Chapter 140
Elleena lowered her hand, the barrier hum softening as she finally spoke.
"You are correct in one thing, Daniel, chaos is the only stage upon which our enemy will show themselves. But do not mistake arrogance for recklessness. They have planned this far longer than you realize."
Daniel's brow furrowed. "Then tell me."
The Duchess drew a slow breath, as though each word weighed more than she cared to admit.
"Archmage Aithlin Hasterient, Azure-blooded, scion of one of the twelve oldest clans. Outwardly, he serves his own clan faithfully, a pillar of the Conclave. But beneath the veneer, his clan has grown discontent with the stagnation of the royal bloodlines. They believe the nobility has become too obsessed with lineage, hoarding divine blessings instead of pursuing true arcane mastery."
Melgil leaned forward, eyes sharp. "So they want to purge the royals? Replace them with their own?"
"Not replace," Daniel corrected, her voice grim. "Erase. They intend to collapse the balance entirely. By creating a controlled rift to the demon realm, Aithlin's clan seeks to siphon infernal power itself into their bloodline. If they succeed, they will no longer need divine right or crown. They will become the new law, mages bound not to tradition, but to raw, stolen strength."
Elleena jaw tightened. "And in that chaos, the royals fall."
"Yes," Daniel said, "and I am not exempt. The King's consort, Maisha Cohnal, has whispered enough in the right ears. She believes I harbor divine or holy magic, and that makes me the one threat their rift cannot easily consume. My death is not just convenient—it is required."
She paused, her gaze cold. "Their arrogance lies not in thinking themselves untouchable, but in believing the rest of us blind. They think the Crescent Magus, Sylveth Melriel, still locks herself away in her tower, too absorbed in her lunar studies to notice the storm. They think the court is fractured, the commoners docile, and the nobles too busy feuding over titles. And they believe
the boy they thought dead, your son would never return."
Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Daniel.
Melgil's lips curved faintly. "Then their plan depends on silence, on nobody questioning the pattern of accidents and assassinations until it's too late."
"Exactly," Elleena said. "It is not foolish. It is patient. Calculated. They do not rush to burn the kingdom, they bleed it slowly, cutting loyalties thread by thread until only their hand remains on the weave."
Daniel's expression hardened, his voice dropping into that same cold edge that made the duchess' spine tighten. "Then we make them believe their plan is still intact. "We give them their chaos. We let them step forward, arrogant in their timing, and when they do, we cut them down. No half measures."
Melgil rested her hand over his, her gaze fierce. "No survivors."
The duchess hesitated. Then, slowly, she inclined her head. "Very well. But know this, when the blood purging begins, the kingdom will not forgive easily.
"What you ask will not just unmask the enemy. It may unmake the world as you know it."
Daniel didn't blink. "Then we'll eliminate them , even if are stronger and out number us, ten to one."
For the first time, Elleena's lips curved, not a smile of warmth, but the razor-thin acknowledgment of an alliance sealed
"Then let us begin."
Archmage Aithlin Hasterient was not a man who inspired fear at first glance. Pale, thin as parchment, his beard long and unkempt, he looked more like a hermit than one of the Conclave's most senior mages. At five-foot-six, his posture stooped, his body frail, his voice often little more than a rasp. Many nobles dismissed him as a relic, useful for his knowledge of old grimoires but otherwise irrelevant in a kingdom that prized youth, strength, and divine blessing.
That dismissal was the greatest mistake they had ever made.
For beneath the withered skin and weak frame was a mind that could calculate ten steps ahead of kings. Aithlin Hasterient's greatest weapon was not his magic it was patience. While others spent their strength grasping at crowns or chasing fleeting power, he whispered to his clan of Azure-bloods that the true throne of the world was not divine, but arcane. "The gods bless the few," he had told them, again and again, his voice a hiss in the candlelit chambers of his house. "But the Abyss offers its hand to all who dare to seize it. We will not beg for heaven's scraps. We will carve our own dominion from hell itself."
He kept them unified with promises both practical and profound. To the ambitious, he offered rank and arcane supremacy. To the weary, he promised freedom from the stagnation of royal oversight. To the zealots, he framed their cause as destiny: a cleansing of rotting bloodlines who hoarded divine grace while the world starved.
And to his family, he bound them with blood, marriage ties, debts, and oaths sealed with runes that punished betrayal with agony. His niece, Maisha Cohnal, became the most crucial piece: married into the royal house, her influence at court concealed the shadow his clan cast.
Tonight was the culmination of decades of whispers.
Beneath the coliseum's stone foundations, where the blood of countless duels had seeped into the soil, Serath Valmoré, a fanatic chosen by Aithlin for his hunger and cruelty knelt before the summoning artifact. It was no simple relic, but a lattice of blackened steel and runed crystal, a cage designed to channel agony into power. The ritual had begun hours earlier, and now the chamber reeked of iron and death.
Piles of bodies condemned criminals, beggars stolen from alleys, even children bought from slavers, were heaped like offerings around the artifact. With each life drained, the glyphs glowed brighter, the air thickening until it seemed the walls themselves trembled.
Serath's hands were slick with blood as he carved the last sigil into his own palm. His voice broke with ecstasy and pain as he pressed it to the artifact. "By sacrifice unending," he chanted, "the veil shall rend. Let the Abyss answer."
The artifact pulsed once, then began to thrum like a heartbeat.
Above, thirty thousand filled the coliseum seats, laughter and wagers hiding the danger that coiled in their midst. Among them were Aithlin's agents: assassins disguised as merchants, mercenaries pretending to be commoners, and even cloaked mages who blended seamlessly into the crowd. They had been placed with precision, scattered evenly through the tiers, waiting like coiled vipers.
The signal was simple, and all of them knew it. When the arena floor cracked open, when the artifact beneath completed its call, and a demon clawed its way into the world, that was the moment. Chaos would explode. Soldiers would falter, healers would flee, and nobles would panic. That was when the knives would come out, when poison would be slipped into cups, and when spells would pierce throats before guards even knew where to strike.
In that pandemonium, the purge would begin.
Archmage Aithlin himself sat in the royal box, frail hands folded atop his staff, the very picture of harmless age. Yet his pale eyes glittered like shards of ice as he watched the arena below. Around him, nobles laughed and drank, oblivious to the noose tightening around their necks. Even the king's consort, Maisha, seated only a few places away, wore the serene mask of loyalty, though it was her quiet signal that had summoned the hidden knives here tonight.
Aithlin allowed himself a thin smile. "They call me relic. Tomorrow, they will call me sovereign.
And far below, the artifact gave a final, violent pulse—before the arena floor began to rumble, cracks spreading wide across its surface.
The signal was coming.
The blood purge was about to begin.
The great coliseum swelled with anticipation as the hour struck, the moment of the primary battle. More and more people streamed in, filling every corner of the thirty-thousand seats, their voices weaving into a single roar of excitement that trembled through the marble pillars and echoed across the vaulted dome.
The banners of noble houses rippled in the wind, their colors bleeding into the crowd like a living sea of fire and gold. Yet, in the high dais of royalty, a subtle shift was about to change everything. Archmage Aithlin Hasterient, frail in body but commanding in presence, leaned forward with a glint in his pale eyes. His voice, rasped with age but sharpened by cunning, carried the weight of a suggestion that promised both spectacle and chaos: instead of the usual pairings, all twelve surviving warriors should battle one another at once, a single grand melee to crown the true champion.
The queen, draped in silk and jewels that shimmered under the sunlight pouring through the open roof, turned to her husband, the king. She tilted her head, her smile curious and daring. "What say you, my lord?" she asked softly, though her words carried across the court. "Shall we let this birthday of mine be remembered for centuries?"
The king, lounging on his gilded throne with a goblet of deep red wine in hand, chuckled low and warm. His eyes gleamed with amusement as he gazed at her. "This is your day, my queen. You have the same power as I doo as you desire."
Her heart quickened at the permission, and she rose with the poise of a sovereign who knew her people adored her. Extending her hand to the roaring masses below, she addressed them in a voice that rang like silver bells across the arena.
"People of the realm! Shall we not make this day one of legend? Shall we not see who among these warriors can truly rise above all others, tested not in pairs, but against every rival? Let one stand victorious over eleven, so their glory will weigh heavier than gold and their reward surpass the wealth of two noble households!"
The crowd erupted in thunderous approval. Stomping feet shook the stands. Cheers rose like a storm tide. Cups were thrown in the air, wine spilling like blood over stone. The people demanded it: the chaos, the carnage, the spectacle.
Aithlin's thin lips curled into the faintest of smiles. Hidden behind the excitement, his plan wound tighter, the net of conspiracy pulling closer to its moment. Every scream for blood was music to his ears, for he knew that when the arena floor cracked open and the demon emerged, the people's joy would turn to horror, and it would be far too late to stop it.
The drums thundered across the coliseum, their echo shaking the stone walls as the Queen, radiant beneath her golden diadem, raised her hand to silence the crowd. The air was electric, charged with anticipation. Tens of thousands leaned forward in their seats, eager to see which among the chosen would rise above the rest. One by one, twelve warriors stepped into the great circle of sand and stone, their names and deeds announced to the roar of voices.
First came Kaerthis Drovane, the Flame-Blood of Ashreim. A towering Ignis-born nearly seven feet tall, his flesh was marbled with faint cracks of molten light that pulsed like living veins of fire. Broad as fortress gates, he carried a glaive wreathed in ember light. His skill was the melding of melee and fire, each sweeping strike scorching armor and flesh alike. His coal-black hair was bound in thick braids, his bronze skin scarred with glowing ritual burns, the marks of the Flame Crucible, a rite few of his kin had survived.
Next was Lysiriel Veyna, the Azure Huntress. Lithe and poised, she stood five-foot-nine, her marble-pale skin and storm-sea eyes giving her the air of a predator. Her long white hair shimmered faintly blue beneath the sun, flowing over layered azure leathers trimmed with silver feathers. With her recurved bow she could summon spectral hawks, weaving illusions that left prey disoriented before her arrows struck. Many whispered she once hunted kings for ransom, vanishing into the clouds before guards could even blink.
Then came Dhorvak "Stonehide" Brumhal, the Iron Bulwark. A squat Dwarrowkin, barely five feet tall but built like a siege tower, he carried arms corded with strength and a chest broad as two men. His square face bristled with a black beard streaked gray, his sharp eyes always calculating. In his hands rested a colossal warhammer etched with ancient runes, its weight capable of shattering enchanted armor. His stone-binding gift allowed him to draw strength from the earth itself, hardening his flesh until it was as unyielding as granite.
The fourth was Seralyth Noiren, the Twilight Dancer. Tall, graceful, and deadly, the Umbracast elf's dusky skin shimmered like midnight silk. Standing six-foot-one, with silver-black hair and violet eyes that glowed with predatory focus, she moved with serpentine elegance. Twin crescent daggers gleamed in her hands, weapons that dissolved into smoke only to reappear at will. A master of shadow-weaving, she vanished into darkness to strike unseen, her beauty as feared as her blades.
The fifth warrior was Hessarion, the Stalwart Shield. A human seasoned by decades of war, he stood six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, and scarred by countless campaigns. Cropped brown hair framed storm-gray eyes, and his square jaw carried the weight of unbroken resolve. He bore a massive rune-carved kite shield and a longsword polished like silver. Known for his aura of resilience, Thalen could rally allies even in hopeless battles. His presence alone was a fortress.
Then came Firana Kaldeth, the Serpent of Glasswater. Willowy and regal, the Marovian siren's sapphire-blue skin shimmered with silver scales. She stood five-foot-seven, her crystalline eyes gleaming like polished gems beneath long dark hair streaked with green. In her hands was a glaive whose blade was forged from frozen glasswater, sharper than any steel. With her hydromancy, she shaped streams into whips, walls, and drowning torrents. Rumor held she was once queen of a drowned city, though she spoke of it to no one.
The seventh was Kolvar Droshar, the Storm-Breaker. A rugged human of six-foot-four, he carried the smell of salt and thunder. His sandy blond hair swept back in wild waves, his frame marked by years at sea. His massive axe, etched with storm sigils, crackled with lightning at every swing. Once a pirate-lord, Galen was pardoned only to fight in blood-soaked arenas such as this, his thunder-binding power capable of splitting shields and burning flesh.
The eighth figure was Velmira "Ashveil" Corthyn, the Witch of Silent Ash. Thin but tall, her pale skin and crimson robes gave her an unsettling, spectral air. Dark hair streaked gray fell around a face with eyes glowing faint red, their whisper haunting even in silence. At five-foot-ten, she carried a staff crowned with a charred skull, from which she conjured plumes of choking ash and suffocating smog. Entire villages had been said to vanish in her passing, silenced without a sound.
Next came Dravos Myrkhal, the Ironfang Gladiator. A beastborn of wolf-blood, six-foot-six and bulging with muscle, his scarred, savage face was framed by wild gray hair. His armor was stitched from the trophies of his kills, scaled hides, bone plates, steel rivets. He carried twin cleavers forged from beastbone and black iron. His relentless savagery had won him survival in the slave pits, where he killed hundreds before clawing his way to freedom.
The tenth warrior was Hirwen Veylor, the Glass-Fang Mystic. A sylvari crystal-born, his translucent skin shimmered with shards of glowing crystal jutting like living armor. At six-foot-three, his bald head gleamed faintly, his angular face unreadable. He wielded no blade, instead conjuring crystalline constructs spear, shield, or serpent woven from living light. Whispers told he was an exile of the Eternal Spire, punished for delving into forbidden geometries of crystal and light.
The eleventh was IkeshiaStormveil, the Phoenix-Touched. A fierce human, five-foot-eight, with auburn hair blazing like fire and molten-gold eyes. Her lean, tattooed body carried the power of rebirth. She fought with a curved saber that ignited at her call, and when gravely wounded, she could engulf herself in a storm of fire, searing foes before rising renewed. She was famed as the sole survivor of Ferath's Hold, where she burned ten thousand invaders alive.
Finally, the crowd erupted as Daniel Rothchester, stepped forward. A striking young human, six feet tall, his firm athletic frame was disguised beneath unassuming clothes. Curly black hair framed a sharp, confident face, but it was his eyes that silenced even the loudest voices, his left glowing yellow-gold like a lion's, his right a deep ocean blue.
In his hands he carried a gunblade, modified and etched by his mother, its patterns of light shifting like living fire. Calm yet coiled with promise, he moved with a discipline born of both martial skill and hidden power. Many underestimated him for his casual air, unaware of the storm he concealed within.
The twelve now stood shoulder to shoulder, a line of living legends, monsters, and prodigies. The coliseum trembled with cheers as the Queen rose once more, her voice carrying to every corner.
"Here they stand twelve souls who shall carve their names into glory. Let them clash until only one remains worthy of the crown of triumph!"
The drums rolled again, thunderous, as the primary battle began.