Thyssara clamped her teeth together, silver eyes blazing, hands crushing the edge of her cracked wooden chair until it splintered.
Shards flying like shards of frozen sunlight across the courtyard.
"How dare you," she hissed, voice slicing through the air like a razor, "think about the consequences of your actions—every single one of them!"
The crowd froze, shadows stretching long across their faces, eyes wide, bodies stiff as statues carved from obsidian, the faint glint of sweat catching the dying sun.
Her silver hair flowed like molten metal in the harsh light, catching fire in strands as she leaned forward, the authority in her stance cold, absolute, and terrifyingly precise.
Every woman standing behind her mirrored the discipline of carved marble, black hair like ink falling across shoulders, gloves gleaming ,eyes locked on Gareth with a mixture of awe and dread, as the wind carried the scent of smoke, dust, and inevitability.
One of the women behind Thyssara stepped forward, eyes burning like molten coal, voice low and venomous.
"You dare sit there, staring at her like she is nothing?" she spat, each word sharp and jagged.
"You will respect our master—or learn why fools are crushed beneath her feet," she hissed, lips curling into a cruel sneer.
"And if you cannot see her power… at least open your eyes to her face! How ugly you make her look by pretending you understand her!"
Gareth's chest tightened, a cold twist sinking deep as her words struck, echoing in his mind like hammers on steel, the weight of insult and derision burning sharper than any blade.
Whispers began rippling through the courtyard, low at first, then sharp, cutting through the dust and heat like shards of obsidian.
"Who raised you to speak to her like that?" a woman hissed, eyes narrowing, venom dripping from her words, black hair catching the dying sunlight.
"You have no respect… no sense of decency!" another spat, stepping forward, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and awe.
Even the hopefuls who came to join the Outer March shifted uneasily, glancing at Gareth with suspicion.
Their admiration turning to cold judgment as they sensed the weight of Thyssara's authority.
"You… you were not raised right!" a third voice snapped, sharp as a blade, echoing off the stone walls, each word sinking into Gareth like ice melting in fire—pride bruised, isolation pressing in, and the unforgiving silence of everyone around him closing like a coffin.
Gareth's chest heaved, doubt flickering in his silver eyes, the whispers of the crowd clawing at his mind.
Then he stopped, head tilting, a dark, crooked smile curling his lips as his gaze swept over every fearful face.
"I care not for your judgments," he said, voice sharp, cold, and unyielding, each word a blade cutting through their shallow convictions.
He leaned toward the first woman, eyes glinting with mockery. "Were you even raised?" he asked, tilting his head like a predator savoring the fear.
The second woman, who had shouted at him moments ago, paled under his stare. "And you—did they teach you manners or just obedience?" he taunted, voice low and sharp.
The third, still trembling, tried to regain composure. Gareth's grin widened. "And you… claiming wisdom while shivering like a child? How amusing."
The courtyard fell into stunned silence, the weight of his words echoing off stone walls, piercing deeper than any strike, leaving everyone frozen in disbelief.
Gareth's eyes locked on the blade that had nearly ended him, steel glinting like frozen fire under the sun, the tip trembling with lethal intent.
He stumbled back, chest heaving, breaths sharp and ragged, the weight of every mocking word and hostile gaze pressing against him like iron chains.
For the first time, clarity struck—his silver eyes widened as he felt the cold, undeniable truth: without strength, his words were empty echoes, whispers lost in a storm of steel.
The courtyard fell silent, the wind still, as Gareth pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the pulse of fear, respect, and inevitability thrum through him.
Understanding, at last, that to command attention, he would have to claim it with power.
Gareth's hands moved almost lazily, black energy coiling between his fingers until the air split open—a swirling, nightmarish portal, shadows writhing like living things, the edges crackling with raw Veil power.
The courtyard froze, eyes wide, jaws slack, whispers dying on trembling lips as the impossible unfolded before them.
Thyssara Nightspire's silver eyes widened, pupils narrowing to slits, her voice barely audible, sharp and trembling: "Impossible…"
Even the strongest guards and women behind Thyssara recoiled instinctively;
The portal shimmered with a depth of power that hinted at Veil mastery beyond comprehension.
She stared, still, silent, caught between disbelief and the flicker of dread, contemplating the implication of such an ability.
One that could pierce barriers like the Aeternum Murus Nepheses and reveal the truths of their long isolation.
From the writhing black portal, Gareth drew a sword forged of shadows and blood, the blade humming like a beast awakened, edges dripping darkness as if thirsty for reality itself.
He leveled it at the woman who had dared to strike at him earlier, the one crouched behind Thyssara, eyes wide with fear, frozen under the weight of his intent.
She lunged at him, instinct and training carrying her forward, but before she could reach him, time seemed to shatter.
Thyssara's hand shot out with blinding speed, her palm connecting with Gareth's face in a single, brutal slap that echoed like a cannon across the courtyard.
The force slammed through him, bone and spirit rattling, wind knocked from his lungs.
The shadow blade tumbling from his grip as his body flew backward, hitting the ground with a harsh, final thud.
On the other side Nessy finally stepped foot through the gates of Town Magma, dust clinging to her boots, eyes glinting with sharp anticipation.
"Finally… we've arrived," she murmured, voice low but firm, carrying across the bustling streets like a herald of intent.
Behind her, Doran moved silently, a shadow at her side, steady and unwavering, his presence both a shield and a statement.
"I've trained endlessly for this battle, doran" she said, voice tightening with controlled fire, "but I've heard about their captain… she's lenient with women, so I'll pass on that test."
Her gaze hardened, resolve settling over her like iron armor. "The Sixth Outer March… that's where I belong. Nothing else will do."
Doran stepped closer, his eyes calm but burning with quiet authority, every movement measured, deliberate, like a shadow shaping itself around her.
"You've trained for this," he said softly, voice steady but heavy with weight, "every drop of sweat, every scar—they all lead you here."
He reached out, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, not to restrain, but to steady, to anchor her resolve. "Fear is natural, but it does not define you. Let it sharpen you, not shackle you."
Nessy's breath hitched, chest rising and falling under his steady gaze, the words sinking deep, igniting a spark she hadn't realized had dimmed.
"Step forward," Doran murmured, tone almost a whisper, "and show them what true preparation looks like. I'll be right here, watching, guiding—but the strike… that strike is yours alone."
At the same moment Nessy and Doran arrived at the outskirts of the courtyard, Gareth's body slammed against the ground, dust and sweat flying, the black-and-red sword skidding to a stop just inches from her boots.
Doran's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and worried: "Gareth! Are you okay?!"
Gareth's silver eyes flicked to the sword, assessing its dark shimmer, his breathing ragged but calm, and then he caught Nessy's gaze as she laughed at the sight of him sprawled on the ground.
"Quite the entrance," she said, amusement curling her lips, "I didn't expect to find you looking… so helpless."
Gareth tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite the pain. "And you might wonder who stroke me this hard?" she asked, eyes narrowing playfully.
He gestured lazily toward Thyssara Nightspire, voice sharp and laced with dark humor: "Well it's her… that son of a… bitch."
Nessy dropped to one knee, posture straight, eyes sharp, and voice ringing with respect as she greeted Thyssara Nightspire: "Master Nightspire, I honor your presence."
Then she whipped her gaze toward Gareth, eyes blazing, shouting: "And you—why would you attack her of all people?!"
Gareth raised a hand lazily, pointing at the guard who had moved to strike him. " I moved to attack Vawy … but Thyssara slapped me first."
Nessy's eyes widened in horror at the revelation, but she didn't hesitate—her hand lashed out, connecting with Gareth's cheek in a sharp, confident slap that echoed across the courtyard.
Her gaze snapped back to Thyssara Nightspire, voice steady yet commanding, as she turned slightly and muttered, "Forgive him, master," her tone both daring and reverent.
Gareth pushed himself up from the ground, dust clinging to his clothes, silver eyes glinting as he slowly straightened.
He lifted his sword toward the sky, the black-and-red blade catching the sunlight, and turned a crooked, mischievous smile toward Nessy.
Without warning, he smacked her lightly on the head with the flat of his blade, voice low and teasing: "Don't hit me again."
Nessy's eyes blazed with anger, her fists clenching, stepping forward, ready to strike, their movements sharp and tense as if the courtyard itself held its breath.
Thyssara Nightspire's silver eyes narrowed, lips curling faintly, voice cutting through the mounting chaos: "Amusing… you, Gareth. You passed."