The air inside the Hollow Arena wasn't just cold—it was sharp.
It sliced through Malik's hoodie and stung his skin like it was testing him, trying to see if he belonged here at all.
The place was massive, carved directly into the side of the Antarctic ice wall. Above, translucent ceilings of frozen crystal let in fractured sunlight that painted the snow in shifting blues and golds. Every breath echoed like whispers from the past, and the floor beneath his boots hummed faintly with Auric power, like the whole place was alive.
The Watchers marched them into a circular chamber with tiered balconies stacked high around them. Figures stood on those balconies—judges, nobles, merchants, soldiers. The world's hungry eyes watching to see who might rise and who would die before the month was done.
"Line up!" a Watcher barked. His voice was gravel, his breath frost. "Know the faces of those you'll kill."
They formed rows, Malik falling somewhere near the center. It gave him the perfect vantage point to size them all up.
The Ivory Crown stood out immediately.
Tall, proud, draped in pale silks and armor inlaid with gold filigree. Their leader—a blond, sharp-jawed man named Lord Caelus Vey—had the kind of calm arrogance that said he'd never been touched by hunger or fear.
Beside him, a young woman moved like water over glass—perfect posture, long blond hair braided tight, a rapier at her hip. She glanced Malik's way once, lips curling, like she was trying to decide if he was worth remembering. He would later know her name: Eira Frost Bloom.
To the far right, the Iron Wards clustered like a wall of steel.
Huge, armor-plated warriors from the Northern Forges, their breath steaming through grates in their helmets. Each carried weapons that looked like they could split glaciers. They didn't speak—only sized up the crowd with quiet, predatory stillness.
The Ash Tide Syndicate couldn't have been more different.
Lean bodies, quick eyes, ragged but deadly. They were draped in patchwork armor and cloaks that shifted color in the light, like they'd stolen them from a dozen different lands. Every one of them had blades hidden somewhere—Malik could tell by the way they moved.
And among them… Nia "Icefang" Dray.
She wasn't armored like the rest. Instead, she wore tight black leathers with frost embroidery curling down one sleeve, her hair catching the light like winter moonlight. She leaned against a post, flipping a dagger between her fingers, eyes tracking the crowd like she already knew who'd be dead first.
When her gaze caught Malik again, she smiled—slow, dangerous.
"Careful where you stare," she said, voice carrying just enough for him to hear. "You might fall in love before the killing starts."
The Auric Scholars were gathered near the back.
Robes lined with circuitry-like threads of glowing blue, each carrying scrolls and crystal devices as dangerous as any weapon. Malik spotted one woman among them who didn't just study people—she dissected them with her eyes. Her hair was black and straight, her face sharp, her presence quiet but cutting.
"Selene Veyra," someone murmured near Malik. "The Mindweaver."
Selene caught his glance, and for a fraction of a second, Malik swore she was looking through him, into the shape of his thoughts. She didn't smile. Just gave the slightest nod, as if acknowledging a potential move in some game only she understood.
Then there were the Lone Wolves.
Misfits, mercenaries, outcasts—each too unpredictable to run with a pack. And that was where Malik belonged.
The Watcher's voice broke the tension.
"The Trials begin at first light. The arena will change every twelve hours. The zones will kill you as easily as your enemies. Your Health Crystal shatters when you're done—don't let it happen."
A heavy iron door boomed open behind them. Through it, Malik glimpsed an impossible expanse—the first zone, the Glass Tundra.
Jagged ice towers stretched for miles, cutting the pale sky into shards. Winds howled through them like screaming spirits. The ground was littered with the skeletal remains of beasts as tall as buildings.
Nia brushed past him, close enough for him to catch the chill of her skin. "Try not to die early, Carolina," she murmured, smirk still in place. "I've got plans for you."
Malik didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because in his chest, the Spiral was already turning—slow, steady, waiting to be unleashed.