The third dawn broke over Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú not with the solemn reverence of the first day, but with a fever. The air, once thick with the sacred scent of myrrh and ancient ceremony, now crackled with a different kind of energy—a volatile, hungry static. The hushed awe of the Culling had evaporated under the relentless sun, replaced by the delirious roar of a crowd that had tasted blood and now craved legend. This was no longer a trial; it was a spectacle.
From the shadowed archway of the fighters' passage, Leonotis watched the stands fill. He saw nobles in masks of carved ivory and gold lean forward in their gilded seats, their whispers carrying on the wind like rustling vipers. He didn't need to hear the words; he could feel their weight. The names they spoke were no longer just names. They were brands, sizzling with the heat of speculation and coin.
"Grom Stonehand." The name was a hammer blow, spoken with a mixture of fear and delight. The dwarf who shattered axes and broke men with a single, contemptuous throw.
"Lia of the Greenwater." A softer name, but one that carried a more dangerous curiosity. The silent, slender girl whose impossible victories defied logic, whose movements were like water, and whose fury, once unleashed, was like a storm.
Leonotis unconsciously pulled the linen wrap tighter across his chest, the bindings beneath suddenly feeling like a cage of their own. Every cheer for "Lia" was another bar locking him in. He had survived, but survival had a cost. He was no longer a face in the crowd; he was a character in a story the city was writing.
Beside him, Low stood with her arms crossed, the disguise of Grom Stonehand a heavy cloak of muscle and grimy leather. The ridiculous beard was perfectly in place, but the cold, sharp intelligence in her eyes was all her own. She wasn't watching the crowd. She was watching the royal dais.
The throne was still empty, but its presence loomed over the arena like a promise of judgment.
"They're enjoying the show too much," Low rumbled in her disguised voice, a gravelly baritone that never failed to make Leonotis flinch. "When nobles start betting, they stop seeing fighters and start seeing property."
"We're just names to them," Leonotis said quietly, the words barely audible over the growing din. "Myths. They don't know who we are."
"And that's how it needs to stay," Low said, her gaze unwavering. "Myths are safe. People can be targets."
A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the archway, so silent and sudden that both of them tensed.
"The problem," a sharp whisper cut through the air, "is that they're starting to ask about the people behind the myths."
Jacqueline materialized beside them like a phantom. Her brimmed hat was pulled low, hiding her face, her dark cloak making her a part of the stone and shadow. Her usual calm was gone, replaced by a sense of urgency. She didn't look at them, her eyes constantly scanning the entrances and the guards patrolling the upper tiers.
"The crowds are asking questions," she repeated. "And not just the nobles. I've been in the city since sunrise. Guards at the market, merchants at the spice stalls, even the barkeep at the inn where we first stayed. They're talking about you two. About strangers who arrived too conveniently just before the tournament began. About two fighters who came from nowhere and are now shaking the tournament to its foundations."
Leonotis's stomach sank. He didn't have to look up at the royal box now to know that King Rega was watching, even when he wasn't there. The memory of the King's thin, cruel smile during Silas's match clawed at his mind. It wasn't the smile of an appreciative spectator; it was the smile of a collector who had just spotted a rare and fascinating specimen.
"They are starting to suspect," Low muttered, her voice losing its disguised rumble for a moment. "We've shown them too much."
"We've shown just enough to survive," Leonotis countered. "But we can't stop. We have to reach Gethii and Chinakah. We have to get into that palace. That means winning."
Jacqueline's jaw clenched. "Then maybe you should change how you win."
Low frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"Your victories have been too clean, and yet too close," Jacqueline explained makin sure each word was precise, like a strategist laying out a new battle plan. "Lia wins by the skin of her teeth, a desperate surge that looks like luck. Grom wins with overwhelming brutal, straightforward strength that seems almost… simple. It's a good act, but it's making them suspicious. They want to know if dwarfs are really so strong and whether Lia is hiding something."
She finally turned to face them, her eyes burning with intensity from beneath the brim of her hat. "No more half-measures. No more 'lucky' wins. From now on, you fight to be undeniable. Luck alone won't fool the King forever. He's looking for hidden power, for àṣẹ that doesn't conform to the known schools. Every time you almost lose and then pull out a victory, you feed his suspicion that you're suppressing something extraordinary."
The unspoken truth of her words pressed down on them. To win meant attracting more attention. To win decisively meant displaying a level of skill that would put them directly under the King's dissecting gaze. It was a gilded cage, and with every victory, the door swung a little wider, inviting them in, even as the lock was being prepared behind them.
Leonotis especially, felt the trap closing. If he used his àṣẹ, he would be exposed as the very thing the King's hunters were searching for. If he didn't, he would eventually lose, and their one chance to save Gethii and Chinakah would be gone. There was no safe path forward. There was only the razor's edge.
He looked at Low, seeing the same grim understanding in her eyes. The werebear within her was a secret that could get them both killed. His own power was a beacon that could lead their enemies right to them.
"So Leonotis needs to stop hiding his skills," Low stated. "And I've got to show them more of mine."
"Yes, but not everything," Jacqueline cautioned. "Just enough. Enough skill, enough control, enough power that your victories look earned by mastery, not by chance. Make them believe you are exactly what you appear to be: a great dwarven warrior and a quiet gifted swordwoman.. Make your legend too compelling to question."
Leonotis took a deep breath. He nodded slowly. "Alright. We do it your way."
He felt the shift inside him, the reluctant acceptance of the risk. He would have to fight not just with Gethii's training, but with a confidence he didn't feel, a control over his own nature that he barely possessed. He would have to become the myth they whispered about, if only for a little while.
Jacqueline gave a single sharp nod. "Good. Be undeniable. I'll continue my search for any information on the palace's lower levels. The closer you get to winning, the less time we'll have to act once you're inside."
With that, she melted back into the shadows she had emerged from, her presence gone as quickly as it had appeared.
Leonotis and Low were left alone in the archway, the roar of the crowd growing louder, more insistent. The sun had climbed higher, and the empty throne on the royal dais was no longer empty. King Rega had arrived, a slash of crimson and gold against the pale stone, his posture radiating a predator's patient stillness.
Leonotis could feel the weight of his gaze even from this distance, a physical pressure that made the hair on his arms stand up.
The path forward allowed no retreat.
Low nudged his shoulder. "Ready to be undeniable, Lia?" she asked, the gruff voice of Grom returning.
Leonotis let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He looked from the King's throne to the sun-scorched sand of the arena floor, where the fate of his family, and perhaps his own soul, would be decided.
"I have to be," he said.
The royal horns blared—low, sonorous notes that vibrated through the bones of the arena. The crowd shifted, excitement tightening like a drawn bowstring as King Rega IV stepped into the light of the royal dais. Crimson robes fluttered behind him, catching the wind like a banner of war. His crown glinted, each gemstone sharp as a predator's eye.
The moment his foot touched the highest step, the roar of the arena broke like a tidal wave.
Rega didn't smile. He didn't wave. He simply glided forward—cold, assured, the axis upon which this entire bloody spectacle spun.
At his flanks came Kenya and Zuri, masks carved from sacred ironwood, smooth and expressionless. The shadows of the masks made their eyes seem deeper, darker… hungrier.
Rega lowered himself into the throne, the carved stone groaning as if recognizing its master.
The arena master below raised a hand, preparing to begin the next stage of the Sunstone Tournament. The fighters' gates trembled as mechanisms slid into place. Sand blew across the arena floor like drifting ash.
Before the first horn could sound, Zuri spoke—her voice controlled, steady, but threading the edge of tension.
"Your Majesty," she said quietly, leaning just enough for her words to reach him. "Do you… have any hunches? About the green àṣẹborn?" Her masked face tilted slightly. "Who he may be hiding as?"
A thin breath escaped Rega's nose—amusement without warmth.
"I do, but it doesn't matter," he replied. "Not today."
His eyes moved over the arena like a blade drawn across flesh.
"Just know that he will be among the winners. That much is certain."
Kenya folded her arms across her chest, muscles coiled beneath her armor. "Your hunch remains… unchanged, my King?"
"Unchanged," Rega echoed. "We simply need to watch the matches closely. Look not only at power but at control. Skill. Adaptation."
His fingers drummed once against the arm of his throne.
"The fighters are only becoming more skilled as the tournament goes on. The mounting pressure shall reveal the truth." His eyes narrowed. "It'll reveal bloodlines. Secrets. And gifts one would prefer to keep hidden."
Zuri and Kenya exchanged the briefest glance.
Rega continued, voice dropping to a purr.
"And with Gethii being paraded on the final day… it's entirely possible—" His lips curved. Not a smile. A carving. "—that our missing green àṣẹborn may even reach the finals."
Zuri inhaled softly through her mask.
Kenya's stance hardened. "If he is that bold… then he will expose himself."
"Oh, he will," Rega agreed, leaning back as the sun glinted off his crown. "Either through triumph or an act of desperation."
The arena horn sounded—sharp, metallic, undeniable.
The gates rumbled open.
Rega's chuckle was low, almost lost beneath the eruption of the crowd.
"Let Day three the Clash of Titans begin," he murmured.
Kenya lifted her chin. "Asé guide your will, my King."
Rega's smile sharpened.
"No, Asé guides nothing today," he said. "Today, I guide."