If I stick to my plan, book two of [i]True Sangheili[/i] should be finished by chapter 36. Then the third and final book will conclude the tale, bringing everything to a satisfying end. [b]Part 32 -- Loss concealed within victory[/b] San, one of the oldest cities of the Sangheili homeworld. Ancient mythology spoke of a time when Forerunners had walked amongst the Sangheili, in the newly forged flames of the then small settlement. If they had, they wouldn't recognise it now. Immensely tall buildings covered the land for dozens of miles around, most reaching up into low orbit where they connected with docking stations for ships. A domed energy shield, powered by geothermal activity beneath the surface, blanketed the city and protected it from the dangerous beings such as the few living Sharquoi outside. Where rivers had once run, now grav-strips ferrying transport vessels and commuters did. Trees as old as the land itself had long since been cut down and replaced with artificial constructs. Lights blared throughout the city, noise perpetuated every orifice imaginable. Only one relic of old remained, a miniscule, beaten dwarf amidst giants, in the centre of the city and surrounded by walls of skyscrapers. One of the first temples to be built by the Sangheili honouring the Forerunners. It had long since been forbidden to the general public, after a terrorist attack by dissenting heretics some cycles back had nearly destroyed the holy ground. An intense barrier shrouded the stone building, and guards were posted around its radius. "Are you certain we are allowed access?" Sorran asked, barely able to contain his excitement as he walked along the streets of San and clumsily waded his way through the almost solid block of tourists. Hem on the other hand moved with the crowd, not against them, and seemed at ease in this city which terrified Sorran. High Charity was by no means quiet, but it was spacious and few ordinary civilians lived there; if one stayed out of the religious districts, it could often be quite tranquil. The antithesis of the bustling San. "The philologist who maintains the first temple is an old friend of my house's," Hem explained. They were talking over a synapse-to-synapse connection -- a necessity in San. "My father took me once when I was a young boy, but I never dreamed I would ever see it again as an adult after it was zoned off," Sorran gushed, the scholar within unable to contain excitement at being able to examine such an ancient structure. "Had you not been conscripted, you could have one day become a philologist yourself," Hem told Sorran. "That was once my hope," Sorran sighed regretfully, before noticing how much he and Hem stood out in the crowd of black formal wear and personal harnesses, dressed in honour guard attire. "It could still happen, once this is all over," Hem input optimistically. That was a lie and both of them knew it. Sorran smiled wistfully. "Part of me wishes I had never been drafted into the army; that I could have been left to ascend through the ranks of scholarship and have lived a peaceful life. But then, I would have never met Zharn or Ahkrin... or Savara. And although ignorance is bliss, it is still ignorance. If I could choose between knowing what I know and going back to how things had been before, I would choose the first--" "Hold a second, Sorran. Restraint is calling me," Hem interrupted, moving to one side of the street out of the way of the dense block of people. Sorran pushed his way towards him, thankfully finding that his status as honour guard tended to make people give him a wider berth. Maybe it was the sharp stave he carried. "What is it?" Sorran asked with concern, looking at Restraint as he tapped a finger to his ear and received the minister's goal. As the conversation went on, his face turned grimmer. Sorran put a hand on Hem's shoulder, frowning. "What's--" Hem suddenly pulled his finger away from his head, and stared Sorran in the eyes with a deadpan look. "Your friend, Zharn," was all he said. Sorran stepped back a few steps, eyes widening. "What of him?" he demanded. Hem looked up at a holovert for a few moments, before finally bringing his eyes back down. "He has challenged a fleetmaster named Xatan'ee to a duel, according to Restraint." "That's Zharn for you," Sorran finally replied, smiling a little. Hem shook his head. "Except this Xatan'ee isn't some aristocratic fool who can barely hold a blade. He's never lost a duel." "Oh," Sorran came to a sickening realisation, his stomach dropping. "Where are they?" "Still above Eridanus II's orbit. The duel is being shown on the 'castnet just under two hours from now with only a few minutes lagtime. Do you want to watch?" Hem asked. Sorran nodded. "Let's go." * * * Sunrise. That hated, infernal sunrise. "You said there would not be any cameras," Zharn breathed with strain in his voice. The stealth Sangheili shrugged as he finished up strapping on his friends armour, fastening the sturdy leather bindings of tournament-gear; it lacked energy shielding and any optical-nerve enhancements, akin to the armour Sangheili of old would wear in such duels. "I did not request them, I assure you," he replied. "Xatan'ee was once popular in the tournaments. I suppose many want to see him fight once more." "And see me lose," Zharn retorted glumly, staring at himself in the mirror and seeing only his bloodied corpse staring back. He could hear the bloodthirsty cheers of the legions of Covenant amassed outside, gathered in the coliseum-like duelling arena. And he was fairly certain the majority were not cheering him. "If you think like that then you may as well throw yourself upon your sword here and now," Orpheus rumbled, watching as always from a distance. "Just remember your reasons for issuing this challenge." "For what?" Zharn laughed skeptically. "Humans? I do not even know why their slaughter offended me so." "Because you're not a man who can stand by and watch whilst innocents suffer," Orpheus answered without doubt. "You have killed many innocents in your time, I am sure -- that is war -- but you would not torture them as Xatan'ee does. What are the two most important things in your culture?" Zharn looked down at the purple veins laying beneath his muscular arm, and then took out from around his neck a medallion emblazoned with his house's insignia, given to him by his father. "Blood and honour," he finally replied, wincing as Ahkrin pulled a strap a little too tight. "Precisely," Orpheus nodded. "Xatan'ee respects neither of these. He is like a feral kig-yar, and that would not be so terrible did he not hold power. If left unchecked, he will carve a path of slaughter until he bores his way to the doors of the Journey, and I do not think they would open in the face of such cruelty." "I know," Zharn replied. "Were such a Sangheili to become an Imperial Admiral or worse, Supreme Commander, we would never know peace." "You're all set," Ahkrin finally spoke, his voice carrying with it pride. "You look like a true warrior, my brother." "As we say amongst my people, remember the face of thy father. For he shall lend you his strength when you need it most, and encourage you when you feel most despondent," Orpheus quoted, nodding. "Are you ready?" Zharn took one last look in the mirror. The pearlescent armour he wore clung to his body like a second skin, each curve matching the arches in his body perfectly. It was designed to resist plasma burning, but that would not halt piercing, and his flesh certainly had not be designed to resist plasma burning it would take many millions more years of Sangheili duelling with such weapons for evolution to adapt to that. He locked his jaw, stood up from the chair he had been sat down in, and drew down his visor. The simple act of being encased within tournament-armour flooded adrenaline through his system, and he balled his fists tightly. "As ready as I shall ever be. May the Forerunners smile upon me this day," he exhaled out with all the weight of a man resigned to death, before turning away from the mirror and his friends and walking towards the door, which would lead to the duelling arena. He would leave it either victorious, or in a body bag.