The Dust Arena roared with life beneath the heavy sky, a sea of voices rolling over cracked stone and sunbaked sand. Above, the High Council's balcony stretched in a graceful arc of eight seats—four to the left, four to the right—each carved from dark wood, cushioned with velvet worn by years of whispered deals and silent judgments.
At the center, the grandest throne held court, gilded in gold and crimson silk, its presence alone demanding reverence.
Tonight, five of those seats were filled.
Lord Masquien of House Hollowmere, broad and portly, settled heavily into one. His rings clinked faintly as he raised a goblet, eyes flicking over the crowd with practiced calculation.
Lady Venara of House Goldmere sat poised, her golden hair a shimmering halo in the fading light. Cloaked in emerald and gold, her gaze was sharp, measured.
Lord Faron of House Elandar, young and restless, shifted in his seat. His cobalt robes and the silver-winged sigil bore the weight of ambition yet unrealized.
Lord Talen of House Drakmore, a living mountain of muscle, radiated quiet menace beneath his crimson and black garb.
And in shadow, the eldest sat wrapped in loose robes, his white beard spilling like mist over a sigil—an almost burnt-out candle held by a hand. His eyes, wise and weary, surveyed the arena with quiet intent.
"Seeing you all again on this dusty stage," Lord Faron began, voice light but edged, "makes the weight of council seem almost bearable."
Lord Talen snorted, brow furrowed. "I heard the fight was promising. That's reason enough to drag myself from the war room."
Masquien grinned, fingers tapping the rim of his glass. "I'm here for the wagers. Two warriors, both on the cusp of a hundred kills—now that's a contest worth betting on."
Lady Venara's smile was calm, almost knowing. "We're all here for the same reason—marking who crosses that hundredth victory. One will rise beyond these sands and wear a sigil, the other forgotten."
Talen's laugh cut through, harsh. "Titles and sigils won't forge steel. A warrior's worth is earned in battle, not gilded in silk."
He then frowned, glancing at the other nobles around him. "I heard this fight would be worth the time, so I came. Though I wonder what the court's busy courtiers would say, seeing five members of the High Council gathered here to watch slaves clash for scraps."
Masquien's chuckle was slow, deliberate. "And yet here you are, my Lord. Surely even a warlord can appreciate a bit of spectacle now and then."
Faron's voice cut in smoothly. "Investing in those who've survived a hundred battles is sound strategy. Their skill isn't mere luck—it's earned."
Talen's smirk was sharp. "And what's your aim, Faron? A warrior as a lapdog? A bodyguard for the boy who's never known true danger?"
Faron held his gaze steady. "A warrior serves best where they are valued. I didn't intend to offend you, my Lord. Your protection is what keeps the kingdom safe."
He tilted his head. "But what does the Dust hold for you, Lord Talen? Or is your interest only in the glory of the war?"
Talen shrugged, dismissive. "This talk bores me."
Venara's smile was thin, almost predatory. "I wonder who faces whom tonight. The players and their pieces."
Masquien arched an eyebrow. "Do you even know the names of these dust slaves, Lady Venara?"
Her smile didn't waver. "You'd know better than I, Lord Masquien. After all, you bet on their blood like it's currency. I hope the coin flows well enough to cover the rising price of wine and fine food."
Masquien's flush deepened, but his tone stayed smooth. "That's a fair jab, Lady Venara."
A hush settled over them.
Then the oldest noble spoke, voice low but carrying. "Protection... is thicker than usual."
Eyes drifted to the armed men stationed around the balcony, silent and still.
"Naturally, Lord Eleazar. We are the honorable members of High Council, after all," Masquien laughed softly.
Eleazar responded, voice quiet but clear. "There are reasons the guards double their ranks. And not all dangers wear blades."
"Dangers or not, let them stack guards to the roof for all I care," Masquien said, gesturing broadly. "The real protection is the one that stands at your side—loyal, paid, and preferably fast with a sword."
He turned, casting a smug glance toward his own protector—a tall, long-haired swordsman whose narrow eyes scanned the crowd like he expected a fight to erupt at any moment. He stood close, silent, gloved fingers twitching near the hilt.
Lady Venara shifted her weight elegantly, just enough to draw attention to the tall woman behind her—Elowen, wrapped in forest-green cloth, one hand resting lightly on a curved blade. No movement wasted. Eyes like knives, watching everything, including the nobles.
Lord Talen said nothing. He never brought guards. He was the blade.
Lord Eleazar, too, had come alone. But with him, it never felt like he was unprotected—only that his protectors were unseen.
Lord Faron sat flanked by two figures dressed in simple gray, cloth covering their eyes. One male, one female. Blind warriors, yet standing as if they saw more than sight allowed. Their poise was unnatural—serene, and yet, taut as coiled wire.
Lord Talen eyed them with distaste.
"Blind guards? You collecting strays now, Faron?"
Faron didn't flinch. Didn't even smile.
"They hear the lies men speak louder than the swords they draw."