Night draped the city in a veil of black and silver. The roar of the arena had faded into the distance, replaced by the low murmur of the sea and the restless whisper of wind against stone.
Rondan moved swiftly through the narrow streets, his hood pulled low over his face. Every few steps, he glanced over his shoulder—not out of paranoia, but because he knew eyes were watching.
The entrance to the east catacombs was hidden beneath the crumbling ruins of an abandoned chapel. The door, half-rotted and hanging by rusted hinges, groaned as he pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with the stench of damp earth and old incense. Shadows clung to the cracked walls like a second skin, and somewhere in the depths below, water dripped with a slow, steady rhythm.
Leina was waiting.
She stood at the edge of a staircase spiraling into darkness, her gray cloak blending seamlessly into the gloom.
"You came," she said, her tone neither surprised nor relieved.
"You said you'd show me what's at stake."
She studied him for a moment before turning toward the stairs. "Follow me. And whatever happens… do not touch the walls."
The descent was long and silent, save for the faint hum that seemed to pulse through the stone itself. The deeper they went, the stronger it became—like the heartbeat of some great beast buried beneath the earth.
At last, the stairs ended in a vast underground chamber. Strange blue flames burned in sconces along the walls, casting ghostly light over carvings older than the city above.
Rondan's gaze was drawn to the center of the room—where a circle of runes glowed faintly, etched into the black marble floor.
"This," Leina said, stepping into the circle's edge, "is what the tournament hides. Every champion in the past fifty years has been brought here."
He frowned. "For what?"
"To take the mark," she replied. "Willingly or otherwise."
Rondan felt the air grow heavier. "And if I refuse?"
Her eyes, cold and unblinking, met his. "Then you will not leave this place alive."
A sudden sound—soft at first, then growing—echoed through the chamber. Footsteps. Not from the way they had entered, but from the darkness beyond the far wall.
Leina's voice dropped to a whisper. "Too late… they're here."
From the shadows emerged three figures clad in black ceremonial armor, their faces hidden by masks of bone. The runes on their gauntlets flared as they stepped into the blue firelight.
The one in the center raised a hand, his voice deep and resonant.
"Rondan of the Northern Plains… the Circle awaits."
Rondan's hand tightened on the hilt of his blade. For the first time, he understood—this was no longer a tournament.
It was an initiation.