The silence was a presence. It settled over the Coliseum of Ọ̀yọ́-Ìlú like a shroud, thick and suffocating, swallowing the echoes of Silas's chilling victory. The roar of the crowd had died not into a murmur, but into a vast, collective stillness born of fear. Thousands of eyes were fixed on the black glass scar that marred the center of the arena, a wound on the sacred sand that seemed to pulse with a malevolent, anti-life. The setting sun bled across the sky, casting long, distorted shadows that made the coliseum look like the ribcage of some colossal, long-dead beast.
On the fighters' dais, the camaraderie that had begun to bloom amongst the young champions had withered. Adebayo stood rigid, his powerful frame a statue of righteous fury, his gaze locked on the spot where the Sun-Priest had fallen. Zola, who had limped out of her to hear the final results, had her face turned away, unable to look at the arena. Even her radiant àṣẹ seemed muted, dimmed by the encroaching shadow. Amara was perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her serene expression now looking less like peace and more like the unnerving calm at the eye of a hurricane.
"That is not power," Adebayo finally said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the stone bench. "It is a desecration. He did not defeat that man; he unmade him."
The oppressive silence was finally broken by the herald. She raised her bronze horn, her attempt at a celebratory flourish ringing hollow in the tense air.
"The trials of the day are concluded!" she announced, her voice straining for a festive tone that the mood would not allow. "The blood and sand have spoken! Eight champions have proven their strength, their spirit, their right to stand before the gods and king as finalists for the Sunstone Tournament!"
A smattering of hesitant, scattered applause rippled through the stands. The herald cleared her throat and continued, her voice growing stronger as she fell back on the familiar cadence of her duty.
"Let their names be known and honored! From the Earthbound clans, a warrior whose strength is the foundation of the world—Adebayo!"
A genuine, heartfelt roar of approval erupted, primarily from the common folk in the upper tiers. Adebayo's honor was a thing they understood, a virtue they could cling to in the face of the day's unnerving events. Adebayo gave a stiff, formal bow.
"From the sacred temples, a vessel of divine will, she who commands the spirits of the air—Amara!"
Another wave of respectful, almost reverent applause. Amara inclined her head with a grace that felt ancient.
"She who fought with the heart of a lioness, the dancer whose light refused to be extinguished—Zola!"
This cheer was different. It was softer, filled with a fierce, protective sympathy. Zola managed a weak but defiant smile and a small wave, a gesture that earned another, louder swell of support.
"The wild cards who have shaken this tournament to its core! The Silent Blade of Greenwater—Lia! And the Unbreakable Mountain of the North—Grom Stonehand!"
A buzz of excited speculation swept the crowd. These were the mysteries, the living myths, and their names were spoken with a thrill of the unknown. Leonotis felt a thousand eyes on him, and he shrank deeper into his cowl. Low merely grunted, unmoved.
The herald named two others—a stoic spear-woman named Nurabia Kabirui, and a grappler known as Neema. Their names were met with nods of solid, if unenthusiastic, respect. They were known quantities, skilled and dangerous.
The herald paused, taking a deep breath before announcing the final name.
"And the shadow that has fallen over all—Silas!"
Silence. Utter, profound, and terrifying. Not a single cheer. Not a jeer. Just the dead weight of a thousand people holding their breath. From the corner of the arena, Silas stepped out of a tunnel, his expression placid, as if he neither noticed nor cared for the lack of cheer. He was an island of unnerving calm in a sea of fear.
"These eight," the herald concluded, "shall proceed to the quarter-finals! Let the celebrations—"
He was cut off by a sound that was sharper and more commanding than any horn. It was the sound of a thousand armored boots striking stone in perfect, terrifying unison.
From the main palace gate, a phalanx of the Royal Guard emerged.
They were not the ceremonial sentries who stood at attention in the city. This was the King's personal elite, the Scions of the Lion. Their armor was not bronze, but polished, gleaming gold, etched with lion motifs. Their faces were hidden behind full helms, their visors smooth, featureless plates that reflected the dying sun, making them look like an army of faceless, golden gods. They moved with a liquid, synchronous precision that was inhuman, their shields locked, their spears held at a perfect, uniform angle.
They didn't march to the center. They fanned out, their movements crisp and economical, creating an unbreakable, glittering perimeter around the eight finalists still standing on the arena floor and those, like Leonotis and his friends, on the fighters' dais. The message was immediate and unambiguous. This was not an honor guard. This was an encirclement.
The crowd fell silent again, a new kind of fear—the fear of royal power—dampening the lingering dread of Silas.
A captain, distinguished by a crest of crimson plumes on his helm, strode forward. He stopped before the dais, his featureless visor sweeping over them all.
"Champions of the Sunstone Tournament," his voice was muffled and metallic, yet it carried an authority that brooked no argument. "By decree of His Majesty, King Rega, your exceptional performance has earned you a place of great honor."
Adebayo, ever the traditionalist, stepped forward slightly. "We are honored by the King's recognition," he said, his voice stiff with formal respect.
The captain's helmet tilted a fraction of an inch. "His Majesty's generosity extends beyond mere recognition. For the remainder of the tournament, you are to be his honored guests. You will be housed within the royal palace itself, provided with the finest food, accommodations, and training facilities. This is for your safety, your comfort, and to ensure you are in peak condition for the trials to come."
The words were honeyed, courteous, wrapped in the silken language of royal decree. But they were a lie. Every syllable was a bar in the cage they were being led into.
Adebayo's back went rigid. "We are warriors, Captain, not courtiers. The barracks have served us well. To be sequestered within the palace… it is an honor, but an unnecessary one. It suggests you do not trust us to conduct ourselves with dignity."
The captain's head snapped toward him. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "His Majesty's decree is not a negotiation, champion. It is a gift. You will accept it." The final words were coated in steel.
Leonotis's blood ran cold. He risked a glance at Low. Beneath the Grom disguise, her jaw was clenched so tight he could see the muscle jump. Her eyes were hard, flinty chips of gold. They met his for a fraction of a second, and in that silent, fleeting exchange, a universe of understanding passed between them.
They had done it. They had won their way into the palace.
This was the goal, the entire point of their impossible infiltration. They were being handed the key to the very place they needed to be to rescue Gethii and Chinakah. But the key was a collar, and the door was the entrance to a cell. This wasn't the clever infiltration of a thief in the night; this was the formal imprisonment of a political asset. It was a victory that felt, with every fiber of his being, like a catastrophic defeat.
He saw Jacqueline in the stands, half-hidden by a pillar, her face a pale, grim mask in the shadows. Zombiel stood beside her, his stillness now radiating a palpable menace. Their plan had just been ripped apart and rewritten by the King himself.
Amara, however, seemed completely unperturbed. She rose gracefully from the bench. "The King is most generous," she said, her voice a calm, melodic counterpoint to the tension. "We are grateful for his protection."
Silas, who had been standing apart from everyone, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, an expression of someone for whom this was all a predictable, and perhaps welcome, development.
The trap was closing, and not everyone seemed to realize they were inside it. The guards began to move, their spears shifting to guide the champions from the dais and the arena floor toward the palace gate. They were not being led; they were being herded.
As they were forced to their feet, Leonotis felt a profound sense of powerlessness wash over him. He was a piece on a board, moved by a hand he could not see, into a position he had sought but now dreaded. He was closer than ever to his master and his mother figure, but he was also directly under the gaze of the man who had ordered their capture.
They walked across the blood-stained sand, a small, disparate collection of legendary fighters, now prisoners of honor. The Royal Guard formed a glittering, inescapable cage around them. The sun had finally sunk below the horizon, and the first stars were beginning to appear in the bruised, purple sky. The palace loomed before them, its towers black against the fading light, its windows like watching, hungry eyes.
The great bronze gates, emblazoned with the King's serpent sigil, swung open with a low, groaning sound. As Leonotis stepped across the threshold, from the chaos of the arena into the cold, orderly opulence of the palace, he felt the world shift. The air was different here—still, heavy, and tasting of power and secrets.
He looked back one last time. The coliseum was a dark, empty mouth behind them. The roar of the crowd was gone, replaced by the rhythmic, echoing thud of the guards' boots on marble.
Then the gates swung shut behind them, the sound a deep, final boom that sealed them inside.
King Rega IV stood on balcony in the palace that over looked the Colisseum. He watched his Royal Guard maneuver below herding the fighters into the palace.
He took a sip from a gold goblet, his eyes narrowing as the heavy bronze gates of the palace began to swing shut. The boom of their closing didn't reach him as a sound, but as a vibration through the stone floor, a satisfying thrum of finality.
"The trap is set," Rega murmured, more to himself than to the two women standing in the shadows behind him. "And the mice have scurried right in."
Kenya stepped forward from the right, her eyes tracking the movements of the guards below with precision.
"The perimeter is secure, Your Majesty," Kenya said. "The Captain reports that the targets offered only token verbal resistance. They are currently being escorted to the Guest Wing. The magic dampeners in the walls are active."
"Good," Rega said, turning his back on the city. He walked to the center of the room, where a large tactical table displayed a magical projection of the arena. "They think they are honored guests. By morning, I want dossiers on every single one of them. Not the public scraps they fed the tournament officials—I want the truth. Who they sleep with, who they owe money to, who they fear."
"It will be done," Kenya replied, tapping the hilt of her sword in salute.
"Your Majesty..."
The second voice came from the left. Zuri. There was a tension in her shoulders that betrayed her unease.
"Speak, Zuri," Rega said, though he didn't look at her. He was busy adjusting the projection of the arena, zooming in on the lingering black stain Silas had left on the sand.
"The crowd," Zuri said softly. "They are not cheering, Sire. They are terrified. The silence... it is heavy." She took a step closer, her expression pained. "And that man, Silas. The magic he used. It felt... wrong. Bringing a force like that into the palace, close to the innocent servants... close to you..."
Kenya cut in, her voice sharp. "The King is the strongest force in this kingdom, Zuri. A boy with a few dark tricks is no threat to him. He is a tool. Nothing more."
Zuri looked at her sister, then back to the King, her eyes pleading. "It is not just about safety, Kenya. It is about the message. You saw the decay. It unmade that man. If the people associate that kind of horror with the Crown, they will not see strength. They will see a monster."
Rega finally looked up. He stared at Zuri for a long moment. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Zuri lowered her gaze, but she did not step back.
"A monster," Rega repeated, tasting the word. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, Zuri. Why does the shepherd keep a wolfhound?"
Zuri hesitated. "To... to protect the sheep, Sire."
"No," Rega corrected, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "He keeps the hound so the sheep know exactly what teeth look like. My tactics and prowess have steered the horrors of our Kingdom's war and famine away from the majority of the populace. They see our nation turning a corner. But I cannot have them grow fat and complacent. Let them cheer for dancers and light-shows."
He gestured toward the image of the black scar on the sand. "Today, they saw a reminder of what power beyond the Capital truly looks like. Fear is a far more reliable mortar than love, Zuri."
"But Sire," Zuri pressed, her voice trembling slightly. "These champions... the Earthbound one, Adebayo, and the others. They are honorable. Locking them up like this, tricking them... it might turn loyal subjects into enemies."
"They are not locked up," Kenya snapped, stepping between Zuri and the King. "They are being managed. Order requires oversight. If they are loyal, they will understand. If they are not, then it is better they are in a cage than on the streets."
Rega waved a hand, dismissing the tension. "Kenya is right, as always. But your concern is noted, Zuri. Your soft heart is... quaint. It reminds me why I need both of you. One to kill my enemies, and one to mourn them so I don't have to."
He turned back to the balcony. The sun had fully set now, and the palace was an island of light in the deepening dark.
"Keep a close watch on the small one," Rega said. "And the girl with the sword. I sense... anomalies. Tonight, we begin to squeeze."
Rega swirled the wine in his glass.
"Let us see what comes out when the pressure is applied."