When you reach the top the world seems to shrink. Some people slide into the background, their voices squeaking and distant, their pride childish and foolhardy. Other people come into focus no matter their distance and rank. Akaithon was a noble Knight, trained in courtly graces and all the martial forms books could teach. She was as far from the wordless barbarian from the plains as you could get and still fight your own battles. But as soon as Solarel had arrived in the city the whole world around them had seemed to dissolve. 

There were many Knights and many Varangians, but both groups had polarized behind them. When they fought in the Arena, the courtly knights in the high boxes had waved green banners, while in the low boxes blue-painted tribals roared rage. Sometimes it had spilled over into brawling, but they'd never had eyes to see it. They were on their way through the tournament to meet each other and everyone in between them had felt like fog. 

Skill had forced them together but nothing could have predicted how much they'd like each other. In part it had been because neither of them had challenged the stereotypes they'd been expecting - Solarel had expected a bookish, theory-bound, pampered and utterly impractical aristocrat, and Akai had expected a mathaholic, brutish, silent thug. They had both delivered, accidentally at first, but as they realized the joke increasingly deliberately. They'd gone deeper and deeper into their roles as an increasing commitment to the bit. Akai had started dragging Solarel to courtly dances or prestigious sunfeasts and she'd responded by stranding them in the highlands and ordering her God to run back to the city ahead of them, forcing them to spend two weeks camping together in the stormlands. They'd walked backwards away from each other on the see-saw, weight perfectly balanced and keeping them exactly level. 

Their rivalry had gone from a contest to a joke they were playing on the world together. The instinctive affinity between them had blossomed into true friendship. She was the only person from the Evercity Solarel would speak aloud to, and the fact that they would insult each other out loud contained the essence of them. It went without saying that, behind Mirror, this was the opponent Solarel had spent the most time fixating on.

... She still used the two-handed blade. A barbarian weapon - [i]her [/i]weapon. She'd gifted it to Akai after she'd beaten her in the final round of the tournament. A runner-up prize, a real sword, something she didn't need any more as she ascended to take the Aeteline, the champion's trophy. Akai had evidently committed to even this bit and had not only used Solarel's old sword, but from the recordings of her fights she'd evidently mastered Solarel's old fighting style. The way the Makhaira moved felt like watching herself in her prime, only slightly slower, slightly weaker, without the Aeteline's unnatural power behind it. 

... and therein was the key. This was the second most frightening opponent she'd faced to date, and the one weakness in her armour was that simple victory wasn't her priority.

[Wicked Past: Akai takes a string on Solarel. 
How could I get you to care more about the battle than the outcome?]

"I need a lance," said Solarel. "I need - no, not just any lance. Go and ask Akaithon's crew if I can borrow one of hers."