After being called 'Terra' for so long, going back to 'Your Highness' and 'Master' was seriously chafing.

Don't get him wrong. It wasn't like 'Master Terra' wasn't something he was proud of: it was everything, the only title he wore with pride, because he had earned it. It hadn't been given to him at birth. It hadn't crippled him.

Yet, he supposed. It hasn't crippled me yet.

After a quick bath, he walked out of his room—which had honestly stopped being his room two years ago—, draped in the black robes that were saved for royalty. Once associated with mourning, the color had since passed to be associated with the Emperor's—his father—rule.

Dark and gold, he thought as the excess extravagance of his gold-and-diamond belt and cuffs weighed him down. He didn't care for aesthetics, but he didn't question their purpose: he knew how brutally beautiful the Emperor and his sons looked in the colors of dusk: always the center, always the glowering, ominous desert sun.

And he supposed, out of all the suns, he was the one that was most out of place. Hence why his father allowed him to leave.

But he had to return eventually.

So now, he was back in his home, every corner of the crimson palace shrinking away from him, as if hiding a secret. His hand twitched.

The hunger for battle—his father and older brothers always told him. It was the blood of stallions, of the god Ira that flowed through his veins. Only through conflict would he find peace. Only the cries of his enemies would lull him to sleep.

It was a very lonely existence, he pitied. Just as quickly, he pushed the thoughts away. He was a Prince of the Empire; loneliness is for those who had nothing to lose, and he was supposed to have everything.

The glorious throne room was always overwhelming, even more so when he realized that his presence was a part of the awe. Gold and iron, tinged together to make a lustrous, black chair for the Emperor, while everyone else just stood—kneeled, mostly—before him on the red carpet. Flanking him would always be his three sons: The two eldest on the left, and the youngest—Terra—on the right, alone. Although he supposed that would change soon enough. One of the wives was with child, and would give birth in the next few days. Now that boy—praying for his own sibling's sake that it had the luck to be male—would be a sight to behold. His father himself had been born during a Tournament, and with it came a war blessing: physical prowess and strength and an insight to behold. Monsters, some would say. Gods, others would argue.

The next child was destined to be the next Emperor, and they all knew it.

Terra continued getting lost in thought as he waited beside the throne for everybody else to arrive. His father was not one for theatrics, so there would be no grand introductions, no music playing at his entrance. He would enter like a normal man, and be considered anything and everything but.

'Still the impeccable early riser, I see.'

'Only second to you, brother,' he murmured. Indeed, his brother Xemnas had arrived as well, and was standing on the opposite side of their father's throne. They shared a mother, and it was noticeable in their faces: the lean curve of their cheekbones, their long, dark lashes. But whereas Xemnas had gotten their father's honey-slick eyes and silver hair, Terra had taken a turn off the wrong path and had been spared dark, Oakwood hair and indigo eyes.

'You always were the good one,' his brother drawled, the morning light from above making every ring on his hand shine like starlight. Where Xemnas was supposed to have gold, he chose silver: silver belts, silver rings, a silver earring on his right ear. The move was deliberate, an exile of sorts, but he also thought it was acceptance: Xemnas had always known—even before the news of a fourth child—that he would be second best. 'The maids treated you well, I imagine.'

'Yes, because I absolutely didn't have willing women in my bed while I was away.' Note: he hadn't, but simply because there had been more carnal pleasures to be taken care of at the moment. The hunger of battle.

Xemnas chuckled, voice dark and looming. 'Always the Earthshaker, I see.'

'What else would I be?'

'Darkness Supreme,' another voice countered. His eldest brother had finally decided to grace them with his presence. 'Like you should be.'

Where Terra and Xemnas were brutally beautiful, Ansem was simply… brutal. His face was a cruel one, also bearing the gold irises and white locks Terra lacked. That, along with his sun-toasted skin made him look devastatingly beautiful, like a stone that was going to cut through your neck.

He looked unkempt—his hair was slightly affray, and although his black clothes and gold jewelry were immaculate: his red-and-black cape was clasped incorrectly.

'Don't tell me you dressed yourself, brother,' Xemnas said as he ran a quick eye over him.

'Oh, this? You should know what this—' He began, but was interrupted as one of the maids walked in, her hair a mess, as if someone had been pushing his hands through it. Her dress had been strapped on hastily, and her face was solemn. 'Ah, took you long enough.'

Terra didn't say anything as the girl fixed up his brother, while he pretended that he knew nothing of why this girl looked so ravished and why she flinched away at the sight of him. She left as quickly as she had come, but not without hearing Ansem say, 'I was itching to see how you would've reacted to the punishment I would've had to give you should anyone had seen me like that.'

She walked out after that, and Terra tried to not hear the sobs that echoed behind her. No, eyes forward, he pushed the sounds away.

His father had entered the room. Soundlessly, but he still made the room's aura go affray.

The world spun under him. He was dressed in black too, the edges of his gown rimmed with brilliant saffron, making his eyes leap and haunt anyone they looked at. Xehanort was a wicked thing: gorgeous in youth, now sharp and dangerous in his declining age. His wrinkled face did not make him seem trustworthy or needy; it only added to the brutality of him, to the overwhelming feeling of dominance that he injected into every room.

Ira's blessing, indeed.

His brothers were silent as their father settled onto the throne, only bowing their head slightly in reverence. This man may had sired them, but they were not to show any sort of comfort: they were as threatened by the Emperor as anybody else.

Perhaps even more so.

'Terra,' his father said. An order and his name, at once. Immediately, he stepped forward, inching closer to his father's throne. 'Are you prepared?'

'Yes,' he replied. Short and simple. There was nothing extra about his speech, and if the classes he had been taking for a good portion of his life hadn't done anything by then, then there never would be.

'I was afraid you wouldn't think yourself capable, so here's a reminder.' Xehanort didn't so much as look at him as he said, 'You are my son, and you will win the Tournament of Ira. Make the world remember that we are on the throne for a reason.'

The words that were unspoken were just as cold: Do not let me down, and if you do, prepare for the consequences.

'Yes, father.'

'Good,' he said. 'Now let's let the world get a look at you.'

The Empire adored him, for some reason.

He was definitely the favorite child, seeing as that nobody was cowering from him and they all looked at him with stars in their eyes. Perhaps his absence had injected some sort of good in him: if he wasn't around, then they couldn't necessarily pin him to the cruel things his family had done in his absence.

In that sense, he was a bit lonely too. And glad of it.

Women reached out for him as he walked to the arena, clamoring for his attention. Etiquette forced him to be indifferent, but he still spared small nods and expressions that people could recognize as half-smiles. Ahead of him, people still cheered for his father and siblings, but it was entirely different.

'Well, somebody's going to get a wife after the Tournament.'

'I doubt it,' he smiled. The guard behind him wouldn't have ever been able to keep his mouth shut. And Terra wouldn't have it any other way. 'There's no way I'm getting a girl before you do, Ven.'

'DEBATABLE,' the boy countered. Terra's best friend was a rarity by itself: a wind-oriented wielder that never enjoyed fighting, but was so good at it that he managed to become a place as Terra's personal guard. In public, at least. In private, he was a confidant—and he regretted leaving him behind, but Ventus belonged to the Empire. He was his friend, but he was still one of the Empire's dozen blades. 'Do you see these girls? Do you see how they're dragging themselves for you?'

'Why am I the one who is constantly being talked about marriage? I'm the youngest.'

'You're also the one who the people don't think will have crazy, bloodthirsty kids.'

'Ven,' he hissed, but it was true. The citizens dreaded thinking of a prince sired by Ansem, or even cool, collected Xemnas. They were too wicked, and any child was going to receive that, no doubt. 'They're going to cut out your tongue.'

'They won't. Not when they're too busy glowering at the attention you're hogging.

Indeed, Ansem and Xemnas had turned their heads to face him, and hate and disdain and what could be jealously glimmered in their gazes. Terra did his best to say, I didn't ask for this, and it seemed like enough. They turned and continued the walk to the arena.

To Terra's first match.

He couldn't pretend he wasn't excited. He wanted to run into the field, strip himself of the ceremonial clothes, and fight. He couldn't wait until he felt the weight of his armor around him and the pressure of his Keyblade in his hand. As a Master, he felt that nobody bothered to challenge him anymore.

In the Tournament, they wouldn't have a choice.

The Arena of Daybreak was as glorious, if not more so, than the palace: Encased in onyx and stone, it was a patch of night against the brilliant yellows and oranges of the desert. The people were storming in by dozen through the main entrances, so the royal family did their best to scurry through the back one. It did not matter that the sun was blazing and that the people were yelling and screaming for entertainment.

His fight was coming up. In a matter of minutes, he would wield his blade and destroy his opponent. His blood boiled with delightful anticipation.

Ventus had been wrong. His children would surely bear this dark blood in their veins, always itching for a challenge.

His brothers continued ahead and left him in his chambers, where the servants had brought his armor and nothing more. But not without saying, 'Ruthlessness is in your nature, brother.'

He nodded. It was the most encouraging thing they would ever say, and it struck a cord within Terra: It was a reassurance in his ability to dominate, to emerge victorious. He nodded at his brothers and with a smirk at Ven, who was doing his job—you know, guarding—beside his door, he walked inside the room and put on his true skin.

He entered the arena after the announcer bellowed his name.

The opening ceremony was full of theatrics: the clamor for Ira's blessing, which had protected the Empire for millennia, the reverence at the Emperor and his sons, and the wielder's entrances: the crowd went wild at the sight of them, for they were pursuers of glory. Out of all them, they were the closest to reaching the stars.

In his armor, Terra was already sweating. He didn't care. All he saw was his opponent, on the other side of the arena, the wind kicking up the sand around them.

Demyx had never been a fighter. He was good company, and he got along with everyone, especially with the women, who he played for and danced with from dusk till dawn. He barely used his Keyblade, preferring his sitar to people. Just like Terra preferred Earthshaker.

'Man, of all the people I had to fight, it had to be you, huh, Terra?' He grinned, fully knowing he was about to get his ass kicked.

'I'm sorry. Don't even think of holding back,' he added as he summoned his Keyblade. The crowd grew wild at the sight of his copper sword, and his blood thrummed. GLORY, GLORY, GLORY.

'Let the fight begin!'

Terra jumped into the shadows. In a flicker of a second, he was already behind Demyx, blade raised in a godly stance. He was too slow, and jumped back a second too late, Earthshaker running down Demyx's arm with cunning hunger. It cut into his armorless skin, and he winced.

Terra didn't register it anymore. There was only him, and his opponent. His hand was trembling.

'Come at me!'

'Why do I always get the busybodies?' Demyx did a quick gesture to one of the gods before he rushed at Terra, water clinging to the air around him in bubbles.

Water wielder. Of all the rotten elements, Terra had to be facing one with water as his staple. He bit his tongue as the droplets found their home under his feet, turning the sand below him into a mushy trap.

Terra raised his Keyblade to brace himself as Demyx slammed into him, forcing him to take a knee into the quicksand trap below him. But as their blades clashed, Terra reached forward with his free hand. His fingers wrapped around the tuft of shirt that poked free from his breastplate. With a single arm, he sent him flying.

Demyx must have not seen it coming, because the water that was holding him captive evaporated instantly, losing itself under the earth, under him. And as Demyx flew over his head, Terra followed close suit. His opponent had barely hit the ground when Terra was on him, his copper brow glinting with heat-given sweat.

A monster, he was a monster too. He didn't have to look up to see his father, smiling down at him. He could feel it in his bones.

He brought his blade down at the side of Demyx's head. The roar of the crowd was only second by the one that sprung from his lips. GLORY IN BATTLE.

'Hail Prince Terra, Earthshaker, Warrior of Glory!'

And in his bones, he felt it. The glory that seeped into him, like a mother's embrace. Like a lover's kiss, it threatened to devour him whole.

Hands still shaking, he let it.

He missed almost all the other battles except for the last one. It hadn't been his intention, but the praise he had gotten from his father—a stern nod—had made him so absurdly happy that he fell asleep after his match. It was only because he had to show his face at the end of the day that Ven had bothered to wake him up.

So he threw on his ceremonial garbs once more and climbed the steps to the highest level, where his family awaited—Ven was there too, standing guard at the opposite entrance. His brothers nodded at him, Ansem even laughing with glee, 'The boy who was promised shows himself at last!'

'I was tired,' he replied, taking a seat next to his father. 'My match was such a bore, I needed to sleep it off.'

'Nothing is boring to you,' Xemnas said. 'Not even the smallest parry.'

'Quiet,' their father ordered. For the last match had started, and the crowd was silent. Braig was back at it, it seemed.

Cruelty was etched into his mature face, eyes glinting with malice. Terra winced. For a guy who was in it for fun, he sure liked to torture his opponents. Pity of the guy who faced him.

And Terra could see that there wasn't much of an opponent to begin with. His form was lithe and thin, and a hood concealed his likeness. He must be trying to avoid become a laughingstock after Braig mopped the floor with him.

Maybe blood would be spilled faster than he had expected.

'Begin!'

Braig didn't move as he summoned his crossbow. An irregularity: his soul—albeit willing for a Keyblade—had taken form of another weapon, one more fitting for his sharp eyes and cruel intentions.

But his opponent had. His Keyblade was darkish blue, even in the sunlight. Tinged with silver, Xemnas would have been delighted. A glance Terra paid in his direction showed as much as his brother toyed with the ring on his middle finger. He'd probably ask to see it personally, if the boy survived the match.

Braig's opponent moved soundlessly, dodging his purple-tinged arrows with calculated finesse. He was like a shooting star, and the crowd could barely keep up with him. They cheered for him; how they loved wild cards.

Braig was relentless, though. He didn't stop, even as he found that his opponent was able to deflect his arrows right back at him with calculated slashes of his indigo blade. The mysterious boy was quickly closing the distance between them, and he didn't like that.

Terra was impressed with his speed. It was like watching a hare dash through a field: blink, and you'd surely miss it.

'Ever heard of personal space?' He said as he shot a row of arrows, all at blinding speed, and Terra knew that there was no way of dodging that.

And he hadn't. For all his speed, one arrow nicked his hood, tearing it away from his body and revealing his face. It fell to the sand ceremoniously, and a couple of gasps rang through the arena.

Terra's soul left his body.

The face was rounded, pink lips paired with curt, small nose. Blue eyes glimmered with rage and brilliant cunning. Suddenly, it made sense why Braig's opponent was so small and nimble, and it wasn't because of inexperience at all.

It was because it was a woman.

The crowd went silent with shock. His brothers beside him looked genuinely surprised, and his father—the unshakable Emperor—had gone quiet, a breath caught in his throat. Terra had gotten up from his chair, storming toward the edge of his platform. Ventus's voice beside him rung like a bell as he whispered, 'Aqua?'

The first cheer rang through the crowd. A girl with raven-black hair jumped up and screamed, 'Go, sister! AQUA!'

The people wasted no time in cheering for the newcomer, their ranks filled with screams of her name and calling for her victory. Terra might have joined them, hadn't he been so flabbergasted.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of her. What kind of glorious goddess of battle had been born within mortal skin? A woman fighting—he hadn't amused the idea of a kind of opponent he hadn't faced yet.

And yet, there she was.

Full of bravado and a storming cry, she moved. Her Keyblade glowed with brilliant, violet light, twinkling like the coming dawn. And Terra knew what he was watching instantly, as the woman moved with stardust trailing behind her, magic poised to strike. He also knew that Braig was about to lose.

For this wielder was not just a woman, not just something incredible, but a Spell Weaver.

Terra's smile was brighter than the sun above them. She knew what she was doing, for her gaze could've mirrored his in his own match.

'Glory in battle,' he whispered, for that was what she was, and all she would be. Glorious, glorious, glorious.

And when her hand raised itself with that gorgeous blade, the yell she released—a warrior's battle cry—was mirrored by his own. He picked up the crowd's cheers and made them his own.

His true opponent had arrived.

I had written up these chapters a long time ago and it felt sad not to upload them. I think I might pick up these two stories again.