The roar of the crowd shook the very foundations of the grand arena, a deafening chorus of cheers and chants that celebrated blood and victory. Yet far below, in the damp torch-lit tunnels beneath the stone coliseum, the air was thick with a different tension—one born not of sport, but of secrets.
Rondan sat on a worn wooden bench, his broad shoulders heaving as he drew steady breaths. Sweat still clung to his brow, and faint traces of his opponent's strike lingered as a dull ache in his ribs. The fight had been fierce, but it was not exhaustion that weighed upon him.
It was the mark.
In the heat of battle, he had caught sight of it—an ancient rune etched into the arm of his opponent. Its lines were worn and faint, but Rondan recognized the shape. He had seen it before, in half-forgotten stories told by the old warriors of the north.
His thoughts broke as a voice emerged from the shadows.
"You're not like the others."
He turned sharply. From a narrow side passage stepped a young woman cloaked in gray. The dim torchlight caught the silver in her eyes, giving them an otherworldly gleam.
"Leina," Rondan muttered, recognizing her at once. She was a name whispered among fighters—a shadow, an informant who moved unseen through the underbelly of the tournament.
"What do you want?" he asked warily.
Leina pulled back her hood, revealing a face as sharp as the words she carried.
"You've seen it, haven't you? The mark."
Rondan's eyes narrowed. "And if I have?"
"You're not the first to notice," she said quietly. "But those who did… none of them returned for their next match."
The words hung between them like a blade.
"What does it mean?" he pressed.
Her gaze shifted, as if weighing whether to speak. "It's the sign of a hidden order. This tournament is not just for glory or coin. It's a screen for something far greater—something that reaches beyond these walls. And if you continue, you'll be caught in it, whether you wish it or not."
Before he could question her further, the sharp clang of armored boots echoed through the tunnel.
"Hide," she hissed, seizing his wrist.
She pulled him into a narrow alcove draped with chains. Two masked guards passed by, their heavy steps fading into the distance. Rondan felt her hand slip away, leaving only the cold air between them.
When the danger passed, Leina looked at him, her voice low but urgent.
"If you want to live past the finals, meet me at the east catacombs tonight. There, you'll see what's truly at stake."
Before he could answer, she was gone—swallowed by the shadows as though she had never been there at all.
Above them, the announcer's voice rang out like a battle horn.
"Rondan of the Northern Plains—prepare for your next match!"
Rondan rose from the bench, the fire in his crimson eyes no longer fueled only by competition. The dance would go on… but its rhythm had changed forever.