Chapter 1: "The Weakest Piece" (First Half)
The moon hung low over Galdoria, its pale silver light fractured by drifting clouds. Beneath its muted glow, the city's ancient walls seemed alive—each stone etched with the history of a thousand Titleholders, each crack a whisper of long‑forgotten legends. Tonight, lanterns were strung in every alley, every courtyard, their amber beams forming a river of light that washed the city in golden warmth. It was the eve of the Ascension Trials, and hope and terror danced in equal measure upon every hopeful's face.
In an alley behind the grand plaza—a narrow corridor of slick cobblestones—two figures crouched behind stacked wooden crates. Rain had begun as a drizzle, soaking their cloaks and darkening the stones beneath them. Ferrin, tall and lean, leaned forward, amber eyes bright with barely‑contained excitement. The soggy fringe of his dark hair clung to his forehead. Beside him, Elyas folded into himself, thin shoulders huddled against the damp. His pale skin glowed faintly in the torchlight; his eyes, wide and black, reflected both fear and a curious spark of determination.
"Are you absolutely sure they went in this way?" Ferrin whispered, voice low enough to rattle loose mortar.
Elyas pressed a slim finger to the wall, tracing the scar of a broken rune carved into the stone. "Yes," he said, voice quivering. "I saw two Registerers pass here about two minutes ago. They scanned the entrants and then—" He swallowed, glancing at the far end of the alley. "They went through the servant's gate."
Ferrin offered a reassuring grin. "Good. That's our entrance." He reached into his cloak and drew out a small, spherical device—no larger than a walnut—glimmering with faint blue runes. "Keep that ready." He tucked it away. "Once we're inside, use it if any—well… if any surprises appear."
Elyas nodded, though his whole body trembled. In his right hand he clutched a bronze medallion engraved with four interlocking runes. This was his Title seal—the emblem of **The Player**—but so far, its power had been but a dull ache beneath his skin. Starter Rank in all seven Aspects: Lore, Fortune, Ties, Vigor, Wisdom, Craft, and Valor. At this moment, each Aspect glowed a faint, lifeless gray—the unmistakable sign of weakness, of untapped power, of an unremarkable fate.
Ferrin stood, brushing water from his cloak. "Come on," he urged. "We don't have much time before the Trials begin in earnest."
They slipped from behind the crates and moved silently down the alley. Stacked barrels and broken carts littered their path, but neither spoke; their eyes were fixed on the gate ahead. A single torch flickered in its iron bracket, casting a wavering circle of light on the heavy iron door. Ferrin pressed a hidden latch, and the gate swung inward with a sonorous groan.
Inside lay a network of narrow corridors, their vaulted ceilings supported by pillars of dark stone. Torches burned at intervals, sending dancing shadows across walls carved with battle scenes, emblems of past Titles, and wards to protect the Trials' inner sanctum. Elyas stepped forward, boots echoing on the flagstones. His heart thudded so loudly he feared the sound would betray him.
Ferrin placed a hand on his shoulder. "Steady." He nodded toward a side passage. "This way. It leads to the Hall's lower galleries."
Elyas followed, following the soft echo of distant voices. Occasionally, the hush of crackling runes would shimmer in the air—entrants testing their Titles, flexing their newborn powers. A faint red aura flickered alongside the corridor as a young woman practiced Vigor, lifting a crate twice her weight. Further down, two boys wove ethereal filaments of Ties to bind training dummies. Elyas felt a pang of envy; he could not lift a pebble, could not summon even a wisp of connection.
As they turned a corner, Ferrin halted by a carved relief. He brushed away the moss: a robed figure held twin scythes, its skeletal visage framed by raven wings. "The Reaper," Ferrin whispered. "Titleholder of Valor and Vigor. Ranked First in both; the very embodiment of death. They cleared every Trial before their final Ascension. Some say they struck down an army alone to claim their mantle."
Elyas traced the figure's hollow eyes. "What… what did they do for Fortune?" he asked.
Ferrin smiled wryly. "Fortune at First Rank gives you dominion over wealth itself: fortunes appear at your beckoning. The Reaper didn't bother—Valor and Vigor were enough. They wanted the elegance of death, not the messiness of silver and gold."
Elyas nodded, but his mind swirled with darker thoughts. Even the thousands of gold pieces Ferrin had invested in libraries and treatises had never touched Elyas's heart. Lore was a refuge, but never power. Still, he clung to every scrap of lore: Titles, Ranks, Rituals. Tonight, every new entrant would claim their Rank in each Aspect through the Scroll of Binding. Tonight, Elyas's medallion would glow gray above his skin, and the world would see him as the weakest of the weak.
Ferrin placed a steady hand on his back. "Focus on staying quiet. Follow my lead. You learn by watching—and if you can't match them, you outsmart them."
They rounded a final bend and emerged into a vast cavern—the Hall's lower gallery. Torches rimmed the walls; banners of the three Elder Houses hung from the rafters. At the far end, marble steps led upward to the main Trial Hall. Ferrin and Elyas pressed against a pillar of black stone. From here, they could see competitors moving in every direction: novices testing Vigor by crushing stones; Lore adepts attempting to recall arcane glyphs; Ties wielders experimenting on phantom constructs.
Above the center of the gallery, a gigantic rune circle glowed on the floor—the Seal of Binding. Every entrant, when called, would stand upon those runes. A crystal orb at its core would broadcast their medallion's glow, projecting each Aspect's Rank around them in spectral color. Reds and blues and golds would swirl; Elyas expected nothing but dull gray.
Ferrin adjusted the straps on his satchel. "This level is just the rehearsal. We head upstairs when the Trials start. The Seal of Binding is a lie—each Sigil's glow will settle by itself when the Elders unseal the Scroll. But you can watch hundreds of Titles awaken before your eyes."
Elyas shut his eyes for a moment, letting the distant echoes of chants wash over him. He tried to imagine his Aspects awakening—Vigor surging through his veins, Ties forging links to unseen allies. But he felt nothing but the cold lantern air. He hated this feeling: wanting more than he had the strength to claim.
A sudden chime broke the hush. Ferrin glanced up: "That's the Second Bell."
The lower gallery's torches flared, and the Seal of Binding's circle burned bright. From hidden speakers came the Elders' voices, distant but resonant:
> "Descendants of Galdoria's founding line—Children of Titles—step forward and unveil your sigils. Let the seven Aspects be weighed, and let the Scroll reveal your fate."
Competitors formed lines at either side of the seal. A boy pinched his medallion, whispered a word, and the Aspects kindled in hues of emerald and sapphire. A girl's Fortune flourish bathed her in golden sparkles. Elyas watched, not daring to breathe.
Ferrin nudged him. "Come on. It's our turn soon."
They wove through lines of entrants, Ferrin's confident strides parting crowds. As they approached the front, Elyas's throat tightened. He would stand before the Elders, before the entire city—weakest in all seven Aspects. Every whisper, every pointed stare, would confirm what he already knew: he was nothing.
At last, they reached the base of the marble steps. Three Elders sat upon an elevated dais: the first, a woman with hair like ashes and eyes that flickered steel; the second, a man draped in jade robes, his long beard braided with silver rings; the third, a youth whose pale face and jet‑black eyes belied centuries of hidden knowledge. Behind them, a massive scroll sealed with seven seals hung from an iron rod.
The ash‑haired Elder lifted a staff of ivory bone. "Next."
A guard announced, "Ferrin Du Rathos and Elyas Meridon."
Ferrin bowed low and stepped onto the Seal of Binding. His medallion throbbed to life, each Aspect glowing a soft blue. He raised his head, offering a practiced smile. A chorus of gasps greeted the sudden brilliance: Ferrin's Starter Aspects were ranked mid‑silver, above average for a first‑time competitor. Only two glowed toward gold. Everyone breathed a collective sigh—he would at least pass the initial trial.
Behind him, Elyas hesitated. Ferrin reached back and grasped his hand. "Go on, E."
With shaking limbs, Elyas climbed the marble steps. The steps felt impossibly steep, as though gravity itself sought to pin his feet in place. At the top, he turned to Ferrin—his champion—and managed a faint nod. Ferrin's amber eyes glowed with encouragement.
Elyas stepped onto the center of the rune circle. The gallery fell silent, a heavy hush that pressed into his chest. He clutched his medallion. "I… open my Title."
A low hum emanated from the crystal orb at the rune's core. Runic veins spread across the marble, reaching for Elyas's medallion. His breath caught. On his skin, he felt a prickling… and then nothing. The crystal orb focused its glow on him—but his medallion shone only a flat, ashen gray.
A murmur ran through the gallery: "What…?"
He glanced at the Elders. The jade‑robed one leaned forward, eyes narrowing. The youth Elder's lips curved in a tiny smirk. The ash‑haired matron's gaze was inscrutable.
Finally, the ivory staff tapped the ground. "So, you are The Player."
At that moment, Elyas felt every pair of eyes upon him. Some curious, some disappointed, some mercifully sympathetic. He swallowed, his throat as dry as desert sand.
"Yes," he whispered. "I am The Player, Starter Rank in all seven Aspects."
A ripple of whispers—curiosity, pity, laughter. Elyas closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. In that silence, he heard Ferrin's steady breathing from below. Everything else faded.
Then the youth Elder spoke, voice soft but clear: "Every journey begins with a first move. Let the Scroll be unsealed."
He lifted a finger; the jade‑robed Elder touched one of the seven seals. A crack rang out as it shattered. One by one, the others followed until the scroll's leather unrolled with a resonant thump. The ash‑haired matron cleared her throat.
"Tonight, every entrant will undertake the Trials of Binding. Those who prove themselves in the lower galleries may advance to the Ascension Trials above. But know this: a mortal's strength is not measured solely by their Titles. Even the weakest piece can tip the scales, if they understand the game."
A sudden hush, deeper than before. Elyas opened his eyes. The ash‑haired matron's gaze met his.
"Player," she intoned. "Your Trial begins. Descend into the lower galleries. Survive until the Scroll calls you again. Then, perhaps, you will learn what it truly means to play."
Ferrin's voice cut through the tension: "Come on, E. I'm right behind you."
Elyas stepped off the rune circle, legs unsteady but spirit ignited by her words. Behind the marble steps, a narrow passage led to the Trial rooms. Shadows lurked at its mouth. Competitors filed in—some laughing, some whispering, some steeling themselves.
Ferrin took Elyas's arm, guiding him toward the entrance. "You did it. You survived your first binding."
Elyas nodded, a wry half‑smile forming. His medallion's gray glow seemed to pulse once, as if acknowledging his acceptance of the game.
He drew a steadying breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs. "Let's make our first move."
Hand in hand, the two friends crossed the threshold—and into the unknown depths of the Trials.
Chapter 1: "The Weakest Piece" (First Half)
The moon hung low over Galdoria, its pale silver light fractured by drifting clouds. Beneath its muted glow, the city's ancient walls seemed alive—each stone etched with the history of a thousand Titleholders, each crack a whisper of long‑forgotten legends. Tonight, lanterns were strung in every alley, every courtyard, their amber beams forming a river of light that washed the city in golden warmth. It was the eve of the Ascension Trials, and hope and terror danced in equal measure upon every hopeful's face.
In an alley behind the grand plaza—a narrow corridor of slick cobblestones—two figures crouched behind stacked wooden crates. Rain had begun as a drizzle, soaking their cloaks and darkening the stones beneath them. Ferrin, tall and lean, leaned forward, amber eyes bright with barely‑contained excitement. The soggy fringe of his dark hair clung to his forehead. Beside him, Elyas folded into himself, thin shoulders huddled against the damp. His pale skin glowed faintly in the torchlight; his eyes, wide and black, reflected both fear and a curious spark of determination.
"Are you absolutely sure they went in this way?" Ferrin whispered, voice low enough to rattle loose mortar.
Elyas pressed a slim finger to the wall, tracing the scar of a broken rune carved into the stone. "Yes," he said, voice quivering. "I saw two Registerers pass here about two minutes ago. They scanned the entrants and then—" He swallowed, glancing at the far end of the alley. "They went through the servant's gate."
Ferrin offered a reassuring grin. "Good. That's our entrance." He reached into his cloak and drew out a small, spherical device—no larger than a walnut—glimmering with faint blue runes. "Keep that ready." He tucked it away. "Once we're inside, use it if any—well… if any surprises appear."
Elyas nodded, though his whole body trembled. In his right hand he clutched a bronze medallion engraved with four interlocking runes. This was his Title seal—the emblem of The Player—but so far, its power had been but a dull ache beneath his skin. Starter Rank in all seven Aspects: Lore, Fortune, Ties, Vigor, Wisdom, Craft, and Valor. At this moment, each Aspect glowed a faint, lifeless gray—the unmistakable sign of weakness, of untapped power, of an unremarkable fate.
Ferrin stood, brushing water from his cloak. "Come on," he urged. "We don't have much time before the Trials begin in earnest."
They slipped from behind the crates and moved silently down the alley. Stacked barrels and broken carts littered their path, but neither spoke; their eyes were fixed on the gate ahead. A single torch flickered in its iron bracket, casting a wavering circle of light on the heavy iron door. Ferrin pressed a hidden latch, and the gate swung inward with a sonorous groan.
Inside lay a network of narrow corridors, their vaulted ceilings supported by pillars of dark stone. Torches burned at intervals, sending dancing shadows across walls carved with battle scenes, emblems of past Titles, and wards to protect the Trials' inner sanctum. Elyas stepped forward, boots echoing on the flagstones. His heart thudded so loudly he feared the sound would betray him.
Ferrin placed a hand on his shoulder. "Steady." He nodded toward a side passage. "This way. It leads to the Hall's lower galleries."
Elyas followed, following the soft echo of distant voices. Occasionally, the hush of crackling runes would shimmer in the air—entrants testing their Titles, flexing their newborn powers. A faint red aura flickered alongside the corridor as a young woman practiced Vigor, lifting a crate twice her weight. Further down, two boys wove ethereal filaments of Ties to bind training dummies. Elyas felt a pang of envy; he could not lift a pebble, could not summon even a wisp of connection.
As they turned a corner, Ferrin halted by a carved relief. He brushed away the moss: a robed figure held twin scythes, its skeletal visage framed by raven wings. "The Reaper," Ferrin whispered. "Titleholder of Valor and Vigor. Ranked First in both; the very embodiment of death. They cleared every Trial before their final Ascension. Some say they struck down an army alone to claim their mantle."
Elyas traced the figure's hollow eyes. "What… what did they do for Fortune?" he asked.
Ferrin smiled wryly. "Fortune at First Rank gives you dominion over wealth itself: fortunes appear at your beckoning. The Reaper didn't bother—Valor and Vigor were enough. They wanted the elegance of death, not the messiness of silver and gold."
Elyas nodded, but his mind swirled with darker thoughts. Even the thousands of gold pieces Ferrin had invested in libraries and treatises had never touched Elyas's heart. Lore was a refuge, but never power. Still, he clung to every scrap of lore: Titles, Ranks, Rituals. Tonight, every new entrant would claim their Rank in each Aspect through the Scroll of Binding. Tonight, Elyas's medallion would glow gray above his skin, and the world would see him as the weakest of the weak.
Ferrin placed a steady hand on his back. "Focus on staying quiet. Follow my lead. You learn by watching—and if you can't match them, you outsmart them."
They rounded a final bend and emerged into a vast cavern—the Hall's lower gallery. Torches rimmed the walls; banners of the three Elder Houses hung from the rafters. At the far end, marble steps led upward to the main Trial Hall. Ferrin and Elyas pressed against a pillar of black stone. From here, they could see competitors moving in every direction: novices testing Vigor by crushing stones; Lore adepts attempting to recall arcane glyphs; Ties wielders experimenting on phantom constructs.
Above the center of the gallery, a gigantic rune circle glowed on the floor—the Seal of Binding. Every entrant, when called, would stand upon those runes. A crystal orb at its core would broadcast their medallion's glow, projecting each Aspect's Rank around them in spectral color. Reds and blues and golds would swirl; Elyas expected nothing but dull gray.
Ferrin adjusted the straps on his satchel. "This level is just the rehearsal. We head upstairs when the Trials start. The Seal of Binding is a lie—each Sigil's glow will settle by itself when the Elders unseal the Scroll. But you can watch hundreds of Titles awaken before your eyes."
Elyas shut his eyes for a moment, letting the distant echoes of chants wash over him. He tried to imagine his Aspects awakening—Vigor surging through his veins, Ties forging links to unseen allies. But he felt nothing but the cold lantern air. He hated this feeling: wanting more than he had the strength to claim.
A sudden chime broke the hush. Ferrin glanced up: "That's the Second Bell."
The lower gallery's torches flared, and the Seal of Binding's circle burned bright. From hidden speakers came the Elders' voices, distant but resonant:
> "Descendants of Galdoria's founding line—Children of Titles—step forward and unveil your sigils. Let the seven Aspects be weighed, and let the Scroll reveal your fate."
Competitors formed lines at either side of the seal. A boy pinched his medallion, whispered a word, and the Aspects kindled in hues of emerald and sapphire. A girl's Fortune flourish bathed her in golden sparkles. Elyas watched, not daring to breathe.
Ferrin nudged him. "Come on. It's our turn soon."
They wove through lines of entrants, Ferrin's confident strides parting crowds. As they approached the front, Elyas's throat tightened. He would stand before the Elders, before the entire city—weakest in all seven Aspects. Every whisper, every pointed stare, would confirm what he already knew: he was nothing.
At last, they reached the base of the marble steps. Three Elders sat upon an elevated dais: the first, a woman with hair like ashes and eyes that flickered steel; the second, a man draped in jade robes, his long beard braided with silver rings; the third, a youth whose pale face and jet‑black eyes belied centuries of hidden knowledge. Behind them, a massive scroll sealed with seven seals hung from an iron rod.
The ash‑haired Elder lifted a staff of ivory bone. "Next."
A guard announced, "Ferrin Du Rathos and Elyas Meridon."
Ferrin bowed low and stepped onto the Seal of Binding. His medallion throbbed to life, each Aspect glowing a soft blue. He raised his head, offering a practiced smile. A chorus of gasps greeted the sudden brilliance: Ferrin's Starter Aspects were ranked mid‑silver, above average for a first‑time competitor. Only two glowed toward gold. Everyone breathed a collective sigh—he would at least pass the initial trial.
Behind him, Elyas hesitated. Ferrin reached back and grasped his hand. "Go on, E."
With shaking limbs, Elyas climbed the marble steps. The steps felt impossibly steep, as though gravity itself sought to pin his feet in place. At the top, he turned to Ferrin—his champion—and managed a faint nod. Ferrin's amber eyes glowed with encouragement.
Elyas stepped onto the center of the rune circle. The gallery fell silent, a heavy hush that pressed into his chest. He clutched his medallion. "I… open my Title."
A low hum emanated from the crystal orb at the rune's core. Runic veins spread across the marble, reaching for Elyas's medallion. His breath caught. On his skin, he felt a prickling… and then nothing. The crystal orb focused its glow on him—but his medallion shone only a flat, ashen gray.
A murmur ran through the gallery: "What…?"
He glanced at the Elders. The jade‑robed one leaned forward, eyes narrowing. The youth Elder's lips curved in a tiny smirk. The ash‑haired matron's gaze was inscrutable.
Finally, the ivory staff tapped the ground. "So, you are The Player."
At that moment, Elyas felt every pair of eyes upon him. Some curious, some disappointed, some mercifully sympathetic. He swallowed, his throat as dry as desert sand.
"Yes," he whispered. "I am The Player, Starter Rank in all seven Aspects."
A ripple of whispers—curiosity, pity, laughter. Elyas closed his eyes, letting it wash over him. In that silence, he heard Ferrin's steady breathing from below. Everything else faded.
Then the youth Elder spoke, voice soft but clear: "Every journey begins with a first move. Let the Scroll be unsealed."
He lifted a finger; the jade‑robed Elder touched one of the seven seals. A crack rang out as it shattered. One by one, the others followed until the scroll's leather unrolled with a resonant thump. The ash‑haired matron cleared her throat.
"Tonight, every entrant will undertake the Trials of Binding. Those who prove themselves in the lower galleries may advance to the Ascension Trials above. But know this: a mortal's strength is not measured solely by their Titles. Even the weakest piece can tip the scales, if they understand the game."
A sudden hush, deeper than before. Elyas opened his eyes. The ash‑haired matron's gaze met his.
"Player," she intoned. "Your Trial begins. Descend into the lower galleries. Survive until the Scroll calls you again. Then, perhaps, you will learn what it truly means to play."
Ferrin's voice cut through the tension: "Come on, E. I'm right behind you."
Elyas stepped off the rune circle, legs unsteady but spirit ignited by her words. Behind the marble steps, a narrow passage led to the Trial rooms. Shadows lurked at its mouth. Competitors filed in—some laughing, some whispering, some steeling themselves.
Ferrin took Elyas's arm, guiding him toward the entrance. "You did it. You survived your first binding."
Elyas nodded, a wry half‑smile forming. His medallion's gray glow seemed to pulse once, as if acknowledging his acceptance of the game.
He drew a steadying breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs. "Let's make our first move."
Hand in hand, the two friends crossed the threshold—and into the unknown depths of the Trials.
The corridor beyond was scarcely more than a tunnel of jagged stone, lit by sconces that burned with blue‑white flame. The air was dry, carrying hints of dust and distant earth. Ferrin led the way; Elyas followed, his senses stretched thin. The walls pulsed with faint arcane wards, meant to deter those lacking proper Titles—but they did little to soothe Elyas's nerves.
"At least it's quiet," Ferrin whispered, voice echoing against the stones.
Elyas nodded, brow furrowed. "Too quiet."
Ahead, a fork split the passage. An arrow engraved into the floor pointed left: Mnemonic Nexus Trials. To the right, another arrow pointed: Fortune's Gauntlet. Beyond both, darker tunnels hinted at deeper challenges: Ties, Vigor, Wisdom, Craft, and Valor. Each would test the entrant's mastery of that Aspect.
Ferrin paused at the fork. "We stick together. First stop: Fortune's Gauntlet. You'll need coin—use what I stashed." He handed Elyas a small pouch. Inside were five silver tokens, each stamped with the glyph of Fortune.
Elyas swallowed. "What's the trial?"
"Luck, risk, trade," Ferrin said. "We'll find out."
They turned right into a wider chamber. Torches lined a raised dais at its far end, where a grim-faced Host awaited. Between them lay a mosaic of shifting tiles—some gold, some obsidian, some cracked and worn. As they entered, the dais's torch flames flared, and the floor shimmered.
The Host's voice boomed: "Fortune's Gauntlet. Place your tokens or retreat. Each tile bears reward or ruin. Step wisely, for each choice may be your last."
Ferrin glanced at Elyas. "Your move."
Elyas set a trembling token onto a gold tile. The moment the coin touched stone, the tile glowed—and crumbled beneath his foot. He stumbled but Ferrin caught him.
Another tile ahead flickered golden; three to the left, obsidian. Elyas closed his eyes and stepped. The tile rang solid. A silver chest materialized before them, disgorging a handful of golden sparks that swirled around Elyas's medallion. For an instant, the glyph of Fortune flared amber, then faded to gray.
Ferrin grinned. "Not bad. Two to go."
They advanced in silence, choosing tiles and staking tokens. Some shattered; others bore coins, gems, or nothing. Each success sent ripples through the chamber. By the final token, only two tiles remained: one gold, one black. Elyas inhaled, heart pounding. He placed the last token on the gold.
Light erupted. The chamber trembled. Tiles shifted and crumbled, revealing stairs leading downward. The Host's voice echoed: "Trial complete. Proceed to the Lore chambers."
Ferrin scooped Elyas into a fierce hug. "You did it!"
Elyas exhaled, weak but triumphant. "My Fortune… nearly glowed."
Ferrin winked. "Just one Trial down."
They descended the newly revealed stairs into a circular hall lined with shelves and lecterns. Floating glyphs drifted in the air, each a puzzle of arcane text.
A spectral Librarian drifted forward. "Lore Trial. Unravel the Glyph of Dreams or remain lost forever."
On a pedestal lay an obsidian orb etched with shifting runes. Elyas approached. His breath steadied. He recognized dozens of scripts—ancient, forbidden, familiar. He pressed a hand to the orb, felt threads of meaning weave into his mind.
Ferrin watched in awe as golden light bloomed from Elyas's medallion. The Lore glyphs around them glowed in response, forming constellations of knowledge.
Minutes passed like moments. Finally, the orb cracked, shattering into motes of luminous script. The Librarian bowed. "Trial complete."
Elyas staggered, mind buzzing with the whispers of forgotten lore. Ferrin caught him. "You're a natural."
Elyas shook his head. "I… felt it deeper than before."
Ahead, corridors branched toward Ties, Vigor, Wisdom, Craft, and Valor. The echo of distant challenges beckoned.
Ferrin helped Elyas to his feet. "Ready for the next move, Player?"
Elyas met his friend's gaze, eyes now alight with something fierce. "Let's continue the game."