The air in the Tower feels different when they wake it for blood. Wards vibrate like taut strings as I follow Rhosyn through the hall. Her eyes don't leave me."They want to see if you lose yourself," she says flatly. "If you spill too much. If you don't spill enough."
The doors grind open. Light and sound pour in.
The chamber is an arena—sand floor, iron bars, stands packed with nobles, initiates, merchants hungry for spectacle. The Council sits above, their thrones etched with runes that burn faintly like banked coals.
The eldest raises his hand, his voice dry as dust. "Veyra Ambrose. Today you will be measured against living steel. Control will be judged. Begin."
The gate slams open. Six fighters stride in, armor light but fitted for speed. They move in formation—three longswords, two bucklers, one spear. The spear-bearer spits at the sand."You're no Empress," he sneers. "You'll bleed like anyone else."
"Then prove it," I say, and the sand explodes into motion.
The spear drives straight for my ribs. My shadow-veil flares, steel shrieking across it. He pivots instantly, sweeping low. Sand sprays, my balance shifts, and already the first buckler slams in from the side. I catch the shield rim on my forearm; pain rattles bone, but I twist and ram my elbow into his throat. He staggers, coughing.
Two swordsmen close—one reckless, one precise. The reckless one howls and hacks down. I parry, sparks spitting, and lash a shadow across his calf. He stumbles but keeps fighting, slashing wildly. The precise one waits for my counter, then thrusts. I barely twist aside; the edge grazes my shoulder, hot blood seeping into my sleeve. Gasps ripple through the stands.
The crowd smells blood.
The disciplined swordsman presses. Our blades clash in a storm of sparks. He feints left, cuts right, nearly slipping past my guard. My shadow whips around, latching to his ankle. He jerks free just in time—but it breaks his rhythm. My mist-blade slams his guard wide, and I shove him to the sand. He rolls back to his feet, panting, refusing to yield.
The spear-bearer returns, snarling. His thrust drives me back step by step. The second buckler joins, shield smashing down to pin me. My shadows lash outward, binding the spear haft and dragging it off course. He resists, muscles bulging, veins straining. He doesn't see my knee drive into his chest until air leaves him in a wheeze.
The reckless swordsman takes advantage, swinging for my head. I duck, feel the rush of air, then rise under his guard. My fist cracks his jaw, sending him reeling, teeth bloody in the sand.
The stands erupt. Some cheer. Others hiss in outrage. Whispers ripple like fire through dry grass.
"She bleeds!""She's unstoppable—""She's toying with them—"
The fighters regroup, bruised but burning with pride. They don't retreat. They spread, encircling me. Their eyes flick to one another. A silent pact.
They charge together.
The spear jabs high, feints low, then whirls the shaft in a wide arc meant to break my defenses. Both bucklers hammer forward, shields crashing like thunder. The swordsmen slip into the gaps—one slashing high, one stabbing low.
Four strikes, one heartbeat.
My shadows surge outward, arms of smoke and flame. One catches a buckler, ripping him sideways. Another coils the spear mid-spin, wrenching it just enough to spoil the arc. The low sword screeches against my thigh—shallow, but it burns. The high slash hisses through my hair, close enough to shear a strand.
I grit my teeth, blood dripping hot down my side. Pain sharpens me. My shadows sharpen with me.
I step into the spear-man's guard, seize his weapon, and spin. His own haft cracks into a buckler's helmet with a sickening ring. The man crumples. I ram my palm against the spear-bearer's chest, a shadow-vein erupting outward and hurling him across the sand. He lands hard, coughing blood.
The precise swordsman presses again, desperate, his blade flashing like silver lightning. I parry once, twice, thrice—he nearly slips through on the third. I duck under, shadows snaring his wrist, and wrench the steel from his hand. My mist-blade rests at his throat. His eyes widen. I let him fall back alive.
The last buckler charges blindly, rage driving him. He slams into me, shield edge cutting my lip. I taste iron. He pulls back to swing again—too slow. My shadow spikes upward, smashing his shield to splinters. He collapses to his knees, dazed.
Silence swallows the arena.
Six men lie beaten. Bruised, bleeding, but alive. My arm stings. My thigh throbs. My lip drips red down my chin. I could have killed them all. I didn't.
I lift my head, shadows coiling like a crown. My voice carries:"You wanted control. You've seen it. Do not mistake restraint for weakness."
The stands erupt—outrage, awe, prayers, curses. The winter-haired Arcanist smiles like a man watching a rare storm. The onyx-eyed councilor looks ready to spit venom. The eldest remains unreadable.
And Darius Kael—no smirk, no arrogance. Only golden eyes fixed on me, sharp as a drawn blade.
I bleed. I breathe steady. And Bastion sees not weakness, but choice.
A choice more terrifying than slaughter.