The port city of Droswen was alive with chaos. Markets overflowed with merchants shouting about last-minute supplies, taverns spilled with laughter and fear, and the streets buzzed with rumors.
The Tournament had returned, and every chosen one was heading here—the last point of land before the arena.
Shayne pulled Kael's cloak tighter around his shoulders as he walked through the crowded streets. Elira stayed close behind, scanning every face with suspicion.
"They're all chosen," she whispered. "You can see it—the way they carry themselves. Some are nervous, some hungry, some already imagining themselves as gods."
Shayne's eyes flicked to the golden marks glowing faintly on strangers' hands, necks, and even foreheads. Dozens of them. Competitors. Rivals. Future enemies.
He stopped at the edge of the docks, where the sea stretched endlessly, glowing faintly with the same unnatural light. Dozens of ships rocked against the tide, prepared to ferry the chosen to the arena once it stabilized.
"Elira," Shayne murmured, "look at them. Every single one of these people has a reason to fight. To kill."
She folded her arms. "And you'll have to face all of them."
"Not if I play it smart."
"Or if you die before you learn how."
Before Shayne could answer, a voice cut across the dock.
"Move, peasants! Out of my way!"
A tall, broad-shouldered man shoved through the crowd, his crimson armor gleaming despite the salt air. His golden mark burned bright on his throat like a brand. Two swords crossed his back, and every step he took seemed to shake the wood beneath him.
"That's him," someone whispered nearby. "Ronan the Flame. The mercenary who burned the southern fortress alone."
"Flame?" Shayne muttered. "Subtle."
The man—Ronan—locked eyes with Shayne as though sensing his mutter. A grin spread across his scarred face.
"You," Ronan said, pointing. "You've got the look. Another lamb dressed in a dead man's cloak."
Elira tensed. "Ignore him, Shayne. He's baiting you."
But Shayne didn't move. "Dead man's cloak?" His voice was calm, but his hand twitched toward his dagger. "It belonged to someone who fought harder than you ever will."
The crowd around them murmured, sensing sparks.
Ronan's grin widened. "Oh, I like you. Maybe I'll save you for the later rounds, just so I can see how long that courage lasts."
"Or maybe," Shayne said evenly, "you won't make it that far."
The crowd erupted in laughter and gasps. Ronan's eyes blazed, but before he could reply, another voice chimed in—light, playful, cutting.
"Careful, Ronan. If you burn every lamb before the games start, you'll have no feast left later."
From the shadows of a nearby tavern, a figure slipped out—a lean young man with an unbuttoned coat, a lopsided grin, and eyes that glimmered like they held secrets no one else could see. He twirled a deck of cards between his fingers, flipping them effortlessly.
"The Trickster," someone whispered.
"Don't call me that," the man said with a wink. "Call me Vey. It's easier to scream in desperation later."
The crowd chuckled nervously.
Ronan snarled. "Stay out of this, rat."
"Me?" Vey placed a hand on his chest, feigning hurt. "I'm just here to watch the fire show. Nothing warms a man's heart like two idiots ready to kill each other before the real fun begins."
Shayne narrowed his eyes at Vey. There was something unsettling about him. His golden mark glowed faintly, but his movements were too relaxed, too casual, as if he knew more than he should.
Elira leaned closer to Shayne. "That one's dangerous."
"Yeah," Shayne muttered, "but not in the same way as Ronan."
Vey flicked a card into the air, caught it, and let it vanish into his sleeve. "Still, introductions are important. You're the brother, aren't you? The one chasing a ghost."
Shayne stiffened. "How do you know that?"
Vey grinned wider. "I know a lot of things. Like how Kael's name doesn't exist anymore, or how the arena doesn't just test strength—it tests memory, identity, your very soul. Sounds fun, doesn't it?"
Ronan rolled his shoulders, unimpressed. "Talk, talk, talk. When the time comes, words won't save you."
Vey winked. "Neither will fire."
The tension broke when a booming horn echoed across the docks. All eyes turned to the sea, where the arena pulsed with golden light, stabilizing in the horizon. The ships began preparing to sail.
Shayne's heart pounded. The time had come.
He turned to Elira. "This is it."
Her face was pale, but her voice was steady. "Then promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Come back. Don't make me wait fifty years like I waited for him."
Shayne met her eyes, then glanced at Ronan, then at Vey, who was already slipping onto a ship with a lazy wave.
"I'll come back," Shayne said firmly. "And I'll bring the truth with me."
The horn sounded again, louder this time. The chosen began boarding, the sea glowing brighter with every heartbeat.
The Forgotten Tournament awaited.