The road into the clan stretched wide and straight, lined with banners of crimson silk embroidered with phoenixes in mid-flight. Guests arrived in carriages heavy with crests of their own clans, wheels crunching over stone as horned steeds snorted clouds into the cold air. Beyond the gates, the first sight to greet them was the River Anaru, its waters broad and slow, reflecting banners and lanterns strung across a grand arched bridge of white stone. The bridge itself was carved with runes that glimmered faintly beneath the sun, a reminder that this was not merely a clan's territory but a seat of ancient tradition. Travelers paused at the bridge, marveling at the sight of the Firefly Lagoon that unfurled just beyond the river bend. Even in daylight, its waters shimmered faintly, a thousand firefly eggs clinging to the reeds. At night, it would glow like a field of stars fallen to earth—a sight spoken of in poems and songs.
Past the bridge, the clan revealed itself in measured grandeur. First came the Weapons Pavilion, its doors flanked with scarlet banners, racks of glaives and swords glimmering within, attendants polishing blades with oiled cloths that smelled faintly of cedar and camphor. Beside it rose the Skills Pavilion, cedar-paneled and hushed, where shelves of scrolls and jade tablets shone green through latticed windows and the air held the dry whisper of talisman paper. Then the Training Grounds, vast stone arenas alive with the clang of sparring youths and the thump of practice dummies, chalk circles drawn and scuffed by a hundred bouts. To the east, the Library Pavilion loomed solemn, its eaves strung with jade chimes that rang when the breeze turned. Beyond, courtyards marked the Heirs' Residence—laughter and pride drifting with the sound of zithers and wooden flutes—and above all, the Clan Head's Mansion rising white and gold, its high eaves like a great bird watching all.
At the very heart stood the Phoenix Pavilion, its roof carved into sweeping wings, pillars lacquered a deep vermilion that drank the sun and gleamed. To its side were the Guest Pavilions—ten in all, reserved for royals, dignitaries, and wealthy merchants—each a jewel of courtesy with their own stables, bathhouses, and small gardens of lantern-lit pines. Grooms watered travel beasts, brushed foam from their flanks, and set troughs of oats and sliced roots; etiquette demanded that a host care not only for a guest but for the hooves that carried them.
The Phoenix Pavilion shone today, lanterns unhooded even in morning, attendants ushering guests inward beneath embroidered canopies. The air thrummed with voices and anticipation—the warm spice of mulled tea, the faint tang of powdered chalk, the clean bite of morning on stone.
Registration began at first bell and moved like a tide that would not ebb. Long tables lined the pavilion's forecourt, each manned by scribes in slate-gray tunics with narrow white sashes. Inkstones glistened, goose-quills lay ready, and stacks of parchment were weighted by jade paperweights carved into phoenixes and turtles. A polished stone dais stood to one side for the brief summons—no parading beasts through crowds today. This was a prestigious clan; all summoners kept their companions in rune space within the dantian, as manners and safety demanded. To let a beast loiter was as crass as waving a drawn weapon in a banquet hall.
Names rang out. Parents named, lineages confirmed. The elders watched from the pavilion balcony, faces unreadable, while Marshalls took their stations around the forecourt in segmented armor of matte black, five in number, each bearing a seal-disc at the hip and a calm so steady it cut through the bustle. Medics stood near with lacquered chests—bandages, salves, and restorative pills stacked in neat rows—because even a brief summoning could go poorly when nerves frayed.
"Arven, son of Tal'Rael." The scribe's voice was clear, carrying to the back of the queue. A tall youth stepped forward, hair bound with a copper clasp, a confident lift to his chin. He pressed his clan badge to the dais. Aura rippled. A bronze-feathered hawk flashed into being with a metallic cry, wings spreading, a wash of wind fluttering the registrar's pages. The hawk vanished back into rune space as quickly as it came. Quill scratched. "Recorded. Arena assignment pending."
"Niarina, daughter of Vaelith." A girl in pale blue with an expression like frost-kissed glass. She lifted her hand; a silver serpent uncoiled on the stone, scales catching the light like moon water. A murmur rolled the length of the line—rare, elegant, dangerous. The serpent breathed once, silvery tongue tasting the air, and then was gone. Quill scratched. "Recorded."
Youths streamed past, pride and terror walking shoulder to shoulder. A boy with a fox that winked out like a vanishing flame. Twin brothers whose goats stamped and snorted in perfect mirror. A girl whose stag shook its antlers as if it still roamed winter hills. The scribes worked without rest, bracelets of ink building around their fingers, while assistants ferried scrolls to a side table where an abacus clicked—tallykeepers computing brackets in real time, murmuring with runners who darted between pavilions.
Zed watched from the shade of a pillar and said little. He kept the Vampire Apprentice coiled in the cool black of his rune space, aura hooded. He had come to observe: technique, posture, the telltale confidence of those who believed their paths were straight as swords. His eyes moved the way his father's did—quietly measuring, cutting through noise.
By the second bell after midday, the last name echoed off wood and stone. The head scribe lifted a silk scroll and bound it with vermilion cord. "By record and witness," he called, voice resonant with a hint of aura, "one hundred and twenty-eight youths of Latian blood shall compete."
Applause surged. Pride ran visible through the crowd like heat over desert dunes. Elders inclined their heads; guests murmured approval, some already drifting toward betting stalls where polite wagers were made beneath the fiction of "friendly predictions."
A herald in a half-cloak of red and gold stepped onto the dais. Two attendants unfurled a tapestry whose dyed threads caught light: names and lot numbers unfurled like a river delta. "By decree of the elders," the herald intoned, "the trials proceed under the Four Arenas. Bracket A will fight upon the Dragon Turtle to the west; Bracket B upon the Tiger to the east; Bracket C upon the Phoenix to the south; Bracket D upon the Azure Dragon to the north. The first evening will hold two bouts in each arena—the opening eight. Sixteen youths shall test the sand by dusk. Tomorrow at first light, matches resume in full across all rings."
A sighing excitement passed over thousands as they dispersed to claim vantage points. The arenas, each with its own temperament, waited. The Dragon Turtle stood by the river, its ring encircled with shallow jade-tiled pools and stone plates inscribed with water runes that dulled impact and made footing treacherous if splashed. The Tiger Arena crouched on compacted clay striped by old gouges, a ring that rewarded aggression. The Phoenix Arena gleamed with a floor of smooth black obsidian tiles that reflected flame-bright; it was a stage that made every movement look like a ritual. The Azure Dragon Arena near the Firefly Lagoon was layered in fine sand that shifted with every step so only those with balance could claim mastery there; when night fell, drifting glow would gather at its edges and turn every clash into a dance among stars.
Torches were set. Bells chimed. The first gongs sounded together—four bronze throats singing the start as one.
On the Tiger Arena's clay, Lurpee son of Korrin faced Niarina daughter of Vaelith. Dust breathed around their calves. Lurpee rolled his shoulders, dense muscle stacked on a stocky frame, and planted his feet wide with a double-headed axe balanced on his palms. His runic aura rose in a heat-haze shimmer. He touched his dantian; his beast burst forth in a black-maned rush—a wolf with ember eyes and a chest broad enough to bowl a man from his feet. Niarina drew a slender etched rod as if unseating a quiet thought, her aura frosting the air until breath showed pale. She whispered, and silver flowed: her serpent spooled into existence, scales like lit rain. It coiled on the boundary line, head lifted, tongue flickering.
The gong's second strike snapped the distance.
Lurpee was moving as the sound rose, axe already in a brutal arc. His wolf shot ahead like a hurled shadow, jaws gaping. Niarina slipped sideways, dress skimming dust, rod slicing down. "Frost Lash," she intoned. Azure light cracked from the tip—ice kissed the clay as an arcing line, and Lurpee's heel hit slick just enough to throw timing. His axe thundered into ground instead of ribs, a bite of steel that threw dirt into the air. The wolf hit the serpent; silver blurred around the strike. The serpent folded like liquid around the jaws, coiling higher, fangs flashing for the wolf's eye.
Lurpee tore his axe free with a growl, aura flushing a deeper orange. "Steel Crush!" He pivoted, chopping across at hip height, a strike meant to break stances, not bodies. Niarina brought the rod up two-handed—"Moonlit Veil!"—and a translucent shield flared into being, fractal and cold. Axe met veil with a ring like a cracked bell; shards of ice-light scattered. She slid under the rebound, rod flicking to tag Lurpee's knee; his leg checked, a stumble—and the serpent struck, those fangs opening a bloody furrow along the wolf's shoulder before coiling away.
The stands breathed with the momentum, thousands leaning in unison. The five Marshalls stepped closer to the ring's edge, seal-discs warm in their hands, their beasts awake in rune space like clenched fists. Rules were clear: anything goes but killing, crippling, or dismembering. Their job was to make sure "almost" stayed almost.
Lurpee's offense came on like summer storms: heavy, relentless. He drove Niarina backward with vertical chops that wanted to split stone. She answered with footwork that wasted nothing, her rod a metronome between parry and point—poking, nibbling, forcing micro-adjustments that bent the tide while never fully turning it. The beasts mirrored them: the wolf hammered forward like an avalanche in small, the serpent a seam of quicksilver, doubling back to strike the base of the avalanche again and again.
"Break!" someone shouted. Lurpee obeyed instinct rather than orders—he changed cadence. He drew his axe back as if for another chop—fainted—and instead swept low in a scything cut that would take ankles. Niarina jumped, veil flaring so the axe shaved it instead of bone. But while she was in the air, his wolf feinted left then carved right; its jaws closed behind the serpent's head on shimmering neck, teeth skidding along scale until they found a seam. The serpent convulsed, body lashing a spray of dust as the wolf slammed it into ground.
Niarina's veil flickered. Frost shattered around her as she struck down with the rod at the wolf's eye. The wolf jerked back on pure hate and pain; the strike took fur and cut a line but spared sight. Lurpee's axe, however, was already in motion, and when her veil failed, the steel kissed the side of her rod with a sound like snapping antlers. The rod wrenched from her hands and spun across the ring.
A Marshall's palm turned; a honey-gold barrier shimmered into place a breath before Lurpee's axe could descend. Another pinched two fingers together in the air; the wolf froze mid-lunge, yanked back by invisible tethers. The gong cut through the dust.
"Victory—Lurpee, son of Korrin."
Cheers broke like a dike. Some booed in disappointed affection for the serpent's elegance; most roared for the smashing finality of the axe. Medics were moving before the echoes died, three in crisp vests—one at Niarina's side with a steadying hand and a numbing salve for her forearm, one at the wolf's shoulder with a powdered restorative, one retrieving the rod and checking fractures. The serpent went back to rune space twitching but alive; the wolf's chest heaved, eyes still embers. Niarina bowed, jaw tight but gaze clear. Lurpee returned the respect; prideful did not mean graceless. The crowd's noise settled into a satisfied hum that tasted of iron and cold.
While that roar still rolled, bells chimed from the Phoenix Arena. Obsidian tiles drank the light; torches threw up wavering gold. Arven son of Tal'Rael paced in with a spear of ashwood tipped in heart-bright steel and a hawk circling in rune space like a whetted thought. Across from him, Kaelen son of Brask rested a saber against his shoulder, aura heavy and brown-green like turned earth. His boar came to the tiles with a snort that puffed dust, tusks carved with pale runes.
The gong sang. Arven moved.
His spear wrote straight lines, clean as a calligrapher's first stroke. "Piercing Gale," he breathed, and the spear thrust rode a pressure wave that hissed across obsidian. Kaelen met it with a wide parry and an ugly grin, saber jerking the tip aside; the boar shouldered through the wave like a boulder through brush. The hawk dove—bronze feathers scraping sparks from tusk—then vaulted skyward, drawing Kaelen's eyes for half a blink. It was enough. Arven's second thrust tagged ribs through leather, a bite that made Kaelen's aura hiccup. The crowd hissed their breath.
Kaelen gave ground as if he'd planned to anyway. "Earthshatter." His foot hammered the tile. Hairline cracks spidered, then jumped; the floor rippled like slate water. Arven's stance wobbled and he changed, hands sliding, spear a spinning pinwheel that shed force at each third turn. Steel rang. Saber hacked. The hawk dove again and Kaelen threw a backhand that clipped feathers. The boar surged—tusks up, eyes red—and Arven slid a half-step, spear butt biting tile; he vaulted and the boar roared past under his boots, tusks scraping sparks and maddening the hawk into a slash that drew blood along Kaelen's cheek.
Blood shifted the fight. Kaelen's aura thickened until the air felt like chewing unbaked bread. His saber work got uglier in the right way—no flourish, all malice. Arven bent and bled speed into angles, letting force slide down the shaft to heel and out into ground. "Flame Bind," he called, and the spear traced a rune in air. A thin band of heat snapped around a tusk; the boar bellowed as the band tightened, then shattered with a rune-crack that smelled like quenched iron.
They circled death-close, boys playing men while the clan watched as if gods might blink. Arven feinted high; his hawk obeyed a shoulder twitch and dove for eyes. Kaelen swatted the bird on reflex and Arven swept the spear's heel low—caught the shin. Kaelen's leg buckled. The spearhead kissed cloth over his heart hard enough to lift it but not pierce. A Marshal's barrier flared a fraction ahead of impact anyway—belt-trained habit. The gong cut cleanly.
"Victory—Arven, son of Tal'Rael."
Screams and whistles and stamping feet. The boar vanished mid-roar; the hawk tucked bronze into the seam of Arven's aura and was gone. Medics ran—one dabbing Kaelen's cheek with pale paste, one palpating a swelling shin, one offering Arven a cloth for a split knuckle. The boys clasped wrists because life would throw them back at each other soon enough and neither wanted to look small before that inevitability.
Beyond those two duels, the evening spilled across all four stages in a rush of story. On the Dragon Turtle ring, water sloshed from shallow jade trays when Selora daughter of Maelis traded "Riptide Draw" with Dain son of Varek's "Anchor Stance." Selora's scaled hound skittered wet-pawed as Dain's turtle-shell guardian soaked waves like they were praise; in the end, Selora won by baiting him onto a slick plate, then taking his balance with a chain of pulls that strung like pearls.
On the Azure Dragon, where every step sank half a thumb, Miri daughter of Sesa fought Jaro son of Hark with "Sand Skitter" against "Pillar Step." Her fox danced atop miniature collapses she caused with toe taps; his stone-jaw boar dug itself sturdy islands. When she threw "Lantern Mirage," three foxes shimmered to bait a charge; Jaro saw through two but gored the third and found only sand—she was already behind him, blade at neck. The gong saved pride.
Back on the Tiger ring, Torren son of Halmar, a blunt instrument made boy, tried to maul Kessa daughter of Leth beneath a storm of cudgel blows and "Tiger Roar." Kessa's answer was calm and knives, "Lotus Guard" layered so his cudgel met petals not wrists. At the bout's end she flicked a knife to pin his sleeve to the ground and tapped his throat with the other, a whisper-win that taught more than it bragged.
In the Phoenix, twin brothers Rulik and Rovin drew lots that forced them against each other. They fought with mirrored goats and mirrored styles, the crowd torn between laughter and awe as the boys traded "Shear Horn" and "Split Step" like children swapping toys they both owned. Rulik at last baited a clash then stepped off line half a hair; Rovin's goat over-committed and ate tile. The hug after was messy and made grandmothers cry.
Dragon Turtle closed its second match with a storm: Orrin son of Jhett's crane traded height and "Sky Thread" with Bexa daughter of Neral's river eel and "Undercurrent Snare." He stabbed down, she roped ankles with water and yanked. He turned falls into floats; she turned retreats into choke-lanes. In the last breath she stole his footing with a whisper of water under stone, and he refused to let his back hit tile—he stabbed the spear into the pool lip and hung there grinning, conceding because sometimes the elegance is knowing when force becomes farce.
On the Azure Dragon's closing bell, slender Pael son of Tir with a paper-thin saber met Hurn daughter of Revek who wore a gauntlet and punched like a forge. Sand loved Hurn—her "Anvil Steps" tamped islands, her beetle-carapace beast rammed and rammed. Pael refused to be present where the fist would land. "Willow Slip," "Ink-Cut," "Three Petals"—names like poems; cuts like rain on a roof. Hurn finally bowed in fury and respect both, promising to meet him on ground that would not move. The crowd loved them for promising rematches that might never happen and feeling like they would anyway.
Between every clash, the Marshalls' silhouettes were constant in the corner of the eye: five black pillars that bent only when the world did—palms flashing barriers, seal-discs throwing tether-chains of light, their own beasts a hair's width from roaring loose if someone forgot a rule. Twice they moved like lightning: once when a tusk went wild and threatened a knee, once when a knife skittered wrong and might have found an artery. Both times they were simply there, like commas saving meaning.
The medics were swifter than rumor. Two setting splints while a third pressed a pill into a cheek; four lifting a youth on a litter while a fifth soothed a panicked beast into the quiet of rune space with a humming sound and a soft palm. The speed of them felt like mercy with legs.
Zed stayed until the very last gong—until lantern smoke softened outlines and the Firefly Lagoon beyond Azure Dragon began its slow ignition, sparks gathering in reeds until the night looked dusted with galaxies. He memorized the way Lurpee changed cadence and won on a feint almost too crude to be clever; he took the measure of Niarina's economy, the way she fought like accounting—every cost, every gain, nothing wasted. He logged the way Arven braided beast and steel without a seam, and how Kaelen turned injury into uglier, better work. He watched footwork fail on wet tile, stand on sand, skate on obsidian, root in clay.
When the elders rose, satisfaction lay on their faces like a lacquer finish. The tally had been sung: one hundred and twenty-eight youths entered; sixteen had laid claim to the sand on the first night and given it something of themselves. Tomorrow would be a storm that arrived not with surprise but inevitability. Servants snuffed torches. Vendors packed honeyed nuts, steamed dumplings, and spiced tea carts. Guests streamed back over the white bridge—its runes now faintly alive in the dark—into the guest pavilions where soft beds and bragging waited.
The Phoenix Pavilion quieted to a glow, wings of its roof catching moonlight. The Weapons Pavilion shutters closed with satisfying clicks. The Skills Pavilion exhaled parchment air. The Training Grounds were only stone again. The Library's jade chimes spoke three notes to no one, and the Clan Head's Mansion held its own counsel.
Zed walked the avenue alone for a while, the river breathing cold beside him, the smell of lantern oil and iron and sweet fried batter thinning with each step. The Vampire Apprentice slept like a folded blade in his rune space. He did not need to summon it to feel the way the night pressed against his skin and asked questions about tomorrow. He didn't answer. He filed, and measured, and stored. When the clan showed its strength, he learned where it set its feet.
And far off, the Firefly Lagoon brightened as if the stars had chosen, tonight of all nights, to settle and watch with everyone else.