving forward. Today he'd proven that innovation could overcome traditional strength. But his father was right—there were limits. Real power, Awakened power, that would be the true test.

Tomorrow he would return to his studies, to his training. Tomorrow he would continue preparing for a future he could feel approaching like storm clouds on the horizon.

But tonight? Tonight he had earned his small victory. And sometimes, small victories were the ones that mattered most.