She met the Attendant's gaze without flinching. His expression did not change.
"I am High Lore Violet Nyxvalis," she said evenly. "Of House Melanthra. I bear no uniform, for I am the Fourth Mantle Bearer of the Thirty-Ninth."
That was enough to cause a shift.
Not fear —not on a Black Attendant— unease.Subtle and completely out of place.
He said nothing.
One hand slipped into the fine-lined interior of his coat, fingers brushing parchment before drawing it into the light. He checked it once.Assigned positions.
Entry times.Verified passages.Then again.
Nothing.
No record of her entrance.No cleared passage.No decree permitting late arrival.
His gaze lifted briefly, measured and precise. His certainty did not waver. She had not entered alongside another procession, nor had she been present longer than ten minutes.
Even that estimate felt generous.
Which meant—
He stopped the thought there.
Would he say anything?
Absolutely not.
Despite his station, he understood the cost of entanglement. The private games of Mantle Bearers — even newly ascended ones — were never worth the price.
And this one was the infamous heir who carried more authority than half the Bearers of the Thirty-Eighth.
He bowed immediately. Deep enough to be unmistakable.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said. "I ask that you take no offense at my ignorance. I did not recognize you."
The shift around them was instantaneous.
The Hollow-Bloods stiffened first, unease sharpening into focus — recognition, attention, fear.
Beyond them, the disturbance spread.
Across columns.
Up layered stands.
Even among the highest tiers, heads began to turn.
They were looking not at confusion, nor disruption, but at a carefully constructed truth.
Not late.
Not absent.
Simply… misplaced.
Would they believe it?
Not fully.
But belief had never been the goal.
Only doubt.
The kind that stills questions before they can be asked.
Above, Leah finally exhaled.
Below, Violet stepped forward, closing the distance by a single pace.
"All may be forgiven," she said softly, lowering her voice just enough to preserve the illusion of privacy, "if all you witnessed… was a Bearer out of place, seeking a closer view of the Trial."
The Attendant's gaze sharpened faintly. Of course.
How typical.
"Of course, Bearer."
His hand moved again, drawing quill to parchment. Ink kissed the page in swift, practiced strokes — a correction of reality. Small. Administrative. Binding.
Eyes followed the exchange.
The right eyes.
Too distant to discern what had truly transpired below.
"Allow us to escort you to your proper position."
At the gesture, the Hollow-Bloods parted cleanly, forming a path as the esteemed Bearer ascended the stand accompanied by a private escort of Hands.
Left behind, two Hollow-Bloods remained frozen in the wake of it.
Natrix.
Meeka.
Between them lay a single handkerchief marked with the sigil of the Fourth of the Thirty-Ninth.
Proof.
Or perhaps illusion.
It did not matter.
Enough people had seen.
Enough for the moment to soften a lifetime of hardship, if only briefly.
The lonely Selerian coin in Natrix's palm now felt almost like a divine blessing.
_______
The Hands delivered Violet to her assigned row and withdrew without ceremony.
Seven seats occupied the narrow band of stone — the Fourth through Tenth Mantle Bearers of the Thirty-Ninth.
Above them rested three elevated thrones curated in crimson excess, Nyxvalis architecture at its most indulgent.
Reserved for the top serpents of the generation.
Violet did not look up.
Not to gauge their expressions.
Not to grant them the satisfaction.
Instead, she looked right.
Isodle Nyxvalis.
Fifth Mantle Bearer. Blue reptilian eyes,faint shimmering scales beneath them.
The price of his ascension had been absolute.
Someone in the Chambers of Night had torn his jaw from his face, ripped his tongue out by the root, and deliberately left him alive long enough to understand the loss.
That person was dead now.
At least, that was what Isodle believed.
What remained was a dark metal prosthetic concealed beneath the severe rise of his high collar.
His gaze found her.
She ignored it.
Instead, her attention settled on Leah.
A single heartbeat of acknowledgment passed between them.
All is well.
Nothing more needed saying.
The hourglass.
Only a handful of grains remained.
No more.
Her unease deepened.
Attention from above pressed against her — accusatory, speculative, loaded with conclusions they lacked the courage to voice aloud.
Bastards.
She faced forward again.
Nothing changed.
Ulike the fossilised Elders looming above them, the Thirty-Ninth made no attempt at dignity. They stared openly, shamelessly, hungry for implication.
Let them.
She had already made her choice.
Measured the cost.
Calculated the gain.
That devil of a bastard was the key to consolidating power within this blood pit.
They did not know how she intended to wield him.
Or when.
That uncertainty alone was enough.
Her gaze drifted toward the centre.
The Herald.
All white — robes, hair, smile, only his crimson eyes were spared.
She studied him the way one studies a wolf draped in silk.
A problem.
And problems were meant to be erased before they evolved into complications.
Her gaze shifted slightly.
Leah caught it immediately.
No question this time.
Leah's eyes moved once in subtle understanding.
Good.
Violet's attention returned to the arena floor.
Viren of the Iron Veil.
Her jaw tightened.
Monster.
Certain.
Her eyes swept the arena perimeter.
The walls were lined with Hands backed by Sovereign-knight's and Black Attendants.
Complications. Every one of them.
Beyond them stood Highblood specialists from House Kallistyr, tending Primordial stones while caskets and monitors hummed with mechanical purpose.
And there—
A cluster.
Two dozen Highbloods from House Morge and House Oryn.
Healers.
Morticians.
Pretending standard purpose shamelessly.
Not good.
Above, three wyverns had already crossed overhead in the short time she had been in the arena. Their wingbeats were distant, yet heavy enough to vibrate through stone.
And this was only what she could see.
Her throat tightened.
If he survives…
Her gaze snapped back to the sands.
Where is he?
Her pulse quickened — faster than during that blood-soaked wreck of a surgery.
Was he—
No.
He was fine.
He said he was fine.
She had seen him walk.
Talk.
Swing.
Her thoughts began spiralling anyway.
Her eyes jerked from the sands to the entrance once more.
Unease sharpened.
Deepened.
Coiled inward.
Ten seconds…