A sudden, sharp sound struck the air—a deep, resonating horn, forged not of brass or bronze, but of enchantment. The kind of sound that wasn't made, but conjured. It echoed once, then twice, then faded… leaving behind a silence more powerful than the noise.
The crowd hushed in confusion. Whispers stirred. But the five nobles knew the sound well. Familiar as breath. It was a sound reserved for only one.
The wind shifted, as if bowing too, flags snapping to attention all around the arena. And above the arena—the highest banners of them all—rose the royal flag, its emblem unmistakable:
Twisted thorns strangling a rose, a broken blade stabbed through its heart.
A breath passed. Then every noble eye turned.
To the middle of the balcony.
To the throne that, until now, sat grand and vacant.
And then—it bloomed.
A bloom of black-purple fog, perfect in its shape, circular and swirling, appearing as though reality itself had been peeled back. It coiled and pulsed, ethereal tendrils slithering outward in silence.
From it, she emerged.
She stepped through the portal with a grace that defied movement. It was not walking. It was unveiling.
The fog vanished behind her like it had never been.
She stood tall, unshaken, her form wreathed in black and blood-red, a gown that clung like flame and shadow. Her face—divine. Cut from marble, kissed by moonlight. Eyes pale and cutting, calm and all-seeing. Her presence was unbearable.
No man or woman could hold her gaze for long.
Not because of shame.
Because of awe.
A glance could seduce. A second glance could unravel. And a third glance—could destroy.
Her beauty wasn't the beauty of flowers or songs.
It was the beauty of wolves circling you in the snow. The beauty of lightning above a sea that wanted to swallow you. You could fall in love with her in an instant. And in the next, beg for mercy.
Two figures stepped through after her.
Left and right. Shadows shaped like men.
One, crimson-haired and long, with a gaze that might cut harder than any sword. The other, brown-haired, short-cut and squared like a block of forged iron. Their movements had no excess. Their silence was a warning.
Black and red tunics bore the twisted rose, royal sigil burning across their chests.
They were pillars of violence, dressed in elegance.
The Queen's most trusted blades.
Each stood with weight that defied measurement. You knew just by looking—a thousand battles had been won by them. And one fight against them wouldn't last long enough to regret.
The silence that followed was not normal.
It was too silent.
The crowd didn't dare breathe. The nobles' tension—once simmering in mockery and subtle barbs—evaporated into a hush more powerful than shouting.
And then, all at once—
They rose.
The five nobles stepped down from their high seats, descending several steps to a lower tier, and fell to one knee, heads bowed, eyes on the stone.
Their guards followed suit. Even Talen's usual refusal to kneel faltered beneath the storm of presence before them.
"Your Grace," they said in a unified breath, eyes shut.
All throughout the colosseum, it rippled.
Like thunder over water, the audience followed. Guards. Children. Merchants. Beggars. Fighters in the dust below. Every head bowed. Every knee bent.
One voice, a whisper in the masses:
"Was that teleportation magic?"
"Shut up," another hissed. "Say one more word and you'll lose your tongue."
The announcer, caught mid-breath, stood shaking. Then he swallowed, adjusted his voice, and found his strength.
He turned to the Queen—not to the nobles, not the crowd. Only to her.
His voice rang out:
"All rise and pay reverence! Her Majesty the Queen walks among us. Keeper of the Realm, Chosen by Light, graces the Dust Arena with her gaze. May every corner of this kingdom take pride, for she lowers her eyes upon us."
She moved with quiet finality and took her seat—the velvet throne at the balcony's center, crafted not merely of comfort, but of meaning. Behind her, her twin guards stood, hands at ease, eyes never still.
Seconds passed.
Still, the nobles did not rise.
A small gesture of the Queen's hand, elegant and slight, was all it took.
"You may lift your heads."
And like a wave—they did.
First the nobles, then their guards, then the crowd. The sound of a thousand bodies settling down echoed in a perfect rhythm.
But none sat, not yet.
Lord Masquien bowed his head again, deeper this time, his tone lower than the weight of his robes.
"How could we ever deserve to be in your presence, Your Grace… You honor us more than we deserve."
The Queen did not reply at once.
And then—she spoke.
Her voice was gentle, yet unfathomably vast. Every syllable shimmered with royalty and might.
"The Dust stirs much these days. I came to see with my own eyes—before the next High Council convenes." She smiled faintly, too faint to be comfort. "With five of my council present… I assume you are here for the same reason. Yes?"
Lord Masquien, eager, shifted forward again.
"As expected of Her Majesty. Ever wise. Ever thinking of her people—"
Lord Talen interrupted.
He stepped forward slightly, bowing low but speaking with the same voice he once reserved for command.
"Your Grace. If I may. This place is… beneath your station. It is raw, loud, unrefined. Reports could be delivered, findings documented and reviewed. There's danger in coming here without preparation."
The Queen's head tilted, her gaze softening—but not her tone.
"A ruler who sees only from towers sees only half the truth. I trust your concern, Lord Talen. I cherish it. And I know—" her voice turned warmer, more deadly, "—that with you here, danger would dare not speak."
Lord Talen said no more.
But a faint satisfaction pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Then, her eyes shifted. Toward the others.
"Lady Venara. Lord Faron. It pleases me greatly to see young hands holding firm reins. May Lord Avenir's sickness ease soon," she said to Venara. "He has served the realm with devotion. It would be a shame to lose his wisdom now."
Venara bowed, saying nothing. Her gaze steady. Careful.
Then the Queen turned to Lord Faron, voice softer still.
"And Lord Alveth… was a great man. Steady, measured. Loyal. May the stars grant him peace. I see his strength in you, Lord Faron. Perhaps even more. I look forward to seeing it bloom."
Faron blinked. A flicker of something passed over him—emotion. Pride, or disbelief. For just a breath, he smiled.
"Your Grace. I am honored. I will not disappoint you."
Across from him, Lord Masquien's face tightened. Just enough to notice.
The Queen's hand raised slightly again.
"Sit, my lords. My lady. Make yourselves at ease."
And so they did.
Lord Eleazar took the seat closest to her left.
Masquien moved to the second on the right, his size filling the bronze frame.
Lord Faron, subtly, secured the seat at the Queen's right.
Talen's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the second to her left, beside Eleazar.
Venara, graceful as ever, settled beside Masquien.
Their guards moved accordingly, silent and respectful.
But not the Queen's guards.
Their eyes watched.
They saw everything. Every motion. Every breath.
Then the announcer's voice returned, trembling again, yet reverent.
"The Dust Arena—our humble grounds—is graced with Her Majesty's presence. We are but grains beneath her boots. If only we had known, we would have better prepared such a visit. But perhaps… the spontaneity is a gift."
He coughed, cleared his throat, and stood straighter.
"And now, the match all have awaited. On one side: the Blade King—wielder of Seren's cursed blade. Ninety-nine fallen behind him, and one more to earn his rise. Men, women, even children—none have escaped his wrath. He is blood, he is steel, he is Caelvir."
The crowd exploded. Cheers tore into the air.
Every noble now sat differently—no longer lounging. They were watching. Thinking.
But Venara glanced sideways.
At the Queen.
Subtle shifts in expression. Barely seen.
She watched her like one watches clouds before a storm.
"And against him," the announcer continued, "stands Lysara the Breeze. Her cuts find their mark before the mind understands. Precise. Unfeeling. Swift as winter wind. Ninety-nine fell before her. Today… she seeks her hundredth."
More shouting. Arguments in the stands. Bets exchanged.
The gates opened.
Two shadows stepped into the dust.
To the center. To tradition.
They bowed low, eyes cast downward toward dirt.
The arena breathed with anticipation.
Venara's gaze flicked again.
From Caelvir.
To the Queen.
And for a heartbeat—the Queen was watching him.
Not Lysara.
Not the crowd.
Caelvir.
And he… was watching too.
Not the nobles.
Not his opponent.
Just her.
And not Venara.