The banners of the Lygari rippled above the torchlit dome, crimson and black, their claw-marked insignias glaring down like predators watching from the dark. Opposite them hung the faded blue standards of humanity, their edges frayed by years of salt wind and neglect. The arena was ancient, a hollow bowl of stone carved into the earth, where generations of treaties had been broken, renewed, and broken again.
Tonight, the air thrummed with expectation. Humanity's delegation sat on one side, stiff-backed, cloaked in silence. On the other, the Lygari filled their stands with guttural roars, their gutted drums beating like war-hearts. Between them stretched the sand pit, wide and unforgiving, encircled by stone walls stained with old blood.
At the center of that sand rested a dais of polished obsidian. Upon it, two prizes glimmered in the firelight:
A crystal shard of Aetherium, veins of faint silver-blue light coiling within as though it carried a living pulse. Metal stronger than steel, rarer than diamond.A vial of Ashura Spring water, no larger than a finger, filled with liquid that shimmered with shifting colors like dawn over a calm sea.
The herald, cloaked in crimson robes, lifted his staff. The sound of its strike against the dais rang like thunder, silencing the crowd.
"Tonight," his voice rolled across the dome, sharp and resonant, "strength decides dominion. Humanity and Lygari stand before witness of sky and stone. If humanity triumphs, these relics return with them to their cities. If they fail—" His gaze shifted to the human delegation, lips curling into a predator's smile. "—then the ore and the spring water belong to the Lygari, and humanity shall pay their yearly tribute in double."
A ripple of unease spread through the human side. Every man and woman there understood the weight of those words. Not only honor, not only pride, but survival itself hung in the balance.
The herald raised his staff again.
"Step forth the first challenger. Joren Velis of Humanity!"
Zander's chest tightened as Joren rose from the human ranks. His rival's movements were sharp, deliberate, his every step carried with the confidence of one who thrived under scrutiny. Joren's hair caught the torchlight like burnished copper, his blade gleaming as he drew it free with a hiss.
Across the arena, his opponent entered: Rhelos, a towering Lygari with shoulders like a wall and arms thick as tree trunks. Twin cleavers hung at his sides, jagged and chipped, weapons made for tearing, not finesse. The Lygari's growl rumbled deep, vibrating through the sand beneath their feet.
The crowd erupted in cheers and snarls.
The herald's staff dropped.
The duel began.
Rhelos surged forward like an avalanche, cleavers rising in brutal arcs. Sand sprayed where his strikes landed, each blow shuddering through the arena walls. Joren moved like a shadow, ducking, pivoting, parrying with quick, precise motions. The clash of steel rang out, sparks snapping in the air.
Zander leaned forward, every sense sharpening. The sound of blades wasn't just noise—it was a vibration he could feel in his chest. Every footstep, every grunt of exertion painted the duel in layers invisible to others.
Joren twisted past a downward chop, his counterstrike flashing up—steel against flesh. A crimson line opened across Rhelos's shoulder. Gasps erupted on both sides.
Zander's pulse quickened. He's got him. He should win this.
But something was wrong.
Rhelos roared and pressed forward, slashing wildly, cleavers cutting wide arcs that left his flanks exposed. To Zander's eyes, the flaws were glaring. Joren should have evaded easily. He should have countered, finishing the duel. But instead, his rival faltered. His blade caught, his timing broke, his shoulders moved a fraction too late.
Why didn't you move? Zander's thoughts burned, frustration mixing with disbelief. It was open! The strike was slow—why didn't you—
A fist like a hammer slammed into Joren's chest. The breath burst from him as he staggered, blade flying from his grip. Sand scraped against his back as he fell, sprawled and gasping.
Rhelos raised his cleavers high, bellowing triumph.
"Victory—Lygari!" the herald declared.
The Lygari stands thundered in approval, their roars shaking the air. Joren was dragged away, blood trickling from his mouth, fury burning in his eyes even in defeat. As his gaze met Zander's across the arena, the fire in it seared. Rivalry unbroken.
"Lyra Avenel of Humanity!"
Zander's throat tightened.
Lyra stepped forward, her presence like a spark in the gloom. She carried herself with a dancer's grace, slim blade gleaming as though it thirsted for light. Her Lygari opponent, lean and wiry, circled with twin daggers that glimmered like fangs.
The duel began with silence.
Then steel sang.
Lyra moved as if woven of water and air, her body a ripple of motion, every strike fluid, every dodge a flowing arc. She ducked, spun, her blade slashing in elegant bursts that grazed her foe's skin, leaving faint lines of red. For a breath, the crowd held its breath, transfixed by her rhythm.
Zander's heart soared. Yes. That's it. She's untouchable.
But he heard it.
The tremor in her heartbeat. The slight stutter in her breath. She was burning her strength too fast. Her blade grazed the enemy's arm, but her recovery wavered by a fraction of a second.
Steel kissed her shoulder. Blood spattered the sand.
"Lyra!" Zander half-rose, his voice strangled in his throat.
She pressed on, fierce, unyielding, refusing to yield ground. But the rhythm had broken. The Lygari pressed harder, slashing relentlessly, each strike a drumbeat of death. One cut, then another, and her body staggered under the weight of them.
Her final parry faltered. A blade slipped through, sending her crumpling into the sand.
"Victory—Lygari!"
The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers. The sound crashed around Zander like waves, but inside him, silence.
Lyra was lifted, blood streaking her uniform, her face pale as moonlight. Her eyelids flickered, lips parting faintly in some whispered breath as healers rushed her to the sidelines. Zander's chest ached so fiercely he could hardly breathe. He wanted to run to her, to lift her himself, to stand between her and every claw that had touched her. But he sat, hands clenched white, powerless.
Not yet.
The herald's staff struck stone once more.
The sound rolled through the arena like a final judgment.
"Alexander Kael of Humanity! Step forward."
The world dulled.
Zander rose slowly, every step toward the sand deliberate, heavy with the weight of all eyes upon him. Around him, the Lygari jeered, their snarls rattling the air, hungry for another human loss. On the human side, silence reigned. Not hope. Not faith. Only the stillness of desperation.
The sand crunched beneath his boots, each grain whispering in his senses. He felt every vibration—the shift of the crowd, the faint drag of Joren's labored breath somewhere behind him, the groan of Lyra as the healers worked. Ahead, he felt the heartbeat of the Lygari who waited for him in the center of the arena, slow and steady, confident and unshaken.
Zander inhaled. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of iron and smoke.
This was his turn.
This was his moment.