Killian's nails dig into the velvet armrests as he watches the arena below. His posture has collapsed inward - one leg bouncing rapidly, fingers drumming an erratic rhythm. The scent of spiced wine and perfume hangs in the air around him.
Click. Click. Click.
His molars grind together hard enough that even Seraphina glances over at him. He forces his jaw to unclench, but the tension migrates to his hands, which now twist the signet ring on his pinkie.
Unacceptable. The word burns through his mind. I pulled every string, called in every favor to get those brackets arranged...
His fist slams down on the armrest with a crack that echoes through the royal box. Several heads turn.
"Damnit!" The curse slips out in a hiss. He catches himself immediately, straightening his cuffs. "All is well," he announces to no one in particular.
Then the laugh comes - a bright, brittle sound that dies halfway up his throat. He catches it behind a gloved hand.
Control yourself, he thinks. Below, Lyra and Elrik take their positions.
"All I want," he murmurs to the empty air, "is to witness something... transcendent." His fingers twitch toward the viewing lenses floating before him, adjusting the focus. "A moment that will be etched into history's skin."
The arena lights catch the sweat beading at his temple. Somewhere behind him, a servant hesitates before approaching with a fresh goblet. Killian waves them away without turning, his entire being focused on the combatants below.
Soon, he promises himself, tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips. Very soon I'll taste it - that razor's edge between glory and ruin. His pulse thrums in his throat, fast as a hummingbird's wings. And when I do...
The starting bell rings.
Killian leans forward.
...oh, what a spectacle it will be.
...
Lyra stands motionless, her spine straight as a blade. Her fingers flex once—a barely-there twitch—before settling into perfect stillness.
Across from her, Elrik grins.
With a flick of his wrist, emerald energy coalesces into existence, swirling into the form of a slender, wicked blade. He rolls his shoulders, the motion lazy, but his eyes—
Madness.
Pure, unfiltered madness dances in those gold-flecked irises.
"Finally," Elrik breathes, his voice trembling. The blade twirls in his grip, leaving afterimages in the air. "A worthy opponent."
Lyra's brow furrows. "Explain..."
Elrik throws his head back and laughs. "Not some mewling lesser," he sneers. "Not some simpering noble who licks the boots of forsaken filth to climb higher." His grin widens. "But you."
He steps forward, the green blade humming as it cuts the air. "Normally, I'd be on my knees, begging your forgiveness for daring to stand in your presence." A mock bow. "But today? Today, I stand as the sword of Her Royal Highness, Princess Seraphina Frieden."
Lyra's expression fractures.
Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for Elrik to see it.
Then her face smooths back. "How... quaint," she murmurs. "But I'm not here for politics. But to fight. To win."
"Oh, my dear Lyra," Elrik says, "you misunderstand my purpose entirely." His boot scrapes against the arena stone as he lowers into a duelist's stance. " Everything involves politics. But I am not merely here to spar. I am here to purge."
Lyra's nostrils flare. Shadows coil at her fingertips. "Spare me your fanatic drivel," she snaps. "Your blind devotion to that spoiled princess is pathetic."
Elrik's chuckle is soft. "Such bold words from one who clings to outdated traditions that will only send her down the failed path behind her siblings." His blade rises, the green glow intensifying, casting eerie light across his sharp features. "But we shall see whose loyalty proves stronger today, won't we?"
The arena falls silent.
Then—
Lyra moves.
Her body blurs, shadows trailing behind her like a cloak. The air hisses as her fist rockets toward Elrik's ribs, wreathed in inky darkness.
Elrik barely reacts. His blade flicks up—
WHOOSH!
A gale erupts from the steel, howling toward Lyra with enough force to uproot trees. The wind tears at her clothes, her locs—but she twists, her form dissolving momentarily into shadow as she slips through the tempest's grasp.
"Tch." Elrik's smirk doesn't falter. "Clever."
He swings.
The blade's arc sends a crescent of compressed air screaming toward her. The ground splits where it passes.
Lyra dives, rolling to her feet just as the attack obliterates the space she'd occupied. Her breath comes fast, but her eyes burn with defiance.
"Is that all?" she taunts, flexing her fingers. The shadows around her writhe, thickening. "I expected more from Her Majesty's lapdog."
Elrik's eye twitches.
His blade flashes.
Lyra's breath catches—too slow—as Elrik blurs forward, his aura blade carving through the air. The cutting edge of condensed wind shrieks toward her throat—
—she twists, the razor-tipped gust grazing her cheek. A thin line of crimson blooms across her skin.
Her fist cracks upward, knuckles wreathed in swirling shadows. Elrik barely brings his blade down in time, the flat of it meeting her punch with a BOOM that tremors through the arena floor. The impact sends shockwaves rippling outward, kicking up dust in violent spirals. The crowd roars...
Elrik's boots skid backward, his arms trembling from the force. His blond hair is quite ruffled now, strands sticking to his sweat-slicked brow.
"Predictable as always, Lady Valthoris," he purrs, adjusting his grip. "Must you always lead with your right?"
Lyra doesn't waste breath on a reply.
Her next strike comes from the left—then the right—then both at once, her shadow splitting momentarily to mimic her movements. Elrik's blade becomes a green blur, deflecting each blow with precise, almost lazy flicks of his wrist.
"Tch." He sighs, as if bored. "Must I endure this tedium as well?"
A sudden pivot—his free hand whips up, fingers splayed.
WHOOSH!
A hurricane-force gust slams into Lyra, sending her skidding backward. Her boots carve trenches in the dirt, her muscles straining as she fights to halt her momentum. The wind howls around her—
—then stops.
Elrik's blade halts mid-swing—a heartbeat of stillness before the storm.
Then he moves.
His blade hums through the air, leaving a trail of shimmering wind in its wake. The strike is perfect—a downward arc meant to split Lyra from shoulder to hip. But she's already gone, ducking beneath the slash.
Lyra's shadowed fist comes up...finding it way to—
Elrik barely twists away in time. The punch grazes his ribs, and even that glancing blow sends a jolt of pain through his body. He stumbles back...
"Tch. Even you fight like a common brawler," Elrik spits, adjusting his grip on his blade. "Where is the elegance?"
"Elegance?" She flexes her fingers, shadows pooling in her palms. "Why must I be elegant in a fight that has little to no worth to me. I would rather be effective."
Elrik's nostrils flare. "[Wind Slash]!"
He swings—a horizontal crescent of compressed air screaming toward her. The attack slices through the space between them, fast enough to blur.
Lyra doesn't flinch.
Her hands come together, dark energy forming into a pulsing sphere. The air around it wavers...
"[Fourth Technique]," she murmurs. "[Abyssal Burst]."
She thrusts her hands forward.
The sphere detonates.
A shockwave of darkness collides with Elrik's wind slash midair. The impact is deafening—a thunderclap that shakes the arena. Stone cracks. Dust and debris spiral upward in a violent whirlwind, obscuring both fighters from view.
The crowd holds its breath.
Then—
The dust parts.
Lyra emerges unscathed. Her breath remains steady...controlled.
Across from her, Elrik braces against the dissipating gale. His blade trembles slightly in his grip—just enough to betray the strain in his arms.
"Is that truly all the well-respected House Langsteir can muster?" Lyra says. She rolls her shoulders...
"How... disappointing."
Elrik's grin is all teeth, though his chest rises just a fraction too quickly. "Oh, my dear Lyra," he purrs, flicking sweat from his brow. "One does not unveil their masterpiece in the opening act."
Then—
They move.
Lyra blurs, her form dissolving into shadow for a heartbeat before reappearing inches from Elrik. Her fist screams toward his ribs, shadows trailing like comet tails.
Elrik's blade sings as it intercepts, wind howling around the steel in a desperate parry. The impact sends sparks of condensed shadow and emerald aura scattering across the arena.
"Tch," Elrik spits, twisting his wrist—
—only for Lyra's other fist to hammer into his gut.
"UGH—!"
The wind around him shatters from the force. He stumbles back...
...his perfect posture wavers.
Lyra doesn't let up. She pivots, her leg whipping around in a devastating roundhouse aimed at his temple. Elrik barely ducks, the displaced air from the kick ruffling his hair.
"You insufferable—!" His blade ignites with renewed fury, a cyclone of emerald energy spiraling along its edge. He thrusts—
Lyra twists, the blade grazing her side as she counters with a brutal elbow to his jaw.
CRACK.
Elrik's head snaps back, but his free hand clamps onto her wrist before she can retreat. His grin is bloody. "Got you."
The wind detonates outward, hurling Lyra across the arena. She skids, boots digging trenches into the earth before she regains her footing. A thin line of crimson mars her side where the blade kissed her.
Lyra's boot grinds into the arena floor, kicking up a spray of sand as her fingers curl into fists. The air around her thickens. Her eyes—cold, sharp—lock onto Elrik.
"[Fifth Technique]," she hisses. "[Shadow Mirage]."
The world splinters.
Dark afterimages peel away from Lyra's body, swirling around Elrik in a storm of shifting silhouettes. Each clone moves with perfect mimicry, their edges flickering like candle flames in a draft.
Elrik's lip curls. "Child's play," he sneers, his blade flashing in a wide arc. The steel bites through one shadow—only for it to dissolve into smoke. He pivots, slashing at another, but again, his sword meets nothing.
"To fall for even this...," Lyra's voice whispers from behind him.
Elrik barely has time to tense before her fist—wreathed in writhing darkness—crushes into his ribs. The impact cracks through the arena, sending him skidding backward, his breath escaping in a ragged gasp.
Lyra doesn't let up. She steps forward, shadows coiling around her arms like serpents. "Precision," she mutters, her voice low. "Finesse." Her gaze flicks to Elrik's staggered form, his usual arrogance replaced by shock. "That's what I was missing."
Elrik recovers quickly, his fingers tightening around his sword. "You think one lucky strike changes anything?" He flicks his wrist, summoning another razor-edged wind slash. The air screams as it hurtles toward her.
Lyra dives aside, the wind carving a furrow into the ground where she'd stood. Sand sprays into the air, stinging her skin. She rolls to her feet, panting—but there's something new in her eyes.
A realization.
A smile—small, dangerous—curves her lips.
Elrik's brow furrows. "What are you—"
Lyra doesn't let him finish.
"[The Shadow Monarch]."
The words drop like a guillotine.
The arena still.
Elrik's breath catches. His grip on his sword falters. "That's—" His voice is barely a whisper. "Impossible."
Lyra doesn't answer.
The shadows around her erupt.
...
From the gilded observation box, the elven aristocrats stiffen.
"Did she just—?" A silver-haired lord leans forward, his jeweled rings glinting as his fingers dig into the railing.
Beside him, a lady in emerald silk fans herself rapidly. "Such vulgarity. To invoke that title in a mere tournament?"
A younger noble—his face pale—swallows hard. "But if she's truly mastered even a fraction of the cursed king's arts..."
The lord's lip curls into a smile. "Then she's truly something the nobility and royalty can have been neglecting for too long..."
...
Lyra's body shimmers, the shadows around her solidifying.
Elrik's blade quivers in his sweat-slick grip. "You're bluffing," he rasps, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. His eyes wide as he tracks the dark energy coiling around Lyra's fingers. "The Monarch's Power... it's impossible to wield at your level! Even that one—" His voice cracks like dry parchment. "Even the youngest of nobility—"
Lyra's lips curve into a slow smile. The arena's torchlight catches the sharp edges of her teeth as she speaks. "Then you should also know," she purrs, rolling her shoulders with deliberate ease, "that he was also the strongest of all the kings."
The air itself seems to still. Even the raucous crowd falls silent, holding their collective breath.
"Watch closely," Lyra murmurs, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries across the entire coliseum.
She exhales sharply through her nose, fingers curling as if clutching at the very air itself. Then—with a slow, deliberate motion—she drags her palm down her face.
Darkness bleeds from her touch.
[Partial Transformation: Shadow Monarch]
The shadows coalesce, swirling like liquid night across her features. A faceplate of pure void forms over her skin, its surface drinking in the light around it. The air grows heavy, the temperature dropping sharply as tendrils of dark energy slither down her arms...unfinished.
Elrik's grip tightens on his blade, the emerald glow along its edge flaring brighter—whether from his own will or the weapon's fear, he can't tell.
Lyra crouches...
The shadows around her deepen, stretching unnaturally long across the ground.
"This ends now," she murmurs, her voice echoing.
Elrik's lets out shaky exhale. "Such theatrics, Lady Valthoris. One would think you're compensating for—"
She moves.
One heartbeat, she's there. The next—gone.
Elrik barely registers the displacement of air before she's in front of him, her fist already mid-strike. His blade comes up on instinct, the green aura flaring defensively—
BOOM.
The impact shatters the air. The shockwave rips through Elrik's arms, rattling his bones, nearly tearing the sword from his grasp. He stumbles back, boots skidding across the stone, his teeth bared in a snarl.
Lyra doesn't let up.
Her next strike comes from the left—a whip-fast kick aimed at his ribs. Elrik pivots, barely avoiding the brunt of it, but the glancing blow still burns, the shadow energy searing through his uniform like acid.
"Tch. Fleeing already?" Lyra says. "And here I thought House Langsteir prized its warriors."
Elrik's eyes narrow. "We prize elegance with power," he snaps, flourishing his blade. The green aura surges, forming a razor-thin barrier just as Lyra's next punch connects—
CRACK!
The barrier holds—barely. Fractures spiderweb through the emerald light.
Lyra tilts her head, the void-like faceplate making her expression—
—she vanishes again.
Elrik spins, blade flashing in a wide arc—
—only for Lyra to reappear behind him, her knee driving into his spine.
"GAH—!"
He crashes forward, barely catching himself before face-planting into the stone. Pain lances up his back.
Lyra doesn't give him a moment. She's already upon him. Each strike is precise, brutal—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Elrik rolls, narrowly avoiding a crushing stomp that splinters the ground where his head had been. He kicks out, aiming for her legs—
Lyra flickers, reappearing just out of reach.
"Is this truly the best an exalted can manage?"
Elrik barely gets the word out—"That's imp—"—before Lyra moves.
Her spin is a blur of black silk and lethal grace, leg whipping toward his temple in a roundhouse that parts the air with a shriek. Elrik ducks—too slow—the heel of her boot grazing his blonde hair as he barely avoids having his skull caved in—
—Her fist crushes into his ribs, dark energy detonating on impact with a thunderclap of force.
"Ghk—!" Elrik stumbles, the breath punched from his lungs. His aura flickers—emerald light sputtering like a dying candle. Desperate, he swings his blade in a wild arc, steel singing through empty air—
—because Lyra is already gone.
She reappears at his flank, a shadow given form. "Still relying on that toy?" Her knee drives into his ribs. Bones creak. Elrik chokes, spittle flying from his lips as he staggers.
Murmurs in the crowd rise...
...slowly they turn into cheers.
"Father... now I'll show my design."
Elrik snarls, swinging his blade in a shimmering arc—
—only for Lyra to catch his wrist mid-motion.
Crack.
Elrik's scream dies in his throat as Lyra twists.
Bone creaks.
Tendons strain.
With a final, brutal yank, she forces him to his knees. His sword—no, not his sword—clatters against the arena stones. The sound rings out, clear and damning, bouncing off the coliseum walls like a funeral bell.
No. No no no—
Lyra's breath is warm against his ear as she leans in. "How... interesting." Her free hand gestures to the fallen blade—the real blade, not an aura construct. "It didn't dissipate. How very... permanent for an art that should be ephemeral."
A pause. The violet sparks in her eyes flare behind her mask.
"Tell me," she murmurs, loud enough for the nobles' ears to catch, "what desperate fool gave you an artifact to masquerade as skill?"
The elven gallery explodes.
"Treachery!" shrieks a duchess.
"This is an outrage against centuries of tradition!" bellows an ancient lord, his gnarled fingers tightening around his walking stick.
Elrik's gaze darts across their faces—faces he's known since childhood. Faces now twisted in disgust.
Seraphina. Oh gods, the queen will—
His vision blurs. Hot tears carve paths through the dirt and blood on his cheeks. Then—
Rage.
His head snaps up, eyes burning with hate. "You BITCH!" Spittle flies from his lips as he lunges, one hand clawing for her throat—
Elrik's remaining hand scrabbles at the air, summoning wind—
Lyra's fist plows through it, through his flickering aura, and into his chest.
BOOM.
The impact sends Elrik skidding across the arena floor, his body carving a trench through the sand. His aura shatters like glass fragments dissolving into the air.
Elrik staggers backward. A crimson trail leaks from his split lip, dripping onto his torn dark uniform. His breath comes in gasps as he wipes his mouth with a trembling hand, staring at the smear of red across his knuckles with dawning horror.
"You... you dare—" His voice cracks. "How are you manifesting this power without ascending? This is—"
Lyra's mask tilts slightly, the obsidian surface catching the arena lights. When she speaks, her voice is velvet-wrapped steel. "Oh little lordling...you'll wake in the infirmary long before I'd bother explaining."
...
...
Her first strike comes low - a sweeping kick that Elrik barely parries with crossed forearms. The impact sends shockwaves up his arms, vibrating through his bones. Before he can counter, she's already inside his guard, her elbow slamming toward his ribs.
CRACK
Elrik wheezes as three ribs give way. He swings wildly with his free hand—
—only for Lyra to catch his wrist mid-motion.
"Watch closely," she murmurs, just for him. "This is how real warriors fight."
Her knee pistons upward into his gut. Elrik's eyes bulge as all the air leaves his body in a wet whoosh. Before he can collapse, Lyra's other hand snaps up, catching him by the jaw.
SMACK
The open-handed strike sends him spinning across the arena floor, his body tumbling like a broken doll. Blood and saliva arc through the air in glistening strands.
The crowd roars.
Lyra doesn't even glance their way. She stalks forward...
Elrik manages to push himself up on shaking arms. His hair hangs in matted strands. His remaining eye (the other swollen shut) widens as Lyra's shadow falls over him.
"You're finished," she says, her voice cold and final.
Elrik's body convulses as he coughs, crimson droplets spraying across the arena floor. His trembling fingers claw at the dirt, nails breaking against the packed earth. "N-no...this cannot..." His voice is a broken thing, raw with desperation. "The Queen...she'll..."
Lyra's masked face tilts ever so slightly, the polished obsidian surface catching the arena lights as he she lets out a small laugh.
"Still clinging to her skirts at your age?"
...
...
Elrik's remaining pride ignites like a dying ember. With a scream, he forces his body upright, his left arm hanging limp while his right trembles violently as it rises. "[Magic Missile]!" The incantation cracks like a whip, a sphere of searing white energy coalescing at his fingertips.
The crowd's roar turns to a collective inhale. The magic missile streaks across the arena, leaving a trail of shimmering afterimages in its wake.
Lyra doesn't move.
She simply watches as the spell hurtles toward her, the light reflecting coldly in her mask's eye slits. At the last possible moment - when the heat of the spell begins to singe her robes - her fist clenches. Dark energy erupts around her knuckles...
The punch is perfection.
Her fist meets the magic missile dead center. For a heartbeat, the energies war - white against black, light against void. Then -
CRACK!
The spell shatters like glass, fracturing into a thousand glittering shards that dissolve mid-air. The concussive force sends Elrik's sweat-soaked hair whipping back, his bloodshot eyes widening in dawning horror.
Lyra doesn't stop.
Her follow-through carries the punch forward, knuckles connecting with Elrik's nose with a sickening crunch. The impact lifts him clean off his feet, his body spinning wildly before smashing into the coliseum wall with enough force to crater the stone.
A rain of dust and debris patters down as Elrik slumps to the ground.
The crowd erupts into thunderous cheers, their voices shaking the very foundations of the arena. Lyra stands there, breathing heavily, her expression still composed. The roar of the audience surrounds her, but for a moment, she doesn't acknowledge them. She simply looks around, her eyes scanning the faces in the stands.
The shadows clinging to Lyra's fingers dissipate like smoke in the wind, curling away into nothingness. As the dark energy fades, she exhales—slow, controlled—feeling the weight of her father's lessons settle over her once more.
"A ruler without devotion is a crown without a head."
"Power is nothing without spectacle."
"Make them love you. Make them fear you. But above all—make them need you."
The crowd's roar crashes over her, a tidal wave of adoration and awe. She can taste it—the fervor, the desperation in their voices as they chant her name. It thrums in her veins, headier than any wine.
She walks to the center of the arena.
The nobles' box is a storm of outrage, their shrill voices rising above the din.
"Absurd! For a noble to act in such a manner!"
"He dares posture as royalty?"
"Someone must correct this insult at once!"
Lyra doesn't so much as glance their way. Let them seethe. Let them fester. Their words are wind against stone—loud, but meaningless.
The commoners, though?
They matter.
She tilts her face upward, allowing the flickering torchlight to dance across her features - the sheen of sweat glistening on her brow, the subtle pulse of violet energy in her narrowed eyes, the faint but unmistakable twitch of her pointed ears betraying her amusement.
Yes. Look at me.
Then—
A ripple in the air. Lyth materializes beside her, his presence like a sudden drop in temperature. The crowd's noise dims to a hush.
"The victor," he announces, voice carrying effortlessly across the coliseum, "LYRA VALTHORIS."
The roar that follows shakes the very foundations of the arena.
Lyra's fingers twitch. Beneath the mask, her lips part—just enough to let slip a whisper, soft as a blade sliding from its sheath.
"Yes."
The word is barely audible.
Praise me.
And as the crowd's adulation washes over her, she knows—
They will...