A sudden, sharp sound struck the air, a deep, resonating horn, forged not of brass or bronze, but of enchantment. It was the kind of sound that wasn't simply made, but conjured from something beyond. It echoed once, then twice, then faded, leaving behind a silence more powerful than the noise.
The crowd hushed in confusion as whispers stirred. But the five nobles knew the sound well, as familiar as breath itself. It was a sound reserved for only one.
The wind shifted as if bowing too, flags snapping to attention all around the arena. And above the arena, where the highest banners flew, rose the royal flag, its emblem unmistakable:
Twisted thorns strangling a rose, a broken blade stabbed through its heart.
A breath passed before every noble eye turned toward the middle of the balcony, to the throne that, until now, had sat grand and vacant.
Then it bloomed.
A bloom of black-purple fog formed, perfect in its shape, circular and swirling as though reality itself had been peeled back. It coiled and pulsed, ethereal tendrils slithering outward in silence.
From it, she emerged.
She stepped through the portal with a grace that defied conventional movement. It was not a walk, but an unveiling.
The fog vanished behind her, leaving no trace it had ever been there.
She stood tall and unshaken, her form wreathed in black and blood-red, wearing a gown that clung like flame and shadow. Her face appeared divine, as though cut from marble and kissed by moonlight. Her eyes were pale, cutting, calm, and all-seeing. Her presence overwhelmed the senses.
No man or woman could hold her gaze for long.
This was not because of shame, but because of awe.
A single glance could seduce, a second glance could unravel, and a third could utterly destroy.
Her beauty was not the gentle beauty of flowers or songs, but something more feral and consuming like the beauty of wolves circling you in the snow, the beauty of lightning arcing above a sea that sought to swallow you whole. One could fall in love with her in an instant, and in the next breath, beg for mercy.
Two figures stepped through after her.
They moved to her left and right, shadows shaped like men.
One had crimson hair, long and striking, with a gaze sharper than any sword. The other was brown-haired, his cut short and squared like a block of forged iron. Their movements were efficient, offering no excess, and their silence itself was a warning.
Black and red tunics bore the twisted rose, the royal sigil burning across their chests.
They were pillars of violence clothed in elegance.
The Queen's most trusted blades.
Each stood with a weight that defied measurement. One could tell at a glance that a thousand battles had been won by them, and a single fight against them would not last long enough for regret.
The silence that followed felt unnatural.
It was too complete.
The crowd did not dare breathe. The nobles' tension, which once simmered in mockery and subtle barbs, had vanished, replaced by a hush more commanding than shouting.
And then, all at once, they rose.
The five nobles stepped down from their high seats, descending several steps to a lower tier, and fell to one knee, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the stone.
Their guards followed suit. Even Talen, who was known for refusing to kneel, faltered beneath the weight of the presence before them.
"Your Grace," they said in a unified breath, eyes shut.
All throughout the colosseum, the gesture rippled.
Like thunder over water, the audience followed suit, and so did guards, children, merchants, beggars, and fighters in the dust below. Every head bowed. Every knee bent.
One voice whispered in the masses:
"Was that teleportation magic?"
"Shut up," another hissed. "Say one more word and you'll lose your tongue."
The announcer, caught mid-breath, stood shaking. Then he swallowed, adjusted his voice, and found his strength.
He turned to the Queen, ignoring the nobles and the crowd.
His voice rang out:
"All rise and pay reverence! Her Majesty the Queen walks among us. Keeper of the Realm, Chosen by Light, graces the Dust Arena with her gaze. May every corner of this kingdom take pride, for she lowers her eyes upon us."
She moved with quiet finality and took her seat, the velvet throne at the balcony's center, crafted not merely for comfort, but for meaning. Behind her, her twin guards stood with hands at ease, though their eyes never stilled.
Seconds passed.
Still, the nobles did not rise.
A small gesture of the Queen's hand, elegant and slight, was all it took.
"You may lift your heads."
And like a wave, they did.
First the nobles, then their guards, followed by the crowd. The sound of a thousand bodies settling echoed in perfect rhythm.
But none sat. Not yet.
Lord Masquien bowed his head again, deeper this time, and his tone dropped lower than the weight of his robes.
"How could we ever deserve to be in your presence, Your Grace… You honor us more than we deserve."
The Queen did not reply at once.
Then, she spoke.
Her voice was gentle, yet unfathomably vast. Every syllable shimmered with royalty and might.
"The Dust stirs much these days. I came to see with my own eyes, before the next High Council convenes." She smiled faintly, though the gesture held no comfort. "With five of my council present, I assume you are here for the same reason. Yes?"
Lord Masquien, eager, shifted forward once more.
"As expected of Her Majesty. Ever wise. Ever thinking of her people—"
Lord Talen interrupted.
He stepped forward slightly, bowing low and speaking with the voice he once reserved for command.
"Your Grace, if I may. This place is beneath your station. It is raw, loud, and unrefined. Reports could be delivered. Findings documented and reviewed. There is danger in coming here without preparation."
The Queen tilted her head, her gaze softening, though her tone did not.
"A ruler who sees only from towers sees only half the truth. I trust your concern, Lord Talen. I cherish it. And I know," her voice turned warmer, though more deadly, "that with you here, danger would not dare speak."
Lord Talen said nothing more.
But a faint satisfaction tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Then her eyes shifted toward the others.
"Lady Venara. Lord Faron. It pleases me greatly to see young hands holding firm reins. May Lord Avenir's sickness ease soon," she said to Venara. "He has served the realm with devotion. It would be a shame to lose his wisdom now."
Venara bowed without speaking, her gaze steady and careful.
Then the Queen turned to Lord Faron, her voice softer still.
"And Lord Alveth was a great honorable man. May the stars grant him peace. I see his strength in you, Lord Faron, and perhaps even more. I look forward to seeing it bloom."
Faron blinked, a flicker of emotion passing across him; pride, or perhaps disbelief. For just a breath, he smiled.
"Your Grace. I am honored. I will not disappoint you."
Across from him, Lord Masquien's face tightened, just enough to be noticed.
The Queen's hand rose slightly again.
"Sit, my lords, my lady. Make yourselves at ease."
And so they did.
Lord Eleazar took the seat closest to her left.
Masquien moved to the second on the right, his size filling the bronze frame.
Lord Faron, subtly, secured the seat at the Queen's right.
Talen's jaw tightened, though he said nothing, and took the second to her left, beside Eleazar.
Venara, graceful as ever, settled beside Masquien.
Their guards adjusted accordingly, silent and respectful.
But not the Queen's guards.
Their eyes never ceased watching. They saw everything, every motion and every breath.
Then the announcer's voice returned, trembling again yet filled with reverence.
"The Dust Arena—our humble grounds—is graced with Her Majesty's presence. We are but grains beneath her boots. If only we had known, we would have better prepared such a visit. But perhaps, the spontaneity is a gift."
He coughed, cleared his throat, and stood straighter.
"And now, the match all have awaited. On one side: the Blade King, wielder of Seren's cursed blade. Ninety-nine fallen behind him, and one more to earn his rise. Men, women, even children—none have escaped his wrath. He is blood, he is steel, he is Caelvir."
The crowd exploded as cheers tore into the air.
Every noble now sat differently. No longer lounging, they were watching.
But Venara glanced sideways.
At the Queen.
There were subtle shifts in expression, barely seen.
She watched her like one watches clouds before a storm.
"And against him," the announcer continued, "stands Lysara the Breeze. Her cuts find their mark before the mind understands. Precise, unfeeling, swift as winter wind. Ninety-nine fell before her. Today, she seeks her hundredth."
More shouting. Arguments filled the stands. Bets were exchanged.
The gates opened.
Two shadows stepped into the dust.
Toward the center. Toward tradition.
They bowed low, eyes cast downward to the dirt.
The arena breathed with anticipation.
Venara's gaze flicked again.
From Caelvir.
To the Queen.
And for a heartbeat, the Queen was watching him.
Not Lysara. Not the crowd.
Caelvir.
And he… was watching too.
Not the nobles. Not his opponent.
Just her.
And not Venara.