Ilkar remained unconscious—his blood still drying beneath my nails—and I stayed where I stood.
Ashren stepped forward, his voice low but firm.
"Treat him" he said to Erenai.
"Do what you can. I'll call for the guards to take him to the Temple of Enki."
He left alone, his steps fading into the distance like the last breath of a prayer already forgotten.
The silence crept in fast.
Tarin and Darek drifted off toward one of the shaded walls, their voices hushed but not hidden. I caught pieces—mockery, dismissal, the sharp edge of Darek's laughter slicing through the air—words meant to sting, to test how close I still was to the edge.
Neval stood nearby, calm and quiet as ever.
Erenai remained with Ilkar, kneeling beside him, her hands moving over his body, from one wound to the next—but at one point, I thought I saw her glance up at me.
Just briefly.
There was something hesitant in her eyes.
Maybe even fear.
Only Kisaya stayed beside me.
I sank to the floor slowly, my body folding under its own weight, my soul lagging behind like something reluctant to return.
My hands were still trembling in front of me. I stared at them, waiting for stillness that never came.
They weren't bleeding. Not bruised. Not broken. But I saw the memory—the way they'd moved: unthinking, unyielding.
They had struck too clean, too hard, too fast. I remembered every blow—not with pride, but with a strange, cold clarity. The beast that had taken hold of my limbs had worn my skin like a mask.
The beast... was me.
Had it always been?
Had it only been waiting for an excuse?
Kisaya sat beside me, her shadow brushing mine.
"Don't worry" she said quietly, her voice a tether in the storm. "It wasn't you. It was Ilkar's ability. He enhances emotions, remember? You're not a beast."
She meant it. That much I knew.
But I didn't know if I could believe her.
I nodded anyway. "I understand."
A lie wrapped in gratitude.
Because somewhere deep beneath my ribs, I had liked it.
The power.
The purity.
The silence after the violence.
But power without restraint is rot.
A king who loses himself in rage builds his throne on sand—and watches it sink, still seated.
I needed more than fury.
I needed precision. Control.
The kind that bends both steel and will. Because ruling is not about striking first. It is about never needing to strike at all.
I clenched my fists. They felt steadier now.
I would be better.
A beast on a leash of will.
Time passed—ten minutes, maybe more. The sun had climbed high enough to sharpen the edges of every shadow, and yet the breeze carried a strange chill. The light had changed—brighter, harsher. It no longer carried the calm of early morning. When the guards returned, Ilkar was unconscious and pale, The guards placed him carefully on the stretcher.
Ashren returned with them, his expression unreadable.
"We continue as scheduled" he said.
This wasn't mercy. This was war.
"Tarin vs. Neval" he announced.
The names echoed. The courtyard held its breath.
Tarin stood quickly—too quickly, like a man trying to outrun his own doubt. He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck like he needed to hear something break.
Neval walked forward with no flair, no tension. Just intent.
Their wooden swords met the dirt, standing a few paces apart. The space between them hummed—an invisible thread of tension pulled tight by pride and danger.
"Begin" Ashren commanded.
Both began tracing their runes immediately.
Tarin's fingers snapped into motion—eager, almost frantic. He carved through the air with confidence, each stroke fast, practiced—just a little too proud.
Neval was slower, but not hesitant. Her lines were clean, precise, calm—like someone who already knew how the match would end.
I watched closely.
Every flick of their hands mattered now.
Every line could turn the match.
Then I saw it—she finished her rune first. I caught it in the sharp flick of her last line.
The moment it happened, Tarin's final stroke reversed itself—twisted against his own intention. The gesture failed. Backwards. Broken. The rune died before it could ever come alive.
Tarin stumbled. Dropped to one knee.
He hadn't finished the rune. The pain was clear on his face—a tight grimace, teeth clenched.
The instant he fell, Neval began running toward him.
Tarin tried to rise, but his body dropped lower instead—betraying him at the worst possible time.
He had inverted himself. Left was right. Up was down.
I saw it—he reached upward, trying to catch his balance.
Instead, his hand slammed into the ground.
The rune had twisted his instincts. Now, he couldn't even trust his own body.
Tarin finally managed to stand again, trembling with the effort.
But Neval was already almost upon him, closing the last few steps in a rush.
He tried to swing—too early, too wide—the blade arced behind him like a parody of a real strike.
He cursed, breath ragged, confused.
I bit back a laugh.
And failed.
A quiet sound slipped through my teeth.
The absurdity cut through the aftermath of my own fury like cool water through dying coals.
Neval didn't hesitate.
She slipped under his clumsy guard and drove the hilt of her sword into his temple. Tarin collapsed.
A single strike. Efficient.
He lay sprawled like a broken statue—still shaped like pride, but hollow inside.
The courtyard murmured. Kisaya didn't speak, but I felt her glance flick toward me.
I didn't return it.
My eyes were locked on Tarin.
He'd underestimated her.
He hadn't learned. And maybe, he hadn't expected it either.
Neval's ability was more than clever.
It was cruel.
Confusion is the first cut in any fight. Disorientation makes gods bleed.
Tarin had underestimated her.
Hadn't realized how dangerous her gift would be in real combat.
The secret wasn't resisting it.
It was moving through it—teaching your body to act through the wrongness until wrong felt normal.
But what would happen if she deactivated it?
Would his senses snap back instantly?
Could I have handled it?
Ashren raised a hand. The crowd stilled.
"Next match: Darek versus Erenai."
I looked at them as they stepped forward.
Darek wore that same crooked smile he always did, but it was tighter now. Less charm. More armor.
Erenai looked tired already. Like the years had found her early.
Ashren gave no speech. Just a nod.
And the fight began.