The Dust Arena roared with life beneath the heavy sky, a sea of voices rolling over cracked stone and sunbaked sand. Above, the emperor's box stretched in a graceful arc of eight seats, four to the left and four to the right, each carved from dark wood and cushioned with velvet worn by years of whispered deals and silent judgments.
At the center, the grandest throne held court, gilded in gold and crimson silk, its presence alone demanding reverence.
Tonight, five of those seats were filled.
Lord Masquien of House Hollowmere, broad and portly, settled heavily into one as his rings clinked faintly when he raised a goblet, his eyes flicking over the crowd with practiced calculation.
Lady Venara of House Goldmere sat poised, her golden hair forming a shimmering halo in the fading light. Cloaked in emerald and gold, her gaze remained sharp and measured.
Lord Faron of House Elandar, young and restless, shifted in his seat while his cobalt robes and the silver-winged sigil bore the weight of ambition that had yet to be realized.
Lord Talen of House Drakmore, a living mountain of muscle, radiated quiet menace beneath his crimson and black garb.
And in shadow sat the eldest, wrapped in loose robes, his white beard spilling like mist over a sigil depicting an almost burnt-out candle held by a hand. His wise and weary eyes surveyed the arena with quiet intent.
"Seeing you all again on this dusty stage," Lord Faron began, his voice light yet edged, "makes the weight of council seem almost bearable."
Lord Talen snorted, his brow furrowed. "I heard the fight was promising, and that's reason enough to drag myself from the war room."
Masquien grinned as his fingers tapped the rim of his glass. "I'm here for the wagers. Two warriors, each on the cusp of a hundred kills, make this a contest worth betting on."
Lady Venara's smile was calm and carried an almost knowing quality. "We're all here for the same reason, to witness who will cross that hundredth victory. One will rise beyond these sands and wear a sigil while the other will be forgotten."
Talen's laugh cut through, harsh and sharp. "Titles and sigils do not forge steel. A warrior's worth is earned through battle and cannot be gilded with silk."
He frowned and glanced at the nobles around him. "I heard this fight would be worth the time, so I came. Still, I wonder what the court's busy courtiers would say, seeing five members of the High Council gathered here to watch slaves clash for scraps."
Masquien's chuckle was slow and deliberate. "And yet here you are, my Lord. Surely even a warlord can appreciate a bit of spectacle from time to time."
Faron's voice cut in smoothly. "Investing in those who have survived a hundred battles is sound strategy. Their skill results from experience, not simple luck."
Talen's smirk sharpened. "And what's your aim, Faron? To keep a warrior as a lapdog? A bodyguard for the boy who's never known true danger?"
Faron held his gaze steady. "A warrior serves best where they are valued. I did not intend to offend you, my Lord. Your protection is what keeps the kingdom safe."
He tilted his head. "But what does the Dust hold for you, Lord Talen? Or is your interest limited only to the glory of the war?"
Talen shrugged, clearly dismissive. "This talk bores me."
Venara's smile turned thin, almost predatory. "I wonder who faces whom tonight, the players and their pieces."
Masquien arched an eyebrow. "Do you even know the names of these dust slaves, Lady Venara?"
Her smile remained unwavering. "You would know better than I, Lord Masquien, since you bet on their blood as though it were currency. I hope the coin flows well enough to cover the rising price of wine and fine food."
Masquien's flush deepened, but his tone stayed smooth. "That's a fair jab, Lady Venara."
A hush settled over them.
Then the oldest noble spoke, his voice low yet carrying. "Protection... is thicker than usual."
Eyes drifted to the armed men stationed around the balcony, silent and unmoving.
"Naturally, Lord Eleazar. We are the honorable members of the High Council, after all," Masquien laughed softly.
Eleazar responded, his voice quiet but clear. "There are reasons the guards have doubled their ranks, and not all dangers are armed with blades."
"Dangers or not, they could stack guards up to the roof for all I care," Masquien said, gesturing broadly. "The real protection stands at your side, loyal, well-paid, and preferably fast with a sword."
He turned and cast a smug glance toward his own protector, a tall, long-haired swordsman whose narrow eyes scanned the crowd as though expecting a fight to erupt at any moment. He stood close and silent, gloved fingers twitching near the hilt.
Lady Venara shifted her weight with elegant precision, just enough to draw attention to the tall woman behind her—Elowen, wrapped in forest-green cloth, one hand resting lightly on a curved blade. No movement was wasted. Her eyes were like knives, watching everything, including the nobles.
Lord Talen said nothing. He never brought guards because he was the blade.
Lord Eleazar had also come alone. With him, it never seemed that he was unprotected. It felt instead as if his protectors were simply unseen.
Lord Faron sat flanked by two figures dressed in simple gray, their eyes covered with cloth. One was male, the other female. They were blind warriors, yet they stood with the poise of those who saw more than sight could ever allow. Their stillness was not passive; it was serene and taut like coiled wire.
Lord Talen eyed them with open distaste.
"Blind guards? Are you collecting strays now, Faron?"
Faron did not flinch. He did not even smile.
"They hear the lies men speak more clearly than the swords they draw."