The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 759

“How dare he.”

The grand elder of the Blue Tower was on his feet, which at seventy-eight he did not do often, and the messenger had gone the colour of the floor.

“Three hundred years. Three hundred years this tower has never once been dragged into somebody’s private quarrel, and now a boy sends a letter demanding a fight between towers — our towers — as if we were street men rolling dice.”

“Sire—”

“Who does he think he is?”

“Sire, it isn’t a demand.” The messenger held the paper out at arm’s length. “He sent terms.”

…

Blue’s hall was cold at that hour, blue glass in every window, three hundred years of careful men in portraits down both walls.

The grand elder snatched the page and started reading it the way you read something you intend to be angry about.

Then he stopped.

He read it again, from the top, slower.

Nobody in that hall said anything, and the silence went on so long that the messenger began to wonder whether he was allowed to leave.

“Yes,” the old man said finally. “Tell him yes. Blue agrees.”

…

It happened four times that day, in four different halls, in almost exactly the same order.

Outrage. Then the paper. Then a silence long enough to be uncomfortable.

Then yes.

Because here is what Alexander’s terms actually said, in nine plain lines with no lawyer’s language anywhere in them:

If he loses even once — one bout, to any tower leader in the field — he forfeits the White Tower. Every branch of it. All thirty of the originals, all two hundred and fifty taken from Black, all two hundred and seventy-five taken from Red.

And Regent Group.

And Ferrowgate.

Five hundred and fifty-five towers and two companies, on one man losing one fight.

…

They did the arithmetic in four halls at once and every one of them came out the same.

Split five ways, that was more property than any tower in the United State of Magic had accumulated in five centuries of patience. Brown had spent two hundred years trying to afford a second mine. Yellow had never owned more than ninety buildings in its history.

But greed wasn’t really what made them sign.

What made them sign was the last line of the letter.

The White Tower would be represented in the ring by Alexander himself.

…

Not a champion. Not a hired blade. Him.

A man with no tower education, no certification, no recorded rank, no registered element, and not one line of tested magic to his name anywhere in the state records — which the Blue Tower checked twice, and Green checked three times.

Everyone knew the stories from the Dominion of Beasts. Everybody had seen the clip of a commander going down in one move.

That was a strong man. That was not a magician.

And a tower does not send a strong man into a ring against magic.

“He’ll bring a body and no art,” Yellow’s elder said. “We have five contracted masters on retainer who could end that in nine seconds.”

Blue said nothing, which was Blue’s way of agreeing.

All five signed.

…

Eight days.

That was the date the Grand Convocation gave them, and from the hour it was announced the whole country stopped talking about dead ministers.

They built the ring in the old arena on the north side of New Avalon, a grey stone bowl that had held nothing but ceremonies for two hundred years — scaffolding up the outer wall inside two days, banners going along the top rail in six colours, carpenters working under lamps all night because the seating had rotted sometime during the last century and nobody had noticed.

Tickets went on sale at noon on the third day.

They were gone by two.

By the fourth day people were sleeping in the streets around the arena for the returns, and a family on the east side sold a flying car to buy four seats in the upper ring, and were photographed doing it, and did not look at all embarrassed.

…

Meanwhile, on the fourth floor of Regent Group, Alexander sat in the dark in front of a pane of light with his chin on his hand and read.

Beatrix came in with a folder she immediately forgot about.

The screen in front of him was scrolling — formulas, diagrams, annotations in a hand that was not a hand, faster than a person could follow, the whole wall of it moving.

She had stopped asking what it was some weeks ago.

“You’ve seen the papers.”

“No.”

“You’re the only story in the country.” She sat down on the edge of the desk. “Every crystal in the state is running the same line. The Grand Convocation tournament. One man, five towers, and on the table is the White Tower, this company, and Ferrowgate.”

“That’s accurate.”

“It’s insane is what it is.”

…

“Are you worried we’re going to lose?”

Beatrix looked at the screen for a while before she answered.

“No,” she said. “That’s the part that bothers me.”

“Go on.”

…

The head of the Grand Convocation was a fat cheerful man who had run the books on every tournament for thirty years, and he came out personally when they told him who was standing at the table.

“Chairwoman Hargrove. This is an honour.”

“I’m told you open betting.”

“The best book in the United State of Magic, madam. Always have.” He beamed. “Every match, every bout, every leader. Would you like to see the board?”

“No.”

“…No?”

“I already know what I’m putting on.”

…

She took her gloves off and set them on the table, which is what Beatrix Hargrove does before she does something expensive.

“Regent Group,” she said. “The White Tower and every branch it holds. Ferrowgate, on transfer. Everything under my name and everything under his.”

The cheerful man stopped being cheerful.

“Madam.”

“All of it. On Alexander to win.”

“You’re — forgive me. You want to stake the entire holdings of both companies and five hundred and fifty-five towers.”

“Yes.”

“On one man.”

“On that man.”

…

Behind her the hall was filling up and getting louder, and somebody in the crowd had already started shouting odds, and a boy was selling paper fans with five tower colours on them, four for a dollar.

Beatrix did the arithmetic one more time in her head, the way she had every night for eight days.

If he lost, it was all gone anyway. Every building, both companies, her own name on the paperwork of the largest collapse in the country’s history. There was no version of losing where she kept anything.

So there was nothing to protect.

And if he won — if he won, she didn’t just keep it. She doubled it.

She picked her gloves back up.

“Write it,” she said.

She didn’t tell the man at the table the last part, because it wasn’t his business.

It hadn’t been her idea.

The chairman had told her to do it four days ago, in one sentence, without looking up from his desk.