Pyotr Poliakoff had to enter in the Tournament. And he had to get in. And he had to win. That was all that could undo the last twelve years.
"Hey, Pyotr!" someone shouted. He completely ignored he voice, continuing to eat off of his polished stone plate.
"You okay, buddy? Pyotr! Oy, PYOTR!" It was Radko. Why couldn't that kid just leave him alone?
"PYOTR! PYOTR! PYOT-"
"WHAT?" he shouted back, exasperated.
"Pyotr." He said joyfully, sitting down next to him. "Are you going to enter? It's only the best of the best, as you ought to know by now. Didn't you enter last time too? How old were you? Twelve?"
Pyotr remained silent.
"Do you ever talk?" Radko asked lazily. "Because you seemed pretty loud when you shouted just before," Pyotr glared at him. Radko stared back in to his almost-black eyes innocently.
"What? Was that a very special occasion? Should I mark the rare occurrence of Pyotr Poliakoff's voice being heard with a commemorative speech? Let me begin; Oh, the beauty in words is astou-"
Pyotr got up from the table and walked away. Let him laugh, the idiot. Pyotr's feet carried him automatically to his favorite spot in the fortress, followed by Radko's fading shouts. Why did people have to constantly question him? Was it really that big of a problem if he didn't speak to everyone? They didn't even like him. Why would they want him to talk to them?
When Pyotr arrived at the entrance to the roof, he was a little shocked. He hadn't realized where he had been walking, he had been so swept up in his thoughts. Thanks to my feet, he thought gladly, opening the trapdoor that led up there. At the first breeze on his face, his mind relaxed. Stuff those idiots, he thought. They can say whatever they want.
Careful to stay away from the edge, he made his way across the roof to the weather-formed hole in the tower wall. It was the perfect size for him to sit in, which was saying something since he was around 7 feet tall.
Pyotr loved sitting on the roof. He loved the cool breeze that always blew up here, and he loved the view of the mountains from his little spot in the tower. The one minus of being up here was the height. Pyotr hated heights, mainly because he couldn't stop looking down. He hated rock climbing in the mountains, he hated when they had to sit up on the top of the tallest tower and learn astronomy, and most of all he hated flying. The idea of sitting on a thin bit of wood and zooming through the air, hundreds of meters above dependable, solid ground, was terrifying to Pyotr.
He shivered. However much Pyotr liked the cool breeze, he loved summer and the warmth of the sun. Pyotr rubbed his hands over his dark skin. His arms were already covered with goose pimples. Pyotr missed Greece, despite having only been there once. It was a beautiful summer when he went to Athens. But that wasn't why he would never forget that holiday.
Pyotr sighed and got up. Don't think about that, he told himself. He stared up at the mountain. Pyotr could almost see the little log cabin he called home. His father wouldn't be there, he'd be out hunting the magical beasts around in the forest. That was what his father liked doing, ever since-
No, he thought. Stop it. Pyotr gave up.
"It wasn't my fault," he whispered desperately in to the wind. "It wasn't my fault she died. It isn't my fault you don't love me," he sniffed and wiped his eyes, getting up from where he crouched on the roof. If only his father could see him now! Crying to the wind about something that happened twelve years ago.
"But that's why I have to win," he said to himself. So he can love you again, he thought.
It had been twelve years since Pyotr's mother died and his father turned cold. But this tournament could fix that. It could fix everything.