The deafening roar of the arena filled the air like a storm trapped beneath a stone sky.The scent of sun-scorched sand, mingled with sweat and iron, created an invisible fog that blanketed the stands. Shouts from frenzied gamblers echoed through the night, punctuated by the brutal clash of blows in the central pit, where two fighters battled with the savage ferocity of enraged beasts.
Brann sat on one of the stone benches, watching the scene without truly seeing it. His back was straight, arms crossed, his face expressionless, an unmoving shadow amid the seething crowd. He wasn't there for the spectacle.
"Would you like a refreshment?"
A soft yet confident voice reached his ear. A young serving girl had approached, a wide sling basket across her shoulder filled with containers of ice, each cradling bottles of shimmering liquid, ranging from clear blue to deep violet. Under the flickering torchlight, they glittered like fragments of fallen stars scattered across the grimy streets of Valombre.
Brann turned his head slightly toward her, his steel-gray eyes brushing hers, then shook his head without a word. The girl, visibly unsettled by the chill in his gaze, lowered her eyes and moved away without pressing.
"I'm fascinated by the cruelty humans are capable of."
Brann caught the voice before he noticed its owner. Deep, composed, tinged with a nonchalant irony.
"There's more than enough Horror out there," the voice continued, "enough to make you sick of it, and yet, every night, this arena is packed full."
Brann shifted his head slightly. A few seats down, a man lounged against the carved wooden backrest, his posture relaxed. His clothes, simple yet finely made, spoke of quiet wealth. A dark coat draped elegantly over his shoulders, and a rebellious lock of black hair fell partly across sharp, amused eyes.
He wasn't looking at Brann, but at the pit below, where two heavyset men were locked in a relentless bare-knuckle duel.The sand was smeared with blood and sweat at every step, while the crowd screamed its impatience, hungry for a fracture, for a scream of surrender, for a brutal victory.
Brann said nothing.
The man gave a faint, knowing smile.
"I was told," he said, "that if I wanted to find true warriors, I only had to come here, take a seat, and wait."
Finally, he turned his gaze toward Brann, his amber-brown eyes glinting with a curious intelligence.
"But I never imagined I'd find one not in the pit... but up here, in the stands. It seems fortune smiles on me tonight."
He offered a slight bow, polished yet carrying a trace of arrogance.
"Kaien Ren."
Brann didn't answer right away. He simply regarded Kaien Ren out of the corner of his eye, like a man sizing up an uninvited guest at his table.
His gaze, cold and sharp as a blade freshly drawn, slid over the man in a silent appraisal.
Kaien didn't flinch.
His smile stayed in place, slightly provocative, as if he'd been expecting this reaction.
He crossed his arms and settled more comfortably on his bench.
"The Hollowborns," he said, dropping the word carelessly, though it seemed to echo strangely above the clamor around them.
"They say you hunt them. That you... devour them."
Brann barely acknowledged the words.
"People say a lot of things," he finally replied, his voice calm, hard as iron.
Kaien tilted his head slightly, amused by the unspoken challenge woven into those few words.
"They also say you're not much of a talker. Yet here you are, sitting on a bench, in a pit where men sell their blood for scraps of glory. So tell me... why devour the Umbra when your blade was meant to sever it?"
Brann didn't answer immediately. His steel-gray gaze slid down to the arena below, where the victor of the last match slowly stepped away from the still-twitching body of his opponent.
The sand drank the blood greedily, like a sated beast, swallowing violence and life without distinction.
Kaien Ren kept watching him, a thin smile playing at his lips, like a gambler patiently waiting for his opponent's first move. His amber-brown eyes missed nothing.
Brann exhaled slowly, a breath that carried the weight of years spent cutting rather than speaking.
"You, with one foot in the light and the other in the dark... you'll end up with both legs shattered."
Kaien laughed, a clear, almost refreshing sound against the heavy, grimy atmosphere of the arena.
He raised a hand and cracked his knuckles, like a musician preparing to tune his instrument.
"Better that," he said, amusement flickering in his gaze, "than be blinded by one or devoured by the other, don't you think?"
Brann didn't answer right away, only let out a low, indistinct sound, more a growl than a word.
A warning, almost too subtle to catch.
Kaien was undeterred.
"In any case, it seems you know us, the Harmonists," he pressed, his voice still light. "Have you dealt with us before?"
The silence stretched between them, tight as a drawn bowstring about to snap.
Finally, Brann spoke, his tone sharp as a blade:
"Those who ask too many questions don't live long enough to hear the answers."
A smile brushed Kaien's lips, one that carried the shadow of a challenge.
"I'm not looking to live long, Fallen One. Only to know."
At that moment, the air split with the crash of a blow, the stands trembling beneath its force.
A geyser of sand burst up in the pit, and a body crumpled lifelessly to the ground, its jaw shattered by a monstrous fist.
The crowd roared, demanding more. No mercy. No hesitation. Here, only strength and blood held any worth.
Brann turned his eyes back to the scene.
The winner, massive, slick with sweat and dust, was advancing slowly, savoring his triumph. He raised a fist to the sky, offering his carnage to the howling crowd.
"Look at them."
Kaien gestured vaguely toward the stands.
There was no judgment in his voice, no admiration, only a cold observation.
"They're not fighting to survive. They're fighting to be seen. To exist in the eyes of this crowd."
He straightened slightly, his tone softening, becoming almost insidious.
"And you, Brann... what do you fight for?"
Brann didn't answer. Words were chains. They wanted to trap him in a cause, in an explanation. But he sought only one thing.
The truth of the blade. The truth of judgment.
Kaien watched him for a long moment, as if weighing the silence itself.
Then, slowly, his smile widened.
"I have a mission for you. One that might interest you."
He let the words hang between them, a veiled invitation. There was something in his gaze that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing.
Brann turned his head slightly toward him, his expression still unreadable.
Kaien took his time.
He knew he had Brann's attention, even if the man gave no outward sign.
Down in the arena, the sand had already swallowed the spilled blood.
Another fight would soon begin. Another life about to be crushed under the cheers of an insatiable crowd.
But Kaien had a different kind of arena in mind.
He leaned in closer to Brann, lowering his voice so only he could hear.
"The Rift."
Two words, and the air around them seemed to freeze.
Brann didn't flinch. But Kaien caught it, the faintest tension in his shoulders, the slightest, almost imperceptible tilt of his head.
"I see you know what I'm talking about," Kaien said, sounding pleased.
"That gaping wound at the edge of ValOmbre. A scar in the earth... a chasm that never sleeps."
Brann gave no reply. Of course he knew.
The Rift was more than just a geological fracture.
It was a tear in reality itself. Legends claimed it had been born when a fragment of Excalibur fell in ancient times, a shard of the Severance that had torn open a breach to something nameless.
Since then, the Umbra had seeped from its walls, and those who ventured too close never returned.
Kaien laced his fingers under his chin, studying Brann's impassive face before continuing.
"There's something down there, Fallen One. Something that shouldn't exist."
Brann exhaled slowly, as if he already knew where this conversation was leading.
"Everything down there deserves to stay there."
Kaien raised an eyebrow, amused.
"They say you're on a crusade against the Luminic Order… I thought you were looking for answers."
Brann turned away, his gaze drifting back to the arena below. One of the fighters collapsed, a trail of dark blood soaking into the blackened sand. The shadow of the stands cast shifting shapes across the pit.
He closed his eyes for a moment. The whispers of the past slid into his mind.
The screams of Briseterre.
The echo of a blade severing both Lumen and Umbra. Cassandre's eyes, filled with fear.
Brann clenched his fists.
He didn't respond immediately, but when he turned his gaze back to Kaien, it was sharper, more cutting.
"Tell me what you know."
Kaien leaned against the edge of the balcony, savoring the moment.
"A few days ago, a group of explorers went down into the Rift. Mercenaries, a couple of high-tier Lutech engineers… and an Umbromancer."
Brann turned his head slightly but said nothing.
"It wasn't an expedition approved by the Archon. The lower levels have been sealed off for years. No, this mission came from higher up, or rather… from a different summit. The Luminar Order."
Still, Brann remained silent.
Kaien went on, his voice dropping lower.
"Only one of them came back. A radiance keeper, drained of his own lumen. He slit his own throat before uttering a single word."
A chill crept up Brann's spine. The Umbra devoured souls, yes, but it didn't silence the mad. Those who survived the abyss always screamed what they had seen. Always.
"And?" Brann asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Kaien met his gaze, unwavering. "Before dying, he wrote a word on the stone. In his own blood."
Silence fell between them. The arena, the shouting crowd, the entire world faded into nothingness, only this conversation remained, suspended in the stillness.
Brann finally asked, "What word?"
Kaien let the tension linger, then whispered:
"Fenris."
Time seemed to stop.
Brann didn't move. But his breath slowed.
Fenris. A name etched into the blade strapped to his back.