Tashlan – Colosseum of Ferez, God-Feast Evening, Year 8002 A.A.
Night draped itself over Tashlan like a slow-closing fist, shadows bleeding into the alleys and gilded spires until only the colosseum's braziers kept the dark at bay. Within that ancient ring of obsidian and rune-etched monoliths, the air quivered still from the memory of combat, from blood offered and mercy given. Yet the greatest thunder came not from the clashing of spear and staff, but from voices—tens of thousands woven into one ragged hymn:
"TREVOR! TREVOR! TREVOR!"
They chanted with a desperation that went beyond triumph, as though in this small victory they glimpsed something that Carlon's centuries of conquest had denied them: proof that power could be answered, that arrogance could be humbled.
Amid this sea of hoarse devotion, Trevor Maymum was borne aloft, lifted on the shoulders of Third-Class Tracients—boars whose tusks bore chips from quarry stone, antelope whose horns showed old breaks from mine tunnels, beasts and rodents with scars hidden beneath patchwork cloth. They were the ones who had built the city's lower bones, who had tasted its dust and felt its lash. And in this moment, they carried him not as a champion alone, but as an answer.
Trevor's cracked glasses slipped down his snout, clinging by a stubborn thread. Blood darkened the copper of his fur, stiffening around the spiraled headband whose three whorls caught the firelight and made him something older, almost totemic. Despite bruises swelling along his jaw and ribs, a faint grin clung to his mouth—a defiance soft as dawn after storm.
One shaking arm lifted, palm open, and the chant climbed higher still.
Across the ruined sand, Erezhan lay propped against a split monolith of obsidian. The medics hovered, their hands gentle but unwanted. His crimson eyes, so often cold and imperious, now burned with an ember's vengeful glow. He saw nothing of the commoners chanting, nothing of Trevor's lifted arm—only the distant, composed figure of Azubuike Toran, Panther King of Kürdiala, seated above it all.
I will destroy you, the prince vowed in silence, fury threading through every word unspoken. Your pride, your house, your son.
His spear, once bright with runes, lay buried in sand now marked by spirals Trevor had left—not as wounds, but as signatures.
It was mercy Trevor had shown him —hitting all the pressure points of his body but his head —a deliberate sparing of bone and life. And to Erezhan, that mercy cut deeper than any blade.
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Above them all, on the victor's platform framed by gold lattice and serpent banners, the Trisoc sat frozen. His ceremonial robes of gold and crimson clung damp against sweat-slick flesh, the thick skin of his neck shining dully under torchlight. His great tusks, capped with filigreed gold, trembled almost imperceptibly. Beads of sweat trailed from his temple, disappearing into the folds of cloth gathered at his breast.
Beside him, Azubuike Toran reclined with deceptive ease. His desert-gold and obsidian robes shimmered under braziers' shifting flames, and his bare panther paws rested one over the other, claws sheathed but never forgotten. His violet eyes, quiet as dusk, watched the arena—not Trevor, nor Erezhan, but something that lay in the space between.
Behind Toran stood General Ekene Çelik, obsidian-toned robe cinched by a crimson sash alive with runic thread. His arms folded across his chest, posture like a drawn bow held just short of release.
The colosseum's tide of noise ebbed to uneasy murmuring. Eyes turned up to the dais, waiting for the ritual words the Trisoc should speak. Yet the Trisoc's tongue, ever quick in victory, now lay heavy and silent.
It was the Vizier who rose.
His scales shimmered dully in torchlight, emerald silks stitched in ouroboros sigils whispering with every movement. He lifted one thin, clawed hand, tapping the black pendant at his throat—a serpent devouring its own tail. Mana rippled outward, his words coiling through the tiers with the oily grace of a snake slipping through reeds:
"Great Carlonians! On this Feast of Ferez, we celebrate our new champion!"
A practiced cheer answered, loud but hollow in its rhythm, the cadence of people who had cheered so long they barely remembered why.
The Vizier's tongue flicked, tasting the air. His hand swept toward Erezhan's prone form. "Tradition offers the vanquished as tribute to the Inexorable Flame… unless the victor decrees otherwise." His head dipped, scales catching stray motes of light. "What say you, Lord Maymum?"
Silence followed—a silence that thickened, gathering weight in every breathless second. The Third-Class, still clutching the champion they had lifted, fell quiet, their cheers dying on chapped lips.
The Trisoc's massive hand tightened on his throne's armrest, the gold filigree digging pale furrows into his flesh. The Vizier's pendant glinted with ominous patience, the faintest reflection of crimson fire within the polished black. Toran's tail moved once, slow as a serpent uncoiling, but his face revealed nothing.
Trevor looked first at Erezhan, who glared back with hate so raw it seemed to smoke. Then at the Trisoc, sweat-darkened and silent in his high place. And last, he turned to Toran.
The Panther King's gaze offered neither command nor caution, only a flicker of quiet amusement—as though he was watching a cub step onto snow, leaving a trail all his own.
Trevor's smirk, ragged but unbowed, returned. His hand lifted, palm facing the heavens. Gözkarin shimmered back into being, its false staff shape forming from amber light.
His voice rang clear, not loud but carrying—playful on the surface, anchored by iron beneath:
"I, Trevor Maymum, Grand Lord of Narn, by the will of Asalan the Great Lion, revoke my claim on Prince Erezhan's fate."
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The answer from the colosseum was no chant, but a roar—a quake of raw humanity that cracked through the night. Tears spilled freely in the Third-Class benches; strangers clung to strangers, laughter and sobs intertwined. The bruised and the forgotten, the scarred hands that had cut Carlon's stones, found in Trevor's mercy something they dared not name: hope.
The Middle-Class responded more cautiously, applause fluttering like startled birds before settling into real rhythm. Among the nobles, masked and perfumed, polite clapping hid shifting eyes—eyes that measured this Narn lord not merely as victor, but as something more troubling: a player unwilling to play by Carlon's old rules.
On the victor's platform, the Trisoc's shoulders sagged. His jaw hung slightly slack, and the wine-dark sweat at his collar spread wider. The Vizier's claws, which had lifted subtly toward the pendant, curled back into stillness.
Azubuike Toran leaned forward, his voice low, velvet woven through steel: "I'm pleased this tournament hasn't… strained our kingdoms' bond."
The Trisoc did not answer. Even the nod he might have given failed to come.
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Tashlan – Trisoc's Palace, Throne Room – The Next Morning
Morning light slanted through fretworked lattice, striping the vast throne room in pale gold. Gilded obsidian columns rose like frozen waterfalls, serpent-sigil banners hanging limp in the heat. Incense curled lazily, clinging to stone, unable to mask the sour scent of old sweat and older fear.
On the emerald-and-tusk throne, the Trisoc sat stiff-backed, hooves tapping a jittering rhythm against the dais. His jowls trembled as though still waiting for words that never came.
Below, Toran stood, posture easy yet unyielding. His violet eyes took in every flicker of torchlight and every breath in the shadowed corners. Beside him, Ekene held his silence like a drawn blade. Trevor stood with them, clean robes falling over bruised ribs, glasses still crooked from the duel. His expression, unlike yesterday's triumphant grin, had settled into something watchful, and very quiet.
The doors, great slabs of dark wood banded in brass, creaked wide. Footsteps, calm yet resonant, crossed the black stone floor.
Kopa Boga entered, crowned with twin gold rings upon antlers that caught the light like dawn. Emerald cloth draped over broad shoulders, and his bare deer hooves struck the obsidian with a steady, measured grace.
"Kopa," Toran greeted, warmth surfacing through the frost of diplomacy. "I half-expected another."
Kopa bowed, voice firm. "King Darius sends regrets. The council holds him."
Toran's eyes flicked, a panther's glance, toward guards near the doors. Something in the air quivered—like the breath before lightning.
And then the light itself seemed to bend.
Mana pressure dropped, silent as breath stolen from a sleeper. Frost, white and delicate, crept across the nearest pillars. One guard staggered; another dropped his spear, breath stolen from his lungs. Far stone cracked with a sound too soft for fear, yet enough to twist the room's heart.
He's here.
Adam Kurt entered, and with him came a hush older than threat.
His blue fur caught candlelight, each strand like the surface of a quiet lake under stars. The sleeveless robe, deep pine green, bore the silver Kurt crest stitched across the heart. The yellow blindfold lay smooth over his eyes, soft cloth hiding gaze sharper than swords. At his back, the hilt of a small, plain sword rose—unadorned, yet as final as a closing door.
He did not snarl, nor stride like a conqueror. Yet the air seemed to shift, as though the room itself leaned around him, every Tracient present suddenly aware of breath and pulse.
The Trisoc's fingers dug into the throne's arms, nails whitening. Even the Vizier's forked tongue withdrew, scales tightening faintly along his throat.
"Great Trisoc," Adam said, voice even as calm water, a hint of amusement softening steel. "An honor to finally meet."
He turned, bowing his head slightly to Toran. "Father. A week's too long."
Toran chuckled, warmth almost hidden by caution. "A week, cub. You do try patience."
Adam's smirk was quicksilver, here and gone. "Fashionably."
Even Ekene, stoic as cut stone, allowed a breath that might have been the ghost of a smile.
The Trisoc swallowed, voice a brittle thing. "L-let us... continue in the banquet hall."
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Tashlan – Banquet Hall – Nightfall
Candles floated on mana currents above a table heavy with roasted birds lacquered in jewel-toned sauces, citrus fruits split to bleed scent into warm air, and honeyed roots steaming faintly. Yet no warmth touched the hearts seated around that feast.
Narn Lords, marked by spiral embroidery, mingled carefully with Carlon's upper echelons. The nobles' jeweled masks betrayed nothing, but their silences hissed sharper than any insult. A quartet of enchanted vines plucked slow, hollow music from golden harps, their leaves trembling under unseen draughts.
At the high table, Toran sat beside the Trisoc, whose eyes stayed hooded, hands occasionally flexing around the stem of an untouched goblet. Ekene remained watchful, posture a promise unspoken. Trevor, bruised jaw hidden partly by collar, sipped quietly at spiced tea.
Toran spoke, his tone velvet-wrapped iron, a blade sheathed in polite words. "Where is Prince Erezhan? Still healing pride?"
The Vizier's tail twitched, tongue pausing mid-taste of air. The Trisoc forced a grin, brittle as winter reed. "State errand," he said, voice cracking faintly. "Urgent."
Toran's gaze was steady, smile unchanged. "And yet shadows gather on your walls, old friend. What gnaws so loudly?"
A pause. Then the Vizier's eyes flicked, barely, to guards near an alcove where torchlight died too quickly.
The Trisoc's voice dropped. "Bandits. Seven convoys lost. Veldt Pass burned just yesterday—my guards cut down like cattle." His breath caught. "Carlon whispers that Ferez turns his face from my rule."
Toran lowered his goblet, the motion deliberate. "Unfortunate."
The Trisoc's face brightened with false inspiration. "Perhaps… if a Lord rode with the next convoy. To show unity. Trust reborn."
Before Toran could answer, the scrape of a chair cut the hall.
Adam Kurt rose. His blindfold tilted toward the Trisoc. "I'll go," he said, voice calm, certain, final.
Silence rolled over the hall, deep and absolute.
Even the Vizier paused, then smiled, too wide, teeth pale in firelight.
Toran's gaze, cool and patient, rested on his son.
You know, don't you?
Aloud, the Panther King only said, "If the Trisoc permits."
The Trisoc's eyes glittered, mask thin as gilt. "Perfectly. Narn's heir honors Carlon."
Candles danced. Music resumed. But in the dark corners, the Vizier's smile tightened like a hunter's snare, ready to spring.