Chapter 0002 – The Relic's Call
The arena simmered like a storm about to break. Every breath carried the weight of fear, fury, and something worse—helplessness. Ynara crouched behind a scorched slab of stone, chest heaving, ears ringing from a blast that had nearly torn her apart while she stood trying to process the sudden tremor under her skin as Kairon wore Thoren's wig. She hadn't seen him even.
She didn't remember how she got here. She remembered her room, her books, the sound of rain outside—and then nothing. Now the air was thick with ash and blood, and the sky above looked bruised and broken. This place didn't feel like the world she knew. It felt deeper. Older. Watching.
Across the cracked arena floor, her opponent moved with terrifying confidence. A blur with auburn hair spun before her, metal limbs flashing like curved silver talons. Her opponent moved with dangerous elegance, weaving through the air like he was dancing to some broken, ancient rhythm. He smiled too much. Like he enjoyed it.
Ynara's arms burned. Her legs trembled. Her breath came in shallow gasps.
His auburn hair shimmered, cybernetic limbs slicing the air with sharp precision. He looked human, but wrong. Too graceful. Too gleeful. And worse—he lingered.
His eyes dragged across her face, then her chest, then lower. Not fast like he was sizing her up. Slow. Calculated. Amused.
She didn't know how long she'd been fighting. Everything was beginning to blur.
The boy with the machine limbs tilted his head. "You're pretty when you bleed," he said, his voice slick with amusement. "I wonder what your skin tastes like—before I peel it off."
She recoiled instinctively. Her grip on the broken iron pole she wielded slipped for half a second. He noticed. Of course he did.
He closed in. Slowly. Deliberately.
"I'm not going to kill you yet," he purred, licking his lips like she was a meal. "No, no. Pretty things like you don't get off that easy. I want to see you beg first."
He took another step forward, slow and savoring. "Bet you scream real nice. Bet you break even prettier."
His foot crushed a dying ember near her face. She flinched. Her back hit stone. There was nowhere left to run. Her throat tightened. It wasn't just fear now. It was disgust. Violation. Her fingers curled into fists.
"Stay back," she said, voice hoarse.
He moved forward.
She flung her hands up—expecting nothing.
But fire erupted from her palms.
It wasn't heat. It was rage. Raw, untrained, erupting from the core of her chest. The blast flung him backwards, crashing him into a column of blackened stone.
She gasped, staring at her hands. They smoked faintly. She shook, not from exhaustion—but from something remembered. Something familiar. A spark that didn't start in this place.
She didn't have time to process. He recovered fast. Too fast. A blur of movement. Then a kick.
The impact to her head shattered thought. She collapsed.
Everything blurred. Her cheek pressed against the hot, dusty ground. The weight of him approached again—too close, too quiet. A sharp pressure brushed her collarbone. She felt it then: the cool edge of a blade or device resting just over her heart.
He whispered, too low for the others to hear, "You move, and I split you open. But don't worry—I'll enjoy every moment before that."
Her chest tightened.
His blade slid forward—resting lightly under her chin. "Tell me you're scared."
Her eyes welled, but not from fear. Rage and humiliation twisted her stomach into knots. She wasn't crying for her life. She was crying because he thought it was his to take.
He leaned in, whispering, "I'll let you scream first, then I'll take you from the inside out—"
She counted to three—and surged forward, meaning to throw herself onto his blade, to deny him what he wanted.
But the blade never entered.
He had lowered the weapon, laughing to himself, mistaking her trembling for surrender. The sharp gasp that escaped his throat was startled—unready. He hadn't expected resistance. Worse, he thought she wanted him closer.
But he didn't strike immediately. Instead, his voice dripped close, too close—just above her ear.
"Maybe I'll keep you instead," he murmured. "You're pretty when you're scared. Makes the ending more exciting."
She flinched, jaw clenched. His fingers grazed her shoulder, and nausea surged. A hot, helpless panic rose up her throat. She shut her eyes as dread
"Shame," he added, drawing out the word. "I could've had fun stretching this out someplace quieー"
A blast of heat slammed against her face. Her eyes shot open.
The boy's smirk was gone. So was his head.
His body twisted in mid-air before crashing beside her. Ash and embers blew sideways. In his place, a small crater of glowing slag.
"Ynara!"
Her sister's voice.
Elise.
Her younger sister knelt, one hand still crackling with residual flame. Her jaw was clenched, her gaze not just fierce—but livid.
"I told you not to break down like this," Elise muttered, grabbing her arm. "We said we'd fight back. Even if it killed us."
Ynara blinked, still shaking. "You came…"
"Of course I did." Elise's grip tightened, as if afraid letting go meant losing her. "You think I'd leave you with creeps like him?"
They moved quickly—Elise dragging her sister behind an overturned stone slab, guiding her into a crawlspace.
"I heard what he said," Elise muttered. "I should've burned him slower."
Ynara blinked. Elise's fury wasn't just righteous—it was personal. She knew this look. It was the same one Elise used when creeps at the mall stared too long.
"I thought I was going to—"
A sob caught in Ynara's throat. "I thought I was going to—"
"Shh. You're not. Not yet."
They moved quickly—Elise dragging her sister behind an overturned stone slab, guiding her into a crawlspace.
"Stay here," Elise whispered, brushing Ynara's hair back. "Don't come out. Not until the fight ends. Got it?"
Ynara tried to speak, but her lips trembled.
"I'll come back for you," Elise said. "Like we promised. Remember?"
But Ynara didn't answer. Her vision dimmed. Her head dropped. Everything turned to fog.
Elise stepped away, fury simmering beneath her skin. Her fists burned—not with power, but with urgency.
Someone had to die for what almost happened to Ynara.
More figures stirred in the distance, emerging from the shadows—some with metal limbs, some with flickering weapons. They didn't approach. Yet.
Elise exhaled shakily, then glanced around. With what little strength she had left in her flames, she pulled debris—stone, ash, broken planks—over Ynara's body. Not enough to crush. Just enough to cover. To hide. To buy her time.
"She will not be prey," she muttered. "Not today."
Then she turned into the storm.
Elise had never liked arenas. Not in books. Not in gym class. Not as metaphors. But she had always stepped into them. Maybe that was the difference between her and Ynara. Where Ynara retreated, Elise ran forward.
She had been brave, even when no one was watching. Even when bravery meant covering for Ynara's absence at school or walking her home in silence after another group of boys had stared too long. She wasn't born the bold one—she became it, because someone had to be.
And in becoming it, she had learned how to carry fire—quietly, stubbornly—until now, when it finally caught flame.
Yet here she was. She remembered her room. The ache she never spoke aloud—of always being in the shadow of a sister too beautiful for her own good. Ynara never meant to be that way, but the world had noticed her before it noticed Elise.
But Elise had fire. And it had finally found a use for it.
Enemies emerged, shadow-slick and steel-edged.
She moved fast. The ground vibrated beneath her boots. Not from her—but from something else. She felt it earlier, like a ripple in the very rules of reality. It came from the center. From the moment that boy did… something. She didn't know what. But it changed the air.
Three figures rushed her now. Two bore weapons. The third had no face—only black fog behind a visor.
She launched into them like a meteor.
One tried to grapple her. She lit her shoulder and screamed as the fire surged upward, burning through their grip.
The second spun a chain. It caught her ankle. She dropped.
The third raised a blade. Elise rolled, fire bursting from her palms. Her attacker caught it full force.
But not enough.
A bolt—purple and searing—shot from behind. It pierced her thigh. She screamed.
The pain was immediate and wild. She collapsed, fire sputtering from her fingertips.
"No, no, no—" she muttered, dragging herself behind rubble.
They were closing in.
She looked toward the hiding place. Toward Ynara.
If they found her…
Elise stood, leg trembling. Flames sparked again. A final surge.
"You don't get to touch her," she hissed.
She hurled flame after flame, reckless and wild. She didn't care if it burned her alive.
But it wasn't enough. The chain-wielder caught her wrist. The blade from the third slammed into her shoulder.
She dropped. They descended.
"No—no—get up," she growled, forcing herself upright. She fell again.
Lying there, breath fading, she looked up.
Beneath the rubble, Ynara stirred.
Her eyes opened just as a final scream rang out.
She couldn't move. Couldn't speak. Something heavy pressed on her chest. Dust filled her lungs.
She saw Elise—still on her feet, but barely. Their eyes locked.
Elise smiled through the pain. Her lips didn't move. She didn't blink. She couldn't.
Tears streamed silently down her face.
Then blade came down.
Ynara screamed—but only inside.