The inn "The Silent Raven" lay ensnared in the gray dawn of East Vigil, a cold gloom seeping through the cracks of broken shutters, licking at the wolf pelts scattered across the splintered wooden floor. The fibers creaked under any weight, scarred by jagged cuts and dark stains of stale beer that had dried into sticky patches during forgotten nights of drunken revelry. The air hung heavy with the scent of burnt wax, remnants of a lamp that had sputtered out hours ago, leaving a trail of soot that floated like fine dust in the dimness. But a floral sweetness cut through that weight, a living whisper of an aroma wafting from Kaili, weaving into every corner like an invisible root claiming the space. She rested against the wall, her human form draped in a black linen shirt that clung to her skin from the lingering heat of the night, its frayed edges brushing her shoulders like broken wings. Her black leather pants creaked with every slight movement, a dry sound that echoed in the stillness as if the material could barely contain the energy thrumming beneath her pale surface.
From the streets of East Vigil, the clamor rose like a slow, relentless tide: heavy boots pounded the cobblestones in a disjointed rhythm, hoarse voices of vendors hawked stale bread and dried fish with shouts that tore through the air, and the pregoner's echo sliced across the city like a blade amplified by a minor spell: "Beginners at noon! Rise or fall in the East Vigil Coliseum!" The sound bounced off stone and wooden walls, a distant drum that rattled the floorboards beneath Sebastián's feet as he woke with a low, almost animalistic growl that scraped his dry throat.
The number 47 dangled from a worn cord around his neck, a bronze amulet that clinked against his chest with each breath, grazing his skin with a cold weight that anchored him to reality. He rolled toward Kaili, his uninjured hand reaching out to brush her arm with a playful touch that barely hid the exhaustion in his bones. His mended arm—a tangle of stitched flesh and fragile bone, a memento of Ragna's axe that had nearly cleaved him in two—trembled with a dull ache that clung to him like a persistent echo, a reminder of the three fights he'd endured earlier in the tournament. Kaili had healed him after each one, her hands tracing golden runes that sealed wounds and fused fractures, but as she'd told him in that sharp tone that brooked no argument, "If you're going to fight, gardener, do it with the weight of your piled-up idiocies—I'm not coddling you like a pup." And there it was, the exhaustion tugging at his muscles like invisible chains: Ragna's axe that had torn his arm, Toro de Hierro's club that left his shoulder creaking like a rusted hinge, and Víbora de Ceniza's poisoned arrow that still stung his leg with a distant burn, a venom Kaili had neutralized but whose echo refused to fade.
"Good morning, Kaili," he said, his raspy voice cutting through the still air as he propped himself up on an elbow, the pelts crackling beneath his weight like dry branches snapping in a dead forest. "Fourth fight today. If I win this, I climb to 13 with you, huh? What do you say, sand princess?"
She cracked one eye open, silver pupils glinting in a black void like frozen moons trapped in the night, and shoved him with a huff that snapped against the wood like a dry whipcrack. "Keep dreaming, gardener," she growled, brushing his hand aside with a firm motion that made the floorboards tremble as if the inn itself groaned. "They'll crush you before you catch my shadow—stick with the novices where you don't get in the way." Her tone was sharp as an icy blade, but she let her fingers linger on his wrist for a moment, the leather of her pants whispering against the pelts as she shifted with a grace that belied her roughness.
He laughed, a deep sound that rumbled through the worn wood like a distant drum struck by a weary fist. "Get in the way? Come on, Kaili, after a century training with you, I deserve at least a clap for not dropping dead yet." He stood with a creak that made the floorboards groan, drawing the Plague Edge from its sheath with a faint hiss that warmed the air around him like a fleeting breath. The blade's red runes flickered like living embers, buzzing against his palm with an echo of power that prickled his skin like contained lightning. "Today, I'll show them a few tricks you yelled at me during those 'dodge or die' days—get your applause ready."
Kaili rose with a slow, almost feline motion, the leather of her pants whispering like a harsh wind brushing bare branches of a dry tree. She fixed him with a raised brow, her eyes gleaming with a mix of mockery and challenge that sliced through the gloom like a silver edge. "My tricks? Don't make me laugh, gardener—the only thing you mastered was falling flat on your face and still breathing." She grabbed his good arm with a yank that echoed off the wood, pulling him to the center of the room with a strength that was more warning than play, the clink of her armor ringing like a metallic chorus filling the space. "If you climb to 13, don't make me look bad in front of my queen, you idiot. She'd laugh herself sick seeing you this battered by these clowns."
"Don't worry," he said, dodging a second swat with a clumsy spin that left him staggering, his boots slipping on the pelts with a crackle that kicked up fine dust. "I've got something saved for this one—lesson four, remember? 'Always keep an ace.'" He pulled a small vial from his belt and rubbed an ointment onto his wrist, the sharp scent of crushed herbs rising like a fresh punch that cut through the inn's stale air. He winked at her with a confidence undimmed even by the pain tugging at his shoulder like a rusted nail. "I'll impress those bastards—you'll see."
She stalked after him with slow, deliberate steps, the clink of her armor filling the air like a soft drum marking each move, and knocked him back onto the pelts with a playful shove that thudded against the wood. "Get up, disaster," she said, her tone cutting but laced with a warmth that slipped through the cracks of her icy front like a ray of light piercing a storm. "Dodge or die—looks like you still haven't learned it after a hundred years."
She leaned over him, her black hair falling like a curtain over her pale face, her silver eyes glinting like daggers under the gray light filtering through the cracks. "Watch yourself today, gardener," she murmured, her voice dropping to a low growl that thrummed with a contained fury she didn't explain. "Not everyone fights clean—and I don't like cleaning up your messes more than I have to." For a moment, her cold mask cracked, revealing a spark of something deeper—an echo of Varian Kaelthas's visit the night before, a whispered conversation in the shadows that had left a weight in the air neither acknowledged.
He looked up at her from the floor, nodding as the hum of the Plague Edge in his hand pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady thrum that kept him grounded. "I know, Kaili," he said, his voice steadier now, slicing the silence like a blade through leather. "But I don't give up—not for them, not for you, not for anyone who tries to screw me over today."
A low tick-tock rumbled from a dark corner of the room, barely audible beneath the crackle of pelts and the rising clamor from the street, a sound that slipped like sand falling in an unseen clock before fading into the gloom like an originless echo.
The scorching sun hammered the East Vigil Coliseum at noon, a white disk blazing with relentless fury, making the air shimmer over the arena like a shattered mirage that warped the shapes of fighters and stands. The black walls of the ring, tall and scarred by deep gashes and charred burns from past battles, rose like the ruins of a fallen fortress, trembling under the weight of thousands of boots stomping wood and stone in a wild drumbeat that rattled the bones. The smell of hot iron and dry earth filled the lungs like a harsh blow, mingled with a bitter tang of damp ash that clung to the throat and left a metallic taste on the tongue. Dust floated in the air like a fine mist, kicked up by every step and shout, a veil that shimmered under the sun's cruel light and stung the eyes with every blink.
Sebastián stepped into the center of the ring, his boots crunching against the sand with a dry sound that raised small clouds of dust swirling at his feet like tiny ghosts. The Plague Edge hummed in his right hand, its red runes glowing like live embers that warmed the air around him, an echo of power vibrating in his palm and prickling his skin like bottled lightning. The pain of past fights pulled at him—Ragna's axe that had ripped his arm, Toro de Hierro's club that had crushed his shoulder, Víbora de Ceniza's arrow that had burned his leg—but he ignored it, breathing deep as the blade's hum thrummed in his ears like a drum matching his pulse.
From the stands, Kaili watched, leaning against the splintered wooden railing with a tense stance, her black armor gleaming like polished obsidian under the searing sun. Her silver eyes cut through the uproar like an icy blade, silencing the noise around her as her black hair billowed in the hot wind rising from the ring. "Sebastián, the gardener, versus The Veiled Enigma!" the announcer roared, his voice amplified by a minor spell that boomed off the Coliseum's walls like trapped thunder, unleashing a deafening roar from the crowd. Boots pounded wood with a clamor that shook the stands, fists hammered railings in a frenzied rhythm, and curses mingled with cheers in a savage chorus that rang like hammers striking a giant anvil.
From the opposite arch emerged Drenn, a lean figure wrapped in gray robes that fluttered like dirty mist under the blazing sun, brushing the sand with a whisper that seemed to swallow the light around him. His face hid behind a white bone mask carved with red runes that flashed like fresh blood in the light, and in his right hand, he wielded a curved black steel sword, its blade humming with a crimson glow that pulsed like living veins. A low buzz surrounded him, an unsettling echo that raised the hairs of nearby guards without them knowing why, a sound that seemed to rise from the sand itself and cloak him like an invisible mantle. His boots left shallow prints in the ground, marks that faded with each step as if the earth rejected him. When he spoke, his voice was a low hiss that sliced the air like a rusted blade, laced with an arrogance that dripped contempt but carried a more personal edge, as if sizing Sebastián up beyond mere blind zeal.
"Surrender, gardener," Drenn said, tilting his chin behind the mask as his sword's runes flared a deeper red, a glint that seemed to drink the sunlight. "This is a waste of time—your fate's already sealed, and there's nothing you can do to change it. Give up, before I break you for fun."
Sebastián spat on the ground, a dark smear sinking into the dry sand with a faint hiss, and swung the Plague Edge in a quick arc that made the blade whistle through the hot air. "Surrender? How thoughtful of you," he shot back, his dry tone cutting through the din like a whipcrack that silenced distant jeers from the crowd. "But if your fate's so certain, why're you shaking behind that mask? Come on, impress me—or keep talking 'til I doze off."
Drenn laughed, a dry, grating sound that echoed like shattered glass under the scorching sun, a ripple that made a nearby guard flinch with an unplaceable shiver. "Stubborn to the end," he spat, raising his curved sword with a slow motion that left a trail of crimson sparks in the air. "No matter—I'll make you see how pointless it is to fight before you fall."
The referee raised a battered bronze horn, its surface scratched and stained with rust, and brought it to his lips with a swift motion. The whistle sliced through the uproar like a knife through raw flesh, a sharp sound that echoed in the stands and unleashed a deafening roar: "Begin!"
Sebastián charged with a hoarse shout that tore his throat, the Plague Edge slashing the air in a spinning cut that unleashed a wave of red energy like a furious lash, splitting a nearby stone column with a crash that shook the stands and kicked up a cloud of dust that smelled of scorched earth. Drenn raised his sword with a fluid motion, blocking the strike with a downward slash that clashed against the Plague Edge with a deafening screech, spitting black and red sparks that leaped like embers in the hot air. The impact rang like a hammer striking an anvil, an echo that vibrated in the spectators' bones and drew a wild chorus of shouts from the stands.
"Keep trying," Drenn hissed, stepping back as his robes billowed like they were caught in a wind that wasn't there, the sand crunching under his boots with a dry snap. He spun his sword in a swift arc, a cut that whistled like a crimson whip, tearing the ground in a smoking gash that spat dust and heat skyward. Sebastián dodged with a sideways leap—Kaili's lesson three: strike where they're not looking—rolling across the sand with a crackle that raised a gray cloud, and countered with an upward slash that sent a buzzing red wave like an angry swarm. The energy carved another chunk of the Coliseum wall, ripping stone fragments that fell with a rumble that shook the stands, unleashing a deafening roar from the crowd: boots stomping wood, fists pounding railings, and shouts ringing like a broken drum.
Drenn advanced with fluid steps, his sword whistling in a downward arc that sliced the air with a crimson hum that seemed to swallow the light around it. Sebastián blocked with the Plague Edge, the blades clashing with a screech that spat red sparks like live embers, the impact jarring his arms with a force that drew a low grunt. "See? Useless," Drenn growled, his movements flowing like a river of shadows as he spun into a second sideways cut that ripped a nearby column in a burst of dust and debris. "Surrender now—or I'll drag you into the dust myself."
"Not like that brute with the club," Sebastián muttered to himself, recalling a sliced ankle smeared with sticky ointment from a past fight. He twisted with a sideways slash that unleashed a bright red arc, forcing Drenn back with a quick block that rang like a cracked gong in the hot air. "Keep talking, preacher," he shouted, his voice cutting through the clamor as he lunged forward with another cut, the blade whistling in an arc that sent a red wave. The energy tore the ground in a deep gash that spat sand toward the stands, drawing gasps and curses from the spectators as dust filled the air with a scent of iron and charred herbs.
Drenn laughed, a dry sound that sliced through the crowd's roar like a rusted edge. "Blind fool!" he roared, charging with a cut that whistled like a furious whip, the blade slashing the air with a crimson glow that seemed to drink the sunlight. Sebastián blocked with the Plague Edge, black and red sparks leaping like a swarm of mad fireflies, but suddenly a sharp buzz hummed in the air, a sound not from Drenn but from somewhere higher, farther off. An invisible force struck him from the side, slamming him against the ring's wall with a crash that cracked the stone in a spiderweb of fissures, the impact ringing in his ribs like needles that tore a hoarse gasp from him.
In the high balcony, Zarath the Whisperer watched, his ragged gray robe crackling like dying embers as his gnarled fingers moved like they were weaving invisible threads, tracing the edge of an obsidian pendant that pulsed with a heat that smelled of burnt shadows. "Fall, ignorant one," he whispered, his voice a low echo that slid through the hot air unnoticed by the frenzied crowd. The buzz intensified, a roar pinning Sebastián against the wall as he struggled to rise, dust crunching under his boots with a dry snap. But then his gray eyes lifted, meeting Kaili's silver gaze from the stands—an icy edge that cut the air like silent lightning. A visceral chill stabbed through him, an instinctive fear that gripped his guts and made him stumble back a step, the pendant trembling against his chest as if it recognized something his mind couldn't grasp. "Just my imagination," he muttered, shaking his head with a tremor in his voice, trying to steady himself as sweat stung his cracked skin. "Nothing but a trick of the light."
"This isn't coming from you, fanatic," Sebastián growled, rolling in the sand as the Plague Edge hummed in his hand like a desperate heartbeat. He drove the blade into the ground with a crunch that kicked up a gray cloud, anchoring himself against the invisible force crushing him. "Kaili taught me better than this," he gasped, rising with a slash that sent a red wave toward Drenn, splitting another column with a crash that drew a chorus of shouts from the stands. But the buzz returned, a telekinetic blow that hurled him back, ripping the Plague Edge from his hands with a dull clang that echoed in the sand, its runes flickering like dying embers as the blade fell yards away.
Drenn advanced, his sword whistling in a final strike that sliced the air with a crimson hum. "End in the dust, gardener!" he roared, the blade descending like a red bolt toward Sebastián. But he grunted, fingers clawing the sand as he yanked a broken vial from his belt with a quick motion. "Take this, preacher," he gasped, hurling a green ointment that burst in front of Drenn with a blast that filled the air with a burnt mint scent, a sharp cloud that made the Veiled Enigma cough and falter, the runes on his mask flickering for a moment like a candle snuffed by the wind.
Zarath clenched his fingers, the pendant pulsing with a heat that scorched his cracked hands, and a final telekinetic strike slammed Sebastián into the sand, dust filling his mouth with a dry, bitter taste as his body slumped, panting and bruised. The referee raised the horn and blew, a sharp sound cutting through the crowd's roar: "The Veiled Enigma, victor!" The stands quaked under the frenzy of boots and shouts, a deafening chorus ringing like hammers on hot metal.
Kaili leaped the railing with a fluid motion, her boots hitting the sand with a dry crunch that raised a dust cloud glinting under the scorching sun. The clink of her armor echoed like a soft drum as she strode toward Sebastián with firm steps that shook the ground, her black hair falling like a curtain over her pale face. He lay on his back, gasping with ragged breaths that wheezed like a broken bellows, a bleeding gash crossing his left arm where Drenn's sword had grazed him, blood dripping into the sand with a faint hiss that left dark stains. The air thickened with a stench that stung his nostrils: damp ash, sulfur, and a metallic trace that prickled the skin.
"Get up, gardener," Kaili growled, her voice sharp as an icy blade as she grabbed his good arm, hauling him up with a yank that brushed his skin with the cold metal of her armor. "Don't make me carry you like a sack—you're not that broken to give me that chore." She passed a hand over the bleeding cut, golden runes on her skin flashing briefly with a purple-crimson glow that sealed the wound with a soft hiss, her floral scent cutting through the arena's stench like a fresh strike. But her eyes lifted to the balcony, locking onto Zarath with a fury that smelled of devouring ashes, an instinctive echo she recognized instantly—a lesser Throne, a weak subordinate of a demon king who couldn't even graze her primordial shadow. "Lesson five, gardener," she murmured, her voice dropping to a growl thrumming with a lethal promise. "Rats stink from a mile off—hunt them."
Sebastián laughed, a hoarse sound that stirred the dust as he leaned on her, his fingers sliding along the edge of her armor to brush the curve of her waist with a firm touch that made the leather creak under his palm. "Almost had him, Kaili," he said, his breath grazing her neck with a warmth that clashed with her armor's chill. "Admit it was good—I even got that fanatic coughing with my trick."
"Almost doesn't mean shit, idiot," she shot back, her tone sharp but threaded with a warmth that slipped between the words like a ray of light through a storm. "My queen would laugh herself sick seeing you this busted up by these clowns—don't make me patch you up again." Her silver eyes flashed toward the high balcony, where Zarath trembled under her gaze, and her voice dropped to an icy murmur vibrating with contained fury. "Those ashes will burn for touching you, gardener—I swear it on whatever's worth a damn."
He straightened a bit, leaning more on his arm as the pain in his shoulder creaked like an old hinge under the weight of piled-up fights. "Burn? How sweet of you, Kaili," he said, his mocking tone cutting through the hot air as his fingers kept brushing her waist, the leather creaking under his touch with a dry snap. "But I'm still your favorite gardener, right? Even with all this weight you let me carry."
She snorted, a sound more laugh than anger, and dragged him out of the ring with a firm stride that made her armor clang like a silent challenge slicing through the waning clamor of the crowd. "I let you carry the weight because you're a stubborn ass, gardener," she growled, her hand gripping his arm with a strength that was more protection than punishment, the cold metal grazing his skin with each step. "If you can't handle it, don't come crying when they break you again."
"I noticed," he said, limping beside her as his boots crunched against the sand, kicking up fine dust. "Crazy fanatic with sermons—better than the big guy with the club, but less fun than the archer with her poison arrows. Think my ointment left a bad taste in his mouth?"
"If it didn't kill him, it wasn't enough," she replied, turning her head to hide a glint in her eyes that wasn't just fury, a silver flash cutting the sunlight like an icy blade. "Keep practicing, gardener—or I'll bury you myself next time you fall like that and waste my time."
In the Coliseum's high balcony, the air was thick and cold, a stark chill against the ring's scorching heat, heavy with a stench of sulfur and rotting blood that stung the eyes and left a bitter aftertaste like something decaying in the shadows. Zarath the Whisperer leaned over the stone railing, his ragged gray robe crackling with each move like dying embers, a trail of ash falling from the seams in a black dust that dissolved on the icy surface. His gnarled fingers traced the burning rune of his obsidian pendant, its heat searing his cracked skin with a hiss that rose like acrid smoke, and his sunken gray eyes flared red for a moment, an echo of power borrowed from Veyron, the Throne of Devouring Ashes.
Below, Drenn stood tall in the arena, gray robes billowing like a filthy shroud, his curved sword gleaming with red runes as the crowd roared in blind frenzy. "Don't fail, pawn," Zarath whispered, his voice a low echo that slid through the hot air and wove an invisible thread into Drenn's mind, a murmur that rang in the Veiled Enigma's skull unheard by anyone else. The pendant pulsed against his chest, a burning beat that smelled of scorched shadows, and his mind sank into a whirlwind of memories dragging him like a river of soot and ash.
"Ten thousand years my lord slept," he thought, fingers tightening on the pendant until it vibrated with a heat that blistered his fingertips, a pain he accepted as tribute. "Wounded by a mortal with blessed steel, healing in the shadows—until the world shook again, a shift that woke him from his slumber." He'd been a child then, a scrawny orphan in a nameless village, the crackle of his lost home's flames ringing in his ears like a broken song that had led him to the ashes. "My lord spoke to me in the fire," he murmured, his voice trembling with a fervor that burned his veins from within. "Chaos has a purpose—and I am its whisper, its echo in the storm."
Veyron had found him months ago, a tall silhouette of burning ashes that reeked of charred wood, red eyes glowing like dead fire under a hood that seemed to swallow light. "Sow chaos in the tournament," he'd said, his voice scraping the air like wind over cold embers. "Let blood and fear feed Malakar." Zarath had felt those words as an honor, a fire coursing through his veins and filling him with purpose.
He watched Drenn fell the gardener, and a thread of black blood trickled from his nose, the cost of his borrowed power carving into his mortal flesh with a pain he took as a necessary sacrifice. "Let his defeat whisper to Malakar," he thought, wiping the blood with a trembling hand, his dry laugh echoing in the balcony like a ripple that made a nearby guard step back with an unexplained shiver. "Another cocky warrior and her weak dog," he muttered, underestimating Kaili as he saw her leap into the arena with a fury he didn't grasp. "Ashes for my lord—nothing here touches his will."
He recalled a past fiasco, a botched spell in the orc lands that had left him buried in dung after summoning a clumsy golem that collapsed on him, an echo of his ineptitude that still seared his pride like a buried ember. "Stupid mortals," he thought, ignoring the faint tick-tock vibrating in the air like a formless whisper, a sound that slipped along the edge of his awareness without fully registering. "They think their swords and stands mean something—my lord will turn them to dust."
Sebastián limped out of the ring, leaning on Kaili, his boots crunching against the sand as the crowd's clamor faded into a confused murmur floating like dust in the Coliseum's still air. She held him with a firm hand under his arm, her armor's metal grazing his skin with a chill that kept him alert, her steps ringing in the sand like a slow drum marking their retreat with a steady beat. From the upper stands, Lord Valerius Thorne watched, his gray cloak billowing in the hot wind like a restless shadow, his sharp eyes narrowing with an awe he couldn't hide, a cold curiosity hardening his features weathered by years of vigilance and forgotten battles.
Beside him, Erynn, his assistant, scribbled in her notebook with nervous fingers, her glasses slipping down her nose as the pencil trembled against the paper, leaving crooked strokes that mirrored the chaos of her thoughts. "That healing again," Valerius murmured, his deep voice quivering with a fascination he couldn't mask, drumming the splintered wooden railing with a rapid beat that echoed his racing mind. "The gardener was wrecked against Ragna—flesh torn, bone splintered, a bloody mess barely breathing—and she stitched him up in a blink, like death weighed nothing. And now this… still standing after a beating that'd kill anyone else in the ring."
He paused, his eyes tracking Kaili as she lifted Sebastián with an ease that defied logic, the gash on his arm sealing under a brief purple-crimson flash that faded into the dust. "What's that energy, Erynn?" he said, his tone hardening like red-hot steel as he leaned over the railing, the wood creaking under his weight. "Purple with crimson, so fast I barely caught it—like lightning that leaves no trace. It's not tied to any known faction—not the Ascendants, not the Guild clerics, not the damn northern alchemists have anything like it."
Erynn swallowed hard, adjusting her glasses with a clumsy motion that smudged the lens, her fingers shaking as she flipped through her notebook with a frenzy that crinkled the pages. "Nothing in the Guild, my lord," she said, her voice high and halting, words stumbling over each other like she feared they'd escape. "Just a run-in with Cassian, a B-rank adventurer—she humiliated him in a tavern a few days back, left him sprawled with a hit the guards say they didn't see coming. From what I know, they're new in town, not from here. No records, not of her or the gardener—nothing in the files, nothing in the street rumors."
Valerius frowned, his hand stilling on the railing with a dry crack that splintered the wood under his fingers, a sound that rang like an echo of his bottled frustration. "An outlier," he growled, his tone hardening like a freshly forged blade, a fury vibrating in his voice like a distant drum. "The tournament's supposed to stay orderly, Erynn—it's my duty as Guild leader to keep these fights under control, but her… she doesn't fit. She's an enigma I can't ignore, a damn puzzle mocking me every time I see her."
He tilted his head, his sharp eyes following Kaili as she guided Sebastián out of the ring, dust settling behind them like a torn veil floating in the hot air. "Keep your eyes peeled," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur that resonated like a warning in the high balcony. "This isn't just a dirty fight—there's more here, something we're not seeing, and I don't like being blind to it."
A low tick-tock rumbled in the air, a formless whisper heavy like sand falling in an unseen clock, fading into the dust drifting over the Coliseum as the scorching sun blazed on in the sky.