"Open the door, child..."
His voice rasped like wind whispering through withered leaves, every syllable drawn out in a slow, deliberate cadence, as if time itself bent to his command.
"You would damn all of Istill, child. Do not open that door."
Her words layered upon themselves, voices woven in impossible harmony. The sound was haunting and beautiful, like a siren's call. Capable, with a single note, of commanding a body to move without thought.
"If it was not to happen, how could Fate have foreseen it? It is her, Thea. Whether you accept it or not… this child will open the door."
Each word fell with the weight of a star. Every breath from him reverberated through the child's bones, his very speech shaking her to the core.
But… where were they?
The child stood before an ancient door, massive and unmoving. The longer she stared, the more the dread sank in, an oppressive sense of inevitability. When she tried to shift her weight, her feet sank into a sponge-like surface she could not see. In truth, she could see nothing; no ground beneath her, no sky above. No bodies to match the voices arguing for her favor.
Only her. And the door.
So what would happen if...
She took a step.
"Prince Desmond!"
A hushed voice pierced the fog of slumber. It held a royal twang, coarse from years of tobacco and tea. A second whisper followed, firmer this time, accompanied by a cold, wrinkled hand on his shoulder.
Desmond gasped softly as his eyes shot open. He turned sharply to find his mother's old attendant, Anne. Relief exhaled from him in a weary sigh as he rubbed his temples.
"Anne… thank the Creators, it's only you."
He groaned and sat upright.
"This studying is siphoning life out of me, I swear it. You must have studied quite a bit in your day if that's true, no?"
He smirked, right before her hand curled into a fist and knocked him sharply on the back of his head.
"Brat. I'm only fifty-four! Now listen, your father sent me. He seems quite upset. You'd better find him before I tell him you were napping at a royal banquet."
She pointed off to the side of the ballroom where she'd last seen the king before being summoned to tend to a noble's drink.
Desmond groaned again and began working his way through the royal banquet. The air was thick with the aroma of imported delicacies and the soft notes of stringed instruments. Nobles spoke in proud tones about recent conquests, political affairs, and overpriced Adam Ships. Silver trays passed in rhythmic intervals, laden with wine and charcuterie.
At last, Desmond spotted his father near the grand entrance to the ballroom.
Despite his composed bearing, something was wrong. Anyone else might miss it, but Desmond could read it in the stiffness of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. His father wore the face of a king—stern, unreadable—but Desmond knew better.
"Father!"
Desmond approached with a respectful bow.
"Anne said to find you. Has something happened?"
The king stared at him for a long moment, as though the question startled him. Then he turned without a word and walked away from the hall. Desmond followed in silence.
When they reached the solitude of a stained glass alcove, the king stopped. A beam of golden light fell across his face, warming to amber as the sun waned.
"You look exhausted, son. Are you resting at all? I know the entrance exam is important, but so is your health."
"I am, Father. Balance is essential for a future king. Though... I should return to studying soon."
"Yes… of course."
The king paused again, settling in his mind the tone for the conversation.
"Son... I won't soften this. The Barrier is cracking."
Desmond's eyes flew open, panic trailing behind confusion.
"We don't know the cause yet. The capital mages are devising a way to mend it, but I fear the human grasp on divinity is not enough. I leave tonight for the Elven Kingdom. We need their aid."
"Then I'm going with you."
"No."
His voice was firm.
"I need you here, Desmond. To rule in my stead. I will return in weeks, a month at most. Tell me I can trust you with the health of this kingdom."
He placed a slightly trembling hand on his son's shoulder. His eyes remained hard, but the worry behind them flickered like candlelight.
"This kingdom will be fine, just… Be quick."
The king smiled softly and pulled Desmond into an embrace. A sting hit both of their noses as they shared this bittersweet moment, but there was no time for tears.
With that, they parted.
Desmond let his father disappear before making a mad dash toward the castle's main gates, brushing aside a storm of thoughts. He threw the doors open and found a cloaked figure waiting: a tall man with polished boots and black slacks showing below his veil.
"Ah, Master Desmond. We're cutting it close."
The man tossed Desmond a folded cloak. He threw it over his shoulders and fastened the buttons as they set off.
"We're fine. Wait, did you bring the-?"
A wooden mask practically flew into his hands. Two cloth-covered eye holes and a protruding, cylinder-like mouth. Almost cartoonish in design.
"You're amazing, Erickson. When does she fight?"
"Soon, I'm afraid."
"Then we've no time to lose. Keep up!"
"Right behind you, sir."
They sprinted toward the forest beyond the castle.
Twenty minutes of sprinting brought them to the lower depths of the city. A coded knock at a dusty tavern table led to a bald man ushering them through a supply closet.
"Faces and payment."
He grunted, arms crossed.
Erickson handed over triple the standard fee. That was enough to melt the man's resolve to see their faces. He opened the hidden door with a greedy grin.
"Finals begin in five. Bets close at the first bell. As always, no use of divinity within the Dome. Violation is punishable by death. Enjoy the show."
A slam echoed behind them as they descended.
The underground arena was massive, built to hold nearly 18,000 spectators. Most seats already filled with masked patrons, still trickling in through various entrances.
"I'll place the bets. Find her."
Erickson slipped away, and Desmond made his way to her waiting room. Going to check his breath before remembering the mask on his face.
Knock. Knock.
"Who is it?!"
The voice was raspy, feminine, and irritated.
"Your humble benefactor. Do let me in."
The lock clicked. Desmond stepped inside.
"Mr. Baelish!"
A large, scruffy pig-man greeted him with a bone-crushing handshake.
"Good to see you, boy!"
Desmond had to use an alias, Mr. Baelish, for obvious reasons. And was he truly just a boy? He was seventeen, practically an adult!
"Scroff, how are you and Grimm holding up? Have you heard news on the Barrier?"
Behind Scroff, Grimm sat silently. Her wrists were bound in heavy shackles, her face half-hidden by her hand.
"It's strange business that barrier., Only thing we know now is that the end times are coming." Scroff said, scratching his chin.
"And now that we're talking, Grimm mentioned a dream where—"
"It was nothing."
Grimm's voice snapped, cutting off Scroff.
"It was just a dream. These shackles are what's bothering me."
She lowered her hand, and for the first time in weeks, Desmond saw her eyes—cat-like, vertical pupils gleaming gold. So many feared those eyes. He never understood why.
He'd fallen for them.
He supported her matches and her survival. Not only for the thrill, but for what he could only assume was love.
"I know, kid," Scroff said, snorting.
"But after last time, it was either that or forfeit."
Knock. Knock.
"Ms. Vasilisk, the match is about to begin."
"Coming!" Grimm barked, rising to her feet. "These things don't weigh a thing. They're just uncomfortable. Anyone got my gloves?"
Desmond tossed her the worn red gloves—tattered, but loyal. They told the tale of every fight she survived to stand here.
"Baelish, thank you for... Everything. After I win, I'm leaving for Arigo. There's an even bigger tournament I'd like to fight in. If you want to join us, I wouldn't be upset about it." Grimm was not one for compliments. Over the past month, Desmond had come to know it, but here she was asking him to join them.
Desmond helped her with the second glove. "If fate had not bound me to duty, I'd go without question."
A wave of disappointment passed through her face. "Hmm… Maybe next time."
Scroff interrupted, giving her a firm pat on the shoulder. "We'll be watching, kid! Show them why they call you THE Vasilisk!"
Grimm smiled and walked out with a fire rekindled in her chest. Boldly announcing in the hallway, "That's why I'm here, isn't it? Like hell if I'm gonna lose."