# Chapter 49: The Prince's Invitation
The silence in the preparation tunnel was a stark contrast to the arena's fading roar. It was a heavy, expectant quiet, thick with the smell of sweat, antiseptic ointment, and the metallic tang of blood. Soren stood his ground, his weight shifted onto his good leg, the brace on his other a cold, rigid cage. He stared at the two Wardens, their polished armor reflecting the flickering torchlight in sharp, blinding glints. They were statues carved from authority, their presence an immediate and suffocating weight. The lead Warden held the scroll out, his hand steady, his expression unreadable behind the clean-shaven, stoic line of his jaw.
Soren didn't move. His gaze flickered from the offered scroll to the Warden's face, then to his companion, who stood with a hand resting near the hilt of his sword. Every instinct screamed at him. This was a trap. A different kind of arena, but an arena nonetheless. The Crownlands didn't deal with gutter-born fighters unless they wanted to crush them under their heel. He could feel the phantom ache in his bones, the deep, resonant thrum of the Cinder Cost that was now a permanent part of him. He was damaged goods. Why would a prince want damaged goods?
"Soren," Nyra's voice was a low murmur at his side, a carefully measured note of caution. She had moved closer without him noticing, her shoulder almost brushing his. "It's an invitation, not a summons. You can't refuse it, but you don't have to accept it blindly."
Her words were meant to be reassuring, but they only grated on his raw nerves. She was already thinking tactically, already analyzing the angles. He saw it not as concern, but as a strategist assessing a new, unpredictable variable on the board. He was that variable. The thought was a fresh spike of pain, sharper than the throbbing in his leg.
The lead Warden remained perfectly still, his arm outstretched. The crimson seal on the scroll seemed to pulse in the dim light, a tiny, living heart of wax. "His Royal Highness is not a man who enjoys being kept waiting," the Warden stated, his voice devoid of emotion yet carrying an unmistakable edge of steel. "He was most impressed by your… performance."
Performance. The word hung in the air, cheap and hollow. It wasn't a performance. It was a desperate, ugly act of survival that had nearly torn him apart. He had shattered the arena floor, broken his body, and darkened his soul for a purse of gold and a few more rungs on a ladder he was starting to hate. The Prince's 'impressment' felt like a mockery.
Finn, his young squire, shuffled his feet nervously a few paces back, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. He looked from the imposing Wardens to Soren, his face pale. The boy was out of his depth, and the sight of him was a sharp reminder of what was at stake. This wasn't just about his own pride or his mistrust of Nyra. It was about Finn, about his mother and brother, about the crushing weight of the debt that had brought him to this hell in the first place.
With a sigh that felt like it dragged up every ounce of his remaining strength, Soren reached out. His fingers brushed against the cool, heavy parchment. He took the scroll. The wax seal was warm to the touch, as if it had just been pressed. The Warden gave a curt, formal nod and retracted his hand. "A carriage awaits at the western gate. It will convey you and your… companion to the Sky Spire. You have one hour to prepare."
The Warden's gaze flickered to Nyra for the first time, a brief, dismissive glance that categorized her as an accessory. Then, without another word, he and his fellow Warden turned in perfect unison and marched back down the tunnel, their armored boots ringing a slow, deliberate rhythm on the stone until they were swallowed by the shadows.
The silence they left behind was even heavier than before. Soren stared down at the scroll in his hand. It felt like a lead weight, a condemnation. He could feel Nyra's eyes on him, her analytical gaze stripping away his defenses.
"Well," she said, her voice breaking the stillness. "That changes everything."
"It changes nothing," Soren countered, his voice rough. He tucked the scroll into his belt, the motion stiff and awkward. "It's just another game. A different set of rules, same outcome. They use us, they throw us away."
"Don't be a fool, Soren," Nyra snapped, her patience finally fraying. She stepped in front of him, forcing him to meet her eyes. Hers were bright, sharp, and alight with an intelligence that both awed and infuriated him. "This isn't the Ladder Commission. This isn't a promoter trying to squeeze a few extra silver out of you. This is the Crownlands. This is Prince Cassian himself. He is the heir to the throne. He doesn't waste his time on 'damaged goods,' as you so charmingly put it, unless those goods are uniquely valuable."
"Valuable for what?" he shot back, his frustration boiling over. "To be a showpiece? To be his pet monster? I fought to get out of a cage, Nyra. I'm not walking into a gilded one."
"A gilded cage is still a cage," she agreed, her tone softening slightly, a strategic shift. "But it's a cage with a view. And with doors that might lead somewhere else. Think. Why now? After that fight? You didn't just win, Soren. You broke the rules. You used your Gift in a way no one has ever seen. You showed them something new. Something dangerous."
He wanted to argue, to cling to his simple, bitter worldview where everyone was an enemy and every offer was a trap. But a part of him, the part that had survived the Bloom-wastes and the death of his father, knew she was right. There was no simple explanation for this. The Prince could have sent a messenger, a clerk. He could have simply added to his prize purse. A personal invitation, delivered by royal Wardens, bypassing House Marr, bypassing the Ladder Commission entirely… it was a power play. A statement.
He looked at her, really looked at her, past the layers of strategy and ambition he'd projected onto her. He saw the faint lines of worry around her eyes, the tension in her jaw. She was afraid, too. But she was excited. This was the world she was born to navigate, a web of politics and power where a single word could topple kingdoms. For him, it was just another kind of arena, one where he didn't know the rules or the shape of the blades.
"What do you think he wants?" he asked, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. It was the first time he had ever asked for her opinion so directly.
Nyra's expression shifted, a flicker of surprise quickly masked by her usual composure. "Information. He wants to know what you are. And he wants to know what you are to me. Our partnership… it's an anomaly. A low-born gutter fighter with a volatile Gift, paired with a mysterious, well-funded newcomer. We're an equation that doesn't add up, and the Prince hates equations he can't solve."
She began to pace, a slow, restless circle in the narrow tunnel. Her mind was working, he could practically hear the gears turning. "The Synod will be having a fit. They control the narrative of the Gifted. You, with your uncontrolled power, are a heresy they want to stamp out. The Prince, by inviting you, is openly defying them. He's making a statement."
"A statement that could get us killed," Soren muttered.
"Or a statement that could give us a shield," she countered, stopping her pacing to face him again. "The Crownlands and the Synod are not allies. They tolerate each other because of the Concord. But underneath, they are rivals. If the Prince decides to protect us, even for his own reasons, the Inquisitors will have to think twice before they try to 'disappear' you in the middle of the night."
The logic was sound, cold and clear. It was the same kind of logic she had used in the arena, guiding him, positioning him, turning his raw power into a weapon. He hated how much he needed it. He hated how much he needed her.
Finn finally found his voice, stepping forward hesitantly. "Sir… what should I do? Should I… should I tell Lord Marr?"
Soren and Nyra looked at the boy. Lord Marr, their minor noble sponsor. A man who had seen Soren as a cheap, expendable investment. A man who would sell him to the Synod for a better title and a bit more land.
"No," Soren and Nyra said in unison.
They looked at each other, a brief, unexpected moment of agreement. Nyra gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Lord Marr is a small fish. This is ocean business. The less he knows, the better. For us, and for him."
Soren grunted in assent. He turned to Finn. "Go back to the barracks. Get my winnings from the Ladder Commission. Secure them. Don't talk to anyone about this. Anyone."
"Yes, sir," Finn said, his voice filled with a new sense of purpose. He gave a clumsy bow and scurried away, his footsteps echoing down the tunnel.
Now they were alone. The one-hour deadline was a ticking clock in the back of Soren's mind. He needed to clean up, to change out of his blood-stiffened leathers, to find a way to stand straight in front of a prince. But his body screamed for rest, for the oblivion of sleep.
"We should go," Nyra said softly. "My rooms are closer. And I have something that might help with the pain."
He looked at her, suspicious. "More of your League's tricks?"
"No," she said, her voice losing its strategic edge, replaced by something that sounded dangerously like sincerity. "Just something to take the edge off. So you can walk into that room without looking like you're about to collapse. You need to be strong, Soren. Not just physically."
He hesitated, the war between his pride and his pain raging inside him. The thought of being indebted to her for even a moment of relief was galling. But the thought of facing the heir to the Crownlands as a broken, hobbling wreck was worse. It was a weakness he could not afford to show.
"Fine," he bit out the word. "Lead the way."
Her rooms were a world away from his sparse cell. They were in a better-kept wing of the competitors' barracks, and while not opulent, they were clean and orderly. A real bed with a quilt, a desk stacked with maps and ledgers, a washstand with a porcelain pitcher and bowl. The air smelled of lavender and old paper. It was the room of a person with a past, a purpose, and resources. It made his own space feel even more like a cage.
She gestured for him to sit on a wooden chair while she rummaged in a small, locked chest. He sat, the movement sending a fresh wave of agony through his leg. He gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound.
She returned with a small clay pot. Inside was a pungent, greenish salve. "It's a numbing agent," she explained, scooping a dab onto her fingers. "It won't heal anything, but it will deaden the nerve endings for a few hours. It will help you stand."
She knelt in front of him, her movements efficient and devoid of sentiment. She carefully rolled up the leg of his trousers, exposing the swollen, bruised flesh around the brace. Her touch was gentle, clinical. As she worked the salve into his skin, a cool, spreading numbness began to chase away the fire. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"Thank you," he said, the words feeling awkward and foreign.
"Don't," she replied, not looking up at him. "It's a strategic investment. A prince won't respect a man who can't stand on his own two feet."
Her words were a slap, a reminder of the chasm between them. But her actions had been kind. The contradiction was maddening. He watched her as she finished, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was so close he could see the faint, almost invisible scars on her hands, the kind that came from a life of training, not just fighting. Who was she, really? Not just the Sable League operative, not just the cunning Ladder competitor. There was someone else in there, someone he kept catching glimpses of before she vanished behind her mask.
She stood up and wiped her hands on a cloth. "There. You have an hour. Use the washbasin. There's a clean tunic on the bed. It should fit." She turned away, giving him a modicum of privacy, and began studying one of her maps, her finger tracing a line along the Riverchain.
He washed himself as best he could, the cool water a shock to his system. He looked at his reflection in the polished copper of the washbasin. A stranger stared back. Gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes. The cinder-tattoos on his arm seemed to have deepened, the swirling patterns now a dark, angry purple that crawled up his bicep. They were a map of his cost, a permanent ledger of his pain. He pulled on the clean tunic she had left for him. It was soft, well-made cotton, a far cry from his usual rough-spun clothes. It felt like wearing someone else's skin.
When he was done, he stood up straight. The salve worked. The pain was a distant echo, a dull throb he could ignore. He felt… steady.
Nyra turned from the map. She had changed as well, donning a dark, elegant tunic of her own, her hair pulled back in a severe, neat braid. She looked less like a fighter and more like a courtier. She looked at him, her eyes appraising.
"Better," she said with a nod. "You look like a man who belongs in a prince's presence, not a man who just crawled out of a pit."
"The pit is where I come from," he said, his voice low.
"And the Spire is where you're going," she replied. "Remember that. He wants to see the fighter, the man who shattered the arena. Don't let him see a frightened debt-bound boy. Show him the power. Let him wonder if he can control it."
It was the best advice he had ever received. It was also the most dangerous. He walked to the door, his movements stiff but sure. He paused with his hand on the handle.
"Why are you really helping me, Nyra?" he asked, his back to her. "This goes beyond your mission for the League."
He heard her take a soft breath behind him. For a long moment, the only sound was the distant, muffled sounds of the Coliseum settling down for the night.
"Maybe I'm tired of the games, too," she said, her voice so quiet he almost missed it. "Maybe I'm just… curious."
He didn't believe her. Not entirely. But it was the first time she had offered him something that wasn't a tactic or a strategy. It was a glimpse of something real. He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, with her following close behind.
The western gate of the Coliseum was deserted, save for a single, unadorned black carriage. The horses were massive, their breath pluming in the cool night air. A coachman sat hunched on the driver's seat, his face hidden in the shadows of a deep hood. The Wardens were gone. The invitation was their only escort.
As they approached, the coachman didn't move or speak. The carriage door swung open on its own, revealing a simple but well-appointed interior with two facing velvet benches. Soren climbed in, Nyra right behind him. The door clicked shut, and with a lurch, the carriage began to move, its wheels silent on the cobblestones.
They rode in silence, the city of the Crownlands blurring past the window. It was a city of stark contrasts: grand, limestone buildings bathed in the magical glow of ever-lanterns, and just a few streets away, the dark, cramped tenements of the poor, where the light never quite reached. Soren had only ever seen it from the gutters. Seeing it from behind a carriage window felt like a betrayal.
Nyra sat opposite him, her hands folded in her lap. She was perfectly still, her gaze fixed on something beyond the window, her mind clearly racing. He could feel the tension coiling in the small space between them, a mix of anticipation and dread.
The carriage began to ascend, the road winding upwards. They were leaving the main city, climbing towards the Sky Spire, the legendary fortress-palace that pierced the ash-choked clouds, a symbol of the Crownlands' enduring power. It was a place of myth, a place he had only ever heard about in whispers. Now, he was being summoned to its heart.
Finally, Nyra spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "The Crownlands don't just invite fighters to tea, Soren." Her eyes met his in the dim light, her expression deadly serious. "They want something. And they always get it."