The floor beneath them had been sanitized. Luminous crystals ringed the space in a tight perimeter, their pale glow steady and cold, casting no shadows, leaving no place for error to hide.
Chion lay at the center. Bare-chested. Still.
His breathing was measured. Too measured. His pulse, if it moved at all, refused to show itself.
Fine lines traced his ribs—precise, deliberate—faint ink mapping where steel would meet flesh.
Violet loomed above him. Her hair was bound tight. Her hands were steady. A tremor lived in her wrists, barely suppressed.
To her right, reagents and instruments lay arranged on a low tray. Glass. Steel. Thread. To her left, a single sheet of parchment. Guidelines.
Her eyes met his. He looked comfortable. Too comfortable.
"This is a bad idea," she muttered.
"I know."
He picked up one of the reagents and drank it in a single motion. It hit instantly. His eyes went white. Veins surged, threading dark beneath his skin. Then silence. His head dropped back against the floor. Slack. Gone.
Violet didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her eyes dragged toward the parchment.
Ninety minutes.
By the gods—
---
Elsewhere…
(Vale of Eternal Night. Second Outer Blade Confinement: Echoes of Olympus.)
Like all great Domains of the Vale, the Second Outer Blade Confinement did not believe in restraint. Excess was not avoided. It was curated—down to the last stone.
Monumental gates rose at its threshold, carved from seamless white marble. A golden Scarab Seal was hammered into the stone. Wings outstretched. Two crimson eyes set within the veined pattern of those wings. Not decorative.
Beyond them, the ascent began. Pillared halls stretched upward in perfect symmetry. No runes. No obsidian. Only white marble, and the sound. Steel on steel. Blood on stone. Breath breaking under strain. Instructors barking orders that blurred into the walls.
Grey and blue cloaks moved through it all. Bone-white armour plated over their forms. They marched in pairs. In squads. Or stood perfectly still in places where they did not need to be. Watching. A single glance from them was enough to force tired bodies upright, to drive cadets back into motion, to turn exhaustion into obedience.
Higher still, the symmetry held. But something beneath it shifted. Formations thinned. The noise softened. Time itself seemed to bend. Blue became crimson. Grey became black. Every cloak now bore the Scarab in gold thread. No longer a seal. A declaration.
The marble changed with it. Gold ran along the pillars like veins of old debt. Statues grew finer. Black banners, threaded in gold, unfurled overhead. Above them, statues so finely carved that even the dust seemed to hold its breath.
And at the peak, it rose: the Hall of Fame. A temple in all but name. Carved from the mountain it crowned.
---
Within its upper corridors, three tall figures moved with quiet precision.
On the left, the First Shield of House Artyr. Sir Armon. Encased in full crimson armour, crowned with the sacred horns of the Blood Scarab—an immovable object.
On the right, the First Blade of House Artyr. Sir Elliott. White armour, seamless and razor-edged, a reflection of the Moon Shadow Scarab. His position had remained unchanged for over a century.
And at the center, Elder Riven. His expression rested somewhere between irritation and guilt.
Behind them, the sealed doors of the Eighteenth of the Thirty-Eighth. Viren Nyxvalis. His vassal. His son in everything but blood. Those doors would not be opening to him again.
The shame Viren had endured during the feast was one thing. The Council's scheme costing him a knight—another. And now, a capital decree ordering him into combat barely a moon after discharge. Not simple combat—a death match where loss meant the erasure of everything he had built.
Forgivable? Unlikely.
But the next part guaranteed a lifetime of resentment. Ordered to face a boy. The boy who had insulted him while cloaked in treachery. Armed with relics. A full statistical breakdown of a poised enemy. An arena engineered to murder that boy.
That was not honour. That was not justice. That was not how he had raised Viren.
Of one thing he was certain: Viren would not fight the boy. Not now. Not ever. Not through justice. Not through treachery. And certainly not at the Council's command—or their pleas.
His irritation deepened. Not toward Viren, no. Never toward his son. Toward the boy, perhaps. Toward the Council, without question.
He exhaled through his nose, and his shoulders settled. The mask slid back into place.
"Armon," Riven said at last.
The Shield inclined his head slightly. "Yes, Elder."
"Is my afternoon luncheon with Lady Rebecca set?"
"It is, Elder. She should already be waiting in the courtyard."
Riven nodded once. His pace tightened, just slightly.
---
The courtyard lay open to the sky. Cleared of all living presence, leaving only the artistry of its design. Exotic flowers. Intricate carvings in marble and polished stone. All of it arranged in quiet orbit around a finely curved pavilion at its heart.
Four pillars supported the structure. Seven steps rose along each side. At the center, a polished table. Set with a single porcelain tray. Two cups. Two plates. A kettle, still steaming. Two seats faced one another across it. One occupied.
She was veiled in midnight silk, faint lines of silver and gold threading the seams of her gown. The only true light upon her, a Sol crystal resting loose at her chest. It burned softly. Not bright, but enough to draw the eye. Enough to invite you closer, even when every instinct said to keep your distance.
Riven exhaled once. Then his hand rose. Behind him, Armon and Elliott halted without question.
He advanced alone. Each step measured. Closing the distance between them. At the edge of the pavilion, he stopped. Then bowed. Ritual. Exact.
"Lady Rebecca."
Silence. Not empty—measured. Her veiled gaze settled on him. Descending. Assessing. From head to toe, then back again. Quiet judgment.
Then she spoke.
"Elder."
Nothing more.
He straightened. Ascended the steps. And took the empty seat without delay.
Her hand moved first. Reaching for the kettle. Pouring. A thin stream of amber filled the cup before him, steam rising in slow, quiet spirals. She set it down before him.