The Ashworth Estate in the capital was a slice of the rugged West transplanted into the heart of the kingdom—a bastion of grey granite, quiet courtyards, and pragmatic efficiency. It was a comfortable, familiar base, but it was not the real city. The real Aethelgard, the roaring, living beast I had come to conquer, lay outside its walls.
Our first official foray into that beast was the next morning. My destination: the Imperial Colosseum, the sprawling grounds where the Tournament of Blossoms would be held, to finalize my registration. I left most of my retinue behind, taking only a carriage for Seraphina and two guards, Rolan among them, who walked beside my horse with a proud, eager stride.
The journey was a lesson in scale. We moved from the serene opulence of the noble district into the chaotic, vibrant thrum of the city proper. The air grew thick with the smells of sizzling street food, exotic perfumes, and the sharp tang of a hundred different forges. The sheer density of Aether was what struck me the most. In the West, power was a rare, notable thing. Here, it was ambient, a low-level hum that vibrated in the cobblestones, a product of tens of thousands of souls packed together.
"It's like the air is heavy," Seraphina murmured from the carriage window, her eyes wide. "Like trying to breathe in a summer storm."
'She feels it more than I do,' I thought. Her budding magical senses were being overwhelmed, a testament to just how different this place was.
The Imperial Colosseum was not a single building, but a massive complex of white marble and gold leaf. Arenas of various sizes, open-air training grounds, and soaring administrative halls were all interconnected by manicured gardens and wide plazas. Banners from every noble house in the kingdom snapped in the wind, a riot of color against the pristine white stone.
The registration hall was a cathedral of bureaucracy. A line of young, anxious nobles and their retainers snaked toward a long desk manned by stern-faced imperial clerks. When it was finally my turn, I presented my letter of sponsorship from my father.
The clerk, a thin man with a perpetually pinched expression, scanned the document. "Lancelot Ashworth," he read, his voice flat. "House Ashworth, of the Western Marches. Age seventeen. Tier: Artisan." He looked up at me, his gaze dismissive. "Weapon of choice?"
"I am an unarmed combatant," I said.
The clerk blinked, then let out a short, derisive sniff. "Unarmed? A Western brawler, then. How… quaint." He stamped my document with a heavy, final-sounding thud. "You are registered. The draw ceremony for the preliminary brackets will be held in the main plaza tomorrow at noon. Do try to show up with more than your fists, Lord Ashworth. It might save you some embarrassment."
"Thank you for the advice," I said with a disarmingly warm smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "But I find that when your fists are all you need, bringing anything else is just poor sportsmanship."
The clerk's jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. I took my papers and walked away, leaving him sputtering in my wake.
We spent the rest of the day exploring. I needed to get the lay of the land, to understand the city's rhythms. We wandered through the grand markets, a sensory explosion of silks from the East, spices from the South, and masterwork steel from the Northern forges. It was there, while examining a stall selling intricately carved wooden birds, that a familiar voice called my name.
"My lord!" Rolan came jogging up, his face split by a wide, happy grin. "Captain Garrick gave me and a few of the others leave for the day. Said we should see the sights."
"And are you?" I asked, clapping him on the shoulder.
"It's… a lot," he admitted, looking around at the throng. "Makes you appreciate the quiet of the West."
"I know the feeling," I said. "But we're here now. If you hear anything, Rolan—any interesting rumors about the tournament, any whispers about the competitors—I want to know."
"Of course, my lord," he said, his expression turning serious. "Your eyes and ears."
Later, as the sun began to dip, I felt the need to move, to shake off the city's oppressive energy and reconnect with my own power. I left my guards and Seraphina in a small park and sought out one of the public training grounds on the edge of the colosseum complex. I was hoping to find a quiet corner to practice my forms.
Instead, I found her.
In a secluded, circular arena, a young woman was training alone. She had fiery red hair tied back in a messy, practical ponytail, and she moved with a fierce, reckless energy. I recognized her instantly from the novel's descriptions. Aria Thorne.
She wasn't practicing a form. She was unleashing a storm. Gouts of brilliant, orange flame erupted from her hands, so hot they distorted the air around her, slamming into training dummies and reducing them to ash in seconds. She spun, and whips of lightning cracked through the air, leaving ozone in their wake. Her power was immense, far greater than any Artisan I had ever seen. It was a raw, untamed force of nature.
But as I watched from the shadows of a stone archway, I saw the truth. Her control was abysmal. Her movements were jerky, inefficient. A massive fireball would dissipate halfway to its target, its energy wasted. A bolt of lightning would strike wide, scorching the stone wall of the arena. She was fighting her own power, wrestling it into submission with sheer, stubborn will. She was a wildfire, beautiful and terrifying, but utterly without direction. 'One wrong push,' I thought, my blood running cold, 'and that entire fire will consume her.'
I watched for a few more minutes, my mind cataloging her weaknesses, the flaws in her technique that the cult would so easily exploit. Then, I melted back into the shadows before she could spot me. My mission had just taken on a new, tangible reality.
When I returned to the main plaza, the sun had set, and magical globes of light now illuminated the space. A huge crowd was gathered around a massive slate board where clerks were posting the final lists of competitors. I heard snippets of conversation as I passed, the tournament structure being debated by eager spectators.
"...the preliminaries are always a bloodbath. Over two hundred entrants, and they need to cut it down to thirty-two in two days."
"...I heard the second son of House Volanti is competing. Marius. Total peacock."
"...the real show starts in the Round of Sixteen. That's when you see the true monsters."
My eyes scanned the list of names, a sea of unfamiliar houses and titles. My own name was there, a small drop in a vast ocean. As I stood there, taking it all in, I saw a familiar flash of red hair. Aria was leaving the plaza, her training session apparently over. She looked exhausted, a deep frown etched on her face.
And then I saw him.
In the deep shadows of an archway across the plaza, a man stood perfectly still, his face obscured by the darkness. He wasn't watching the crowd or the board. He was watching Aria. His focus was absolute, predatory, an unnatural intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. I felt a faint, nauseating trace of the same wrongness I had felt from Valerius.
As if sensing my gaze, the figure turned its head slightly in my direction. For a split second, I saw the glint of his eyes in the dark. Then, he simply melted back into the shadows and was gone.
My blood turned to ice. My fist clenched at my side. The hunt had begun. And the wolves were already circling.