Evening was breathing its last breaths above the grand battlefield. The three kings stood — Taril among them — looking down where the ground was thick with screams, sweat, and clashing blades. Dozens of fighters of all ages took turns on the battlefield, showing what strength they had left in the final round of the day.
King Taril looked down, his arms folded behind his back. He said in a low voice, barely audible amid the noise:
"If time could go back, I would say we had witnessed greater than this…"
Illyria laughed sarcastically, lifting her chin with a touch of pride, and said:
"Don't be like an old man mourning his glory days, Taril. They lack experience… but they have the spark."
Yaram responded while seated calmly, his eyes fixed on the battlefield where two young men clashed with notable skill:
"Illyria is right… the spark is there. But a spark alone doesn't start a fire unless someone directs it. How many of them will turn to ash before discovering who they are?"
