The bond pulsed once—like a heart preparing for rupture.
Then the ground beneath them shifted.
Not cracked—reconfigured.
A spiral of obsidian unfolded like a serpent's tongue—smooth, cold, and waiting.
It wasn't a slide.
It was a summons.
Before anyone could brace, the stone beneath Qaritas, Ayla, Daviyi, Cree, Hydeius, Komus, and Niraí liquefied into motion—pulling them not down, but inward.
They didn't fall.
They were drawn—into something older than the arena, deeper than the applause.
A place beneath the bones of the coliseum, where even memory went quiet.
Where no cheer could reach.
They landed not with a thud, but a hush—feet sinking into something warm and wet, the stink of old sin rising like breath held too long.
Dust hung heavy in the air. Iron curled up their nostrils. All around them, the crowd howled—not in welcome, but expectation.
And Zcain was already there. Waiting. Still as scripture.
Qaritas stepped forward instinctively—half a step, no more—then froze. His fingers twitched at his side, as if caught between reaching for a blade or a memory.
Qaritas watched him the way one watches a storm form from heat. The voice was calm. But the silence behind it? That was pressure. Building. Waiting.
"A beautiful sermon, Father. You've always been gifted—turning atrocity into applause. Rewriting horror as hymn."
A few gasps ripple through the crowd. Zcain doesn't stop.
"But don't worry. I understand what you expect of me."
He turns to face the new Ascendants. His tone becomes formal, courteous—almost regal.
"Shadowborn, you and your companions are the only first-generation Ascendants to enter To Mrajeareim unshackled.
The rest were claimed.
And now, you stand before me... not as supplicants, but as sharpened souls."
Then, with that gentle smile that never quite touches his eyes, he glances back to Ecayrous.
"Father wishes you to learn what strength looks like. I intend to show you what survival feels like."
Qaritas's shoulders tensed. A flicker of shadow curled at his feet—his instincts waking, hungry for meaning.
Ecayrous chuckled—low, indulgent, poisonous.
"Always the polished blade, my boy. You bleed poetry even when all I ask for is loyalty. How... exhausting your elegance must be."
He takes a slow step forward, voice dropping to a growl of mock-concern.
"Do remember who shaped that tongue, Zcain. You didn't learn finesse from lullabies. You learned it kneeling before me."
Zcain didn't flinch, but the vein in his temple ticked once. His jaw flexed—just enough to betray the taste of old blood rising in his throat. Finesse, yes. But he'd learned silence first. And pain second.
Then louder, for the crowd
"But let him play guide, little Ascendants. Let him dress your wounds with pretty words. It's only a matter of time before he teaches you to kill the right way. My way."
His smile tightened—sharp now, surgical. The earlier smirk had vanished.
His shoulders rolled once, predator-smooth, before settling into stillness again. The fingers of his free hand curled loosely—like they were used to holding truths no one else could survive.
Nimarza didn't move. Not a word. But her mask tilted just slightly toward Ecayrous, and the hiss behind it slowed—elongated. She was tasting the air. Deciding.
"Of course, Father. Just as you taught me—always wear the right mask before you show them the knife."
Zcain didn't flinch, but one strand of hair slid across his cheek as his jaw clenched. The black blade on his shoulder hummed low—so faint it could've been imagined. His scars caught the red light and seemed to shift, just slightly. Living. Remembering.
Nimarza raised one fan—not to strike, but to veil her mouth. A soft movement, smooth as oil, and yet even that small gesture crackled with restrained violence. Her hips pivoted—no longer posed. Ready.
A flicker of shadow spiraled behind his shoulders, coiling like thought.
"Come, Ascendants. I will take you to the barracks personally."
He offers a graceful bow to Ecayrous.
"Follow me. Let the crowd scream their myths. You'll learn what it means to survive where there is no audience... and no gods left to applaud."
That's when Qaritas realized Zcain didn't need a weapon. He was the aftermath.
Qaritas's eyes narrowed. He shifted his stance—weight back, then forward—like a fighter recalculating whether to strike or kneel.
The air thinned. A few in the crowd caught the venom in the velvet.
Ecayrous's jaw flexed. But he smiled—tight and brittle.
"No, no. Go ahead, my son. Teach them the ways of sin. I have no need to walk where I've already left my mark."
Zcain turned slowly, each movement graceful and inevitable—like a guillotine in reverse. His shadow stretched long behind him, curving like a question only blood could answer. The lazy smirk returned—but it was hollow, a mask worn to protect something older than wrath.
Nimarza followed one step behind him. She moved like smoke over broken glass. Not guarding him. Mirroring. Her body coiled with him like matching verses of an unsung hymn. One glass vial pulsed at her side—silvered mist curling like breath in prayer.
The crowd wasn't calling Zcain and Nimarza. They were chanting a different name entirely—Qaritas's;
"Shadowborn!
Shadowborn!
Shadowborn!"
They didn't chant in praise. They chanted like prophecy—the kind that ends in crucifixion.
Qaritas didn't flinch. But the echo of his name burned louder than the chant.
They stepped through the carved threshold—seven Ascendants pulled not down, but inward.
What awaited was not sanctuary.
The hallway stretched like a scar carved into the bowels of a dead god. Ahead, the Colosseum loomed—a wound in the world. Obsidian walls clawed into the bleeding sky, festooned with corpses twisted into garlands. Towers wept ash. Fire rose in spirals—like prayer turned against its gods.
Then—the doors behind them slammed shut. Hard. Final.
For one breath, the room held its silence like a blade ready to drop.
Zcain turned.
As the first lock clicked. Then another.
One by one, twenty magical seals flared along the walls—red, gold, violet, each sigil blazing before sinking into the stone. The hallway tightened with pressure, the sense of being... contained.
Ayla's hand went to her weapon.
But she didn't get the chance to draw.
They waited for a blade. Instead—they got arms.
The seals finished with a final hiss.
Breath stalled. And then—he moved.
Zcain turned.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't lift a blade.
He simply stepped forward.
And in a movement so sudden it stole the breath from the room—he wrapped Ayla in a hug.
Niraí blinked once. Slow. Like watching something sacred you'd never dared believe in.
Cree's breath hitched, flame pulsing once along their collarbone—then dimming in awe.
Hydeius shifted, eyes narrowing—not in distrust, but calculation. A god measuring the shape of a lie.
Daviyi's fingers grazed a glyph at her hip, but she didn't activate it. Not yet.
Qaritas stiffened. His hand went halfway to his weapon before stopping mid-air. His mouth parted slightly—no words, just breath and the ghost of disbelief.
Tight. Complete. Human.
Everyone froze.
Then came the voice—his. Not cold. Not cryptic.
Light. Delighted.
"I'm so happy to see you," Zcain said, his voice thick with joy, a smile breaking across his face like sunlight through old ruin.
He pulled back just enough to look at her—that same smile still blooming, utterly dissonant with the chaos behind them. "I've been waiting so long to do that."
Ayla blinked—speechless.
And then—for the first time—Nimarza spoke.
Her giggle slithered through the hallway like silk over a blade.
Light. Musical. Wrong.
Her porcelain mask tilted, smile painted in shadow.
Qaritas took one step to the side—subtle, precise—instinctively adjusting his angle to watch both Zcain's hands and Ayla's posture. Old habit. Older fear.
Komus's hand hovered near his blade—uncertain whether he was witnessing a reunion… or a rehearsal.
Cree whispered something too soft to hear, their gaze flicking between Zcain's smile and the seals still glowing on the walls.
Because for the first time, they couldn't tell if what stood before them was relief…
or revelation.
A boy remembering love—
or a god pretending to be mortal.
Ayla didn't breathe—didn't blink.
Her mind clung to stillness. Her heart did not.
Then—She broke.
Her arms clutched him back—tight, desperate, trembling with the kind of ache only time could rot and love could restore.
Komus looked away—not out of shame, but reverence. He'd seen her bleed a thousand ways. Never like this.
Hydeius didn't move. But his eyes softened—just slightly. Enough.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. Not quiet. Not clean.
They came like rain that had waited eons to fall—shaking sobs caught between relief and ruin.
"You're okay," she whispered, her voice cracking on the word. "By the gods, you're actually okay—"
She buried her face into his shoulder, and the bond between them flared, flooded, saturated with grief and love and all the years she thought she'd lost him.
Her voice muffled in his coat, trembling:
"Are they—Zcain, your siblings… the others—are they alive?"
Zcain's arms didn't loosen.
He pressed his forehead gently to hers, smile still warm—but quieter now, laced with gravity.
Behind them, Qaritas lowered his gaze. His hands opened at his sides—empty, as if letting go of a weapon he hadn't realized he'd drawn inside himself.
"They're alive," he said. "And well."
Ayla let out a breath that wasn't quite a sob—more like something sacred collapsing. Her knees buckled slightly, but she didn't fall—because he was still holding her.
"They remember you," he added softly. "Even when he tried to make us forget."
His voice barely reached a whisper.
"We never stopped hoping you'd find us."
A breath passed—soft, reverent.
Zcain turned his gaze next—not to Ayla, but to the one just behind her.
"Lexen," he said softly, the name blooming like something half-forgotten but beloved.
Komus flinched—then straightened.
A breath. A war in his eyes.
"That name died with the boy who knelt for your father," he said, voice calm but clipped. "I'm Komus now."
Zcain's head tilted slightly. His smile, though smaller now, deepened.
"It suits you better."
Then he turned back to Ayla.
"Mother," he said, voice gentled, reverent. "What name do you wear now?"
Her breath hitched—just once.
"Ayla," she said, her voice soft but unshaken. "The old name died when Consort Kriri did"
Before she pointed at Qaritas, "This one carried me back."
Zcain smiled as he whispered, "I'm glad he did."
Qaritas's breath caught—but didn't escape.
Not because he hadn't heard it before.
But because hearing it now, in front of the boy she once raised, made it feel real in a way that scraped against the bone.
She'd said it like fact.
Like fate.
And it landed in his chest like a star that forgot it was burning.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his shadow curled in slightly—drawn tight, not in defense, but in reverence.
He had been her way back.
And that truth filled him with something quieter than pride, deeper than sorrow.
Zcain's expression softened. No grandeur. No power. Just a son seeing the shape of his mother in the ashes of time.
He might've spoken again. Might've said her name one more time like a prayer.
But the moment fractured—
"Zcain," came the voice—gentle, melodic, unmistakably hers.
Everyone turned. Nimarza stood just beyond the shadows, her tone light with amusement, but laced with a calm that could tame storms.
"We have guests waiting. And I won't be the one to tell Gemma the food's cold."
Zcain's smile deepened—not broader, but warmer. A quiet gleam touched his eyes. Not theatrical. Intimate.
He turned his head slightly toward the sound of her voice—his anchor, his exception—and for just a breath, the predator became a man again.
"Ah," he murmured, voice velvet-lined steel. "Then let us not test Gemma's temper. I've survived the destruction of worlds, Fragments of Eon, monsters, torture, curses, and warlords—but not her cold bread."
"Gemma," he added, almost fondly, "She keeps the living comfortable, the wounded alive, and everyone else terrified of her bread."
"Charming, death by bread." Komus snarked, before Niraí elbows him in the ribs.
Zcain and Nimarza laughed, seeming like they know it to be true.
Before Zcain's eyes flicked back to Ayla, gentler now.
"Come. There is warmth waiting. And peace... even if only borrowed."
Then, with a subtle flick of his hand, the shadows parted ahead of them—forming a path that led toward the barracks like memory redrawn into invitation.
The doors to the barracks groaned open—not with grandeur, but with breath.
And in that moment, every one of them realized—
This wasn't where Gladiators rest.
Not triumph. Not reward.
Just welcome—soft, quiet, undeserved.
A place that didn't demand blood to let them rest.