Moonlight still clung to the marble pillars of Velora's Observatorium when she slipped from the Crimson Conclave's tower. Her arms, etched with crimson runes, pulsed in time with the echoes of the Lionheart's awakening.
Before her lay the obsidian mirror threaded with silver filaments—each strand a conduit to the city's ley-line network. Velora closed her eyes and wove her senses into that weave, feeling the raw tremor of Aether that had erupted from Crimson Spire.
Only a Weaver reborn in blood and bone could leave such a signature. With a final pulse of focus, she narrowed that beacon to a single locus deep in Dragon's Teeth.
A satisfied smile curved her lips. Ironclaw walked the slums now—and with him at her back, the Conclave would shatter the Iron Council's chokehold on the Wells.
By the time the first lanterns blinked out in Velora's Observatorium, dawn had begun to stain Phoenix City's rooftops in pale gold.
Behind the Rusted Wheel Tavern, Jonah and Liora waited in a half-collapsed courtyard. Broken barrels and mossy crates offered scant cover.
Jonah tapped his boot twice on cracked planks—an agreed signal. Marult's back-alley runner would answer.
Moments later, a hooded courier emerged from shadow, breath steaming in the chill. He pressed a folded parchment into Jonah's hand and vanished.
Jonah broke the seal. Dark ink named "Ironclaw" in Marult's ledger and, beneath it, Marult's blunt terms: ten points of Aether credit for Magistrate Salveron's tribute.
Two points per dispel of thorn-vine binds. One per Invocation. Half-point per second of Channel. No resets until dusk.
Kaelen's amber eyes flicked to the horizon, where dawn's light glinted off the canal's black water. Ten points remained in his core—every strike and spell would draw from that lifeblood.
He folded the parchment and tucked it into his tunic. Jonah slipped a hand to his knife, always ready. Liora's lantern pulsed beside them.
Together, they slipped through the rain-slicked lanes toward the canal warehouse.
Two guards in battered breastplates slumped at idle watch beneath a flickering lamp. Their swords hung loose—more ornament than weapon.
Kaelen melted into shadow first. Jonah and Liora followed, senses primed.
At Jonah's nod, Kaelen struck.
His fist—reinforced by brawler's discipline—crashed into the first guard's ribs. Bone shattered in a spray of dark red. The man crumpled, life ebbing from his eyes.
Jonah darted forward, blade flashing in a single arc. The second guard's throat split without a scream. Blood spurted in slow arcs, the world painted crimson.
No need for words. They crossed the threshold into mildew-scented gloom.
Inside, Magistrate Salveron cowered atop a splintered barrel. Tribute sacks lay at his feet like fresh corpses. Four enforcers knelt around him, boots rooted on thorn-laced vines that writhed beneath their soles.
Their chanting tremored through the floorboards—an Aetheric incantation to bind the tribute.
Liora stepped forward, lantern raised. Her sightless eyes shone with purpose. "Now," she whispered.
She traced a dispel rune in the air. Golden threads shot from the lantern's glow, snaking through the thorn-vines. The living cords snapped and recoiled, sap hissing where it fell.
Enforcers lurched back, eyes wide.
Kaelen advanced with Pride Stalker grace.
He vanished in a breathless blur—Tiger's Step.
He reappeared behind the nearest enforcer. Claws flashed in molten gold, slicing through leather and muscle in a single, silent hiss.
The man collapsed, body folding like ragdoll cloth.
Two more enforcers charged. Kaelen crouched then drove both fists into the warped floor—Ground Smash.
A shockwave rattled boards, cracked beams, and snapped the third enforcer's spine with a sickening crack.
The fourth lunged with a pike, but Kaelen caught the haft and bent it like fresh wood. With a final downward slash, he ended the fight in a whisper of ichor.
Salveron's face was pale ecstasy and terror. Kaelen sheathed his claws.
He stepped to Salveron, lifted the heavy coin pouch from the barrel, and let it drop at Jonah's feet.
Jonah caught it, nodding. "Ten points spent," he said softly.
Kaelen's nod was curt. The cost of power was life itself.
Liora's lantern pulsed once, confirming the tally.
A short march through canal mist brought them to the Arena in Dragon's Teeth.
Conclave envoys—dispatched the moment Velora's scrying mirror detected the Spire tremor—had prepared the altar before dawn.
Twin glyphs were carved into cracked stone: a clenched fist etched in crimson, a roaring lion's maw burning in gold. Two basins of simmering Aether sat ready.
Scribes in midnight cloaks hovered by the glyphs, quills poised in Aether-ink.
Kaelen climbed the altar's worn steps. Jonah and Liora followed, hearts pounding with anticipation.
The chief scribe dipped his quill and inscribed "Ironclaw" beneath the fist-glyph, then under the maw-glyph. Crimson flame bloomed in one, gold in the other.
Two columns of glyphic options spiraled skyward:
Human Path
• Brawler
• Arbiter
Beast Path
• Pride Stalker
• Roaring Sentinel
Liora's hand found Kaelen's shoulder. "Your Human Path is Brawler," she intoned.
Kaelen bowed his head once, recalling every bone-shattering strike he had unleashed. The crimson fist-glyph pulsed, confirming his choice.
He looked to the beast column. Memories of silent hunts and perfect pounces guided his palm to the golden maw-glyph.
It roared its approval, locking in Pride Stalker.
The altar trembled. Runes fractured into ribbons of living Aether that wove before his eyes into a single emblem—a fist entwined with flowing lion's mane.
A thunderous roar cracked the air. Marult's voice, amplified by hidden wards, boomed:
"Behold the Bonecrusher of Pride—Ironclaw ascends!"
A cheer rose from the crowd. Kaelen flexed both fists—bone and claw fused in unbreakable purpose.
He raised his voice in a savage howl that rattled the Arena walls and cracked stray lanterns.
In that moment, brawler's might and predator's grace became legend made flesh.
From the crowd's edge, a Conclave envoy stepped forward, bearing Velora's seal in the form of a scroll bound with crimson ribbon.
Jonah retrieved it, scanning the runes with awed reverence. "An invitation," he said, voice thick.
"'Meet me in the Obsidian Hall at dusk. Greater paths await.'"
He pressed the scroll into Kaelen's hand.
Moments later, Velora emerged from the shadows—velvet robes whispering, raven hair framing her pale face. Crimson runes along her arms glowed faintly in dawn's light.
She inclined her head in perfect composure. No words were needed; the pact was sealed.
Jonah whooped, and Liora's lantern flared in triumph.
Kaelen descended the altar steps, each tread a promise of savage fights, toxic intrigues, and betrayals yet to come.
He paused at the edge of the Arena, gazing at the narrow streets of Dragon's Teeth.
Ironclaw—the Bonecrusher of Pride, dual-path Weaver—took a steadying breath.
And with claws sheathed and heart roaring, he stepped forward into the new day, ready to carve his legend in blood and bone.