Chapter 3 - Mercy
After Michael vanished, A boy sprawled on a stadium seat like the lavish throne. At around fifteen, he looked both regal and utterly indifferent. His golden hair spilled carelessly, catching faint light and casting sharp, unruly shadows across his face.
With his head tipped back and eyes closed, he reclined as if the chaos of the stadium was a distant nuisance. Long fingers curled over the armrests; he seemed almost asleep, yet beneath the darkness a smoldering presence lingered—accentuated by the demon's fiery gaze peering just over his shoulder. The boy's lips were relaxed, posture loose, every inch exuding boredom and power. Nothing, not victory, nor pain, nor even Sherliey's survival, could disturb his tranquil apathy.
My vision blurred, pain radiating through every inch of my body; each step felt heavier than the last. Michael's departure left unease clinging to my skin, and Keith's vanishing—his cocky defiance echoing behind—stirred a familiar sense of uncertainty. Yet as I staggered past the remaining members, there was no comfort, no hostility—just the chill of indifferent judgment hovering like smoke.
Exhausted, I pushed past them, searching their faces for intent, but found only indifference.
I wanted to speak, but pain stole my words.
"Meeting at Ork Mountain Mansion. One week. Don't miss it."
The message reached me without ceremony, the voice deadpan, its meaning unmistakable: the future—our fates—was already spiraling past control.
But before I could slip away, another voice—low, arrogant, meant for the world to hear—pierced the crowd's fading gossip and fixed every gaze on me.
"I don't mind playing along with your little optimism. Just don't be a burden."
He paused, eyes cold and unyielding as the arena emptied, the echo of gods and monarchs dissolving into night.
"And if you survive, know this—your enemies will come, drawn by the scent of your blood."
The words hung in the air, sharp as a blade, and I understood fully: nothing would ever be easy here. What I'd lost—my family's love, my place in their story—was gone. I'd already died once in this arena; hope and yearning had perished too. Betrayal and silence had left me hollow. Now, all that survived was a single, burning ambition—to be powerful, to be free.
I stopped, feeling the sting of fresh bruises as I lifted my chin.
The stadium was vast and empty, save for the seven of us—bound by fate, divided by trust.
My answer, when it came, was firm and unflinching, my voice echoing against the marble.
"Then may the gods offer mercy to my enemies—because I won't. I welcome them all."
As Sherliey stepped onto the marble, leaving the stadium, the sound echoed up into the hollow dome. leaving disbelief—and a flicker of awe—rippling through those who remained.
Aiden rolled a pebble between his fingers, the motion slow and deliberate. His head was tipped back toward the pale sky above the empty stadium, eyes half closed, as if absorbing some distant music only he could hear. The hush after the crowd's departure made each flick of the pebble seem louder, echoing softly in the marble rows.
Drystan, who'd delivered the meeting instructions earlier, broke the silence. His words carried over the lingering dust and echoes of applause—a low, sharp question:
"So what do you think of her?"
Aiden rolled a pebble between his fingers, the gentle click-and-tap blending with the sound of distant wind across empty seats. His head was tilted back, silver-blue gaze lost in the clouds, posture so completely relaxed he seemed to drift above the tension in the air. When Drystan's voice sliced through the gloom—"So what do you think of her?"—Aiden opened his eyes, the answer coming with a charismatic, lazy sarcasm that echoed under the vast sky.
"Maybe it's her punishment to be tied to us," he mused, lips quirking. "After all, what we truly crave isn't heroic—not even close." His words lingered, drawing Drystan's faint smirk before Aiden tossed the pebble away, the clink carrying through silence.
Drystan tilted his neck, eyes closing as he rolled his head in a slow, backward circle, shoulders loosening with a practiced ease. "As long as it works… and if it's about monsters, we're plenty ourselves. Before worrying about the world, she'd better figure out how to fit in here." His tone was casual but edged, a warning disguised as advice.
Aiden's reply came with a drawling persuasion, almost teasing. "Good—self-awareness. You'll need it." With that, he vanished like mist—leaving Drystan muttering, "Jerk! I meant all of us, not just me."
Drystan settled back into his seat, sharp, restless eyes sweeping over the silent battlefield. The empty arena hummed with lingering energy—echoes bouncing from marble to shadow, tiny flakes of magic dust swirling in unseen drafts. He exhaled, mind churning with Aidens flashback: the Tower of Almrighe, duels at eleven, the shattered swordsman, and the living legend built by a boy barely past childhood.
Even now, Aiden was terrifying in person—a figure ranked among swordmasters, yet still unofficial, still not a true warrior by name. That contradiction gnawed at Drystan. Aiden had the air of winter at midnight: gothic, composed, aura swirling around him like a cloak stitched from mysteries and battles no one dared speak aloud. Every movement, even the absent rolling of a pebble between his fingers, seemed to bend stray magic and turn gazes cold.
Just as Drystan's thoughts darkened, a sharp voice broke through.
"If you're done with your sweet dreaming, move your ass. Allerick's given us a mission."
Luccian appeared, all sweet-faced innocence—round cheeks, bright morning eyes, not a hint of the saint's magic beneath. Yet as he squared his shoulders, and the shimmer of holy power flickered around him, Anybody could mistake him for harmless kid. Blessed by the judgment of eighty constellations, Luccian was celebrated and feared; his mouth, rude, his smile warm enough to melt ice.
Drystan smirked, teasing. "Still don't know why girls go crazy for you, Luccian."
Luccian flashed his signature grin, shameless and dazzling—the sort that threw both charm and challenge into the air.
"My handsome face, obviously."
Then, without another word, both Drystan and Luccian slipped away into thin air—their forms dissolving into scattered motes of magic, leaving nothing but swirling dust and cold silence behind. The stadium stood empty now, haunted only by the echoes of conflict and the tale of struggle that had begun today.