The formal invitation arrived the next morning on scented parchment, sealed with the crest of a distant branch of House Valerius—a name that sent a phantom chill down my spine. It was a summons to the pre-tournament gala, a mandatory gathering for all competitors and their patrons. It was, in essence, the opening ceremony of the war, fought not with steel, but with wine glasses and veiled insults.
As I dressed that evening in the formal, severe black and grey silks of House Ashworth, I couldn't shake the memory of the shadowy figure from the plaza. The feeling he had given me was a cold, alien resonance at the very edge of my perception. It was a new and unsettling aspect of my draconic senses. I could feel the 'wrongness' of the Void's influence, like the faint, unnatural scent of poison in the air. 'It's a predator's instinct,' I mused, adjusting the silver wolf-head clasp on my cloak. 'A dragon knows the scent of a rival apex predator.'
My senses were still developing, crude and weak. They had been utterly useless against Lord Valerius; his own power, the sheer density of his aura, had been a mountain that completely masked the foul scent of his true allegiance. But the watcher in the plaza had been weaker. His scent was faint, but it was there. A subtle rot beneath the surface of the world. And it had been focused entirely on Aria Thorne.
"You look troubled, my lord," Seraphina said, her voice pulling me from my thoughts. She was adjusting a fold in my cloak, her expression one of quiet concern. She herself was dressed in a simple but elegant dark blue dress, the formal attire of a high-ranking noble's aide.
"Just contemplating the battlefield," I replied with a reassuring smile. "Tonight's is more dangerous than any dueling circle."
The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Volanti estate, a breathtaking hall of shimmering white marble, soaring archways, and crystal chandeliers that scattered rainbows across the polished floor. The air was thick with the scent of exotic flowers and expensive perfumes, the sound a delicate symphony of string music and the high-pitched chatter of a hundred nobles. It was a gilded cage, and the birds were all preening, sharpening their claws on each other with polite, vicious smiles.
My arrival, flanked by two imposing Ashworth guards, caused a minor stir. Whispers followed us like the rustle of silk. 'The third son… the one who humiliated his brother… a border lord's brawler.'
It wasn't long before the head peacock found us. Lord Marius Volanti, his crimson silks even more ostentatious than they had been on the road, sauntered over, a glass of wine in his hand and a sneer on his lips.
"Lord Ashworth," he began, his voice loud enough for those nearby to hear. "I'm so glad to see your party arrived without further… mechanical difficulties. One must be so careful with peasant craftsmanship."
Instead of taking the bait, I gave him a warm, disarming smile. "Lord Volanti! A pleasure to see you again. And thank you for the concern. Your delay on the road gave us a valuable lesson in patience. And it taught me a wonderful new proverb."
Marius's sneer faltered. "A proverb?"
"Indeed," I said, my voice pleasant. "Sometimes, the most direct path is simply a broken one. It reminds us to seek a better way forward. A lesson I'm sure you've taken to heart."
A few nearby nobles chuckled into their wine. I had turned his insult about crude craftsmanship into a commentary on his own foolish impatience. Marius's face flushed a blotchy red. He looked from me to my guards, his eyes promising a different kind of confrontation in the arena. He opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by a deep, resonant voice.
"A solid principle, Lord Ashworth."
I turned. Approaching us was a young man built like a northern pine, tall and broad-shouldered. He had a stern, honorable face, short-cropped blond hair, and eyes the color of a winter sky. He carried himself with an unshakable, grounded confidence. His Aether signature was powerful, clean, and disciplined—another Artisan, but one far more established than I. "Cassius Ardane," he said, giving a curt, respectful nod. "House Ardane, of the North."
"Lancelot Ashworth," I replied, returning the nod. "A pleasure." We were rivals, but I could feel no animosity from him, only the mutual recognition of one true warrior for another.
Before more could be said, a new figure drifted into my peripheral vision. A young woman with long, black hair and dark, watchful eyes, dressed in the emerald green silks of the East. She moved with a liquid grace, observing the crowd from the edges, her presence as quiet and unobtrusive as a shadow. She was Lyra Corva, another name I recognized from the novel's roster of top contenders. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and in her gaze I saw the same sharp, analytical intelligence I felt in my own. Then, she simply blended back into the throng and was gone.
The rest of the evening was a blur of political maneuvering. I was introduced to a dozen minor lords and ladies, all of them sizing me up, their conversations a delicate dance of probing questions and backhanded compliments. I navigated it with a smile, my Earth-born social skills serving me far better than any martial training could have in this particular arena. I could feel the undercurrents clearly: the established houses of the heartland saw the rising power of the border lords as a threat. They saw us as uncivilized, and my presence here was an unwelcome intrusion.
I left the main hall for a breath of fresh air, stepping out onto a wide balcony overlooking the estate's famous gardens. As I looked down, I saw a lone figure moving through the moonlit paths below. It was Seraphina. She had, with her usual practicality, excused herself from the stifling socialites to explore something that actually interested her. I watched as she knelt by a strange, pale flower, her hand hovering over it, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of green light connecting her to the plant. A small smile touched my lips. She was finding her own way, even here.
Later that night, back at the Ashworth estate, the news arrived. A runner from the colosseum delivered the finalized brackets for the preliminary rounds. My entire retinue gathered in the main hall as I unrolled the large parchment on a polished table.
The board was a complex web of over two hundred names. I found mine in the upper-left quadrant. My first match was against a knight from a minor barony I'd never heard of. I scanned the rest of the names, my eyes searching. I found Cassius, and Lyra, and Marius Volanti, all in different quadrants. My path to the finals would be a bloody one.
I searched for Aria Thorne's name, finding it near the bottom. Her first match was against some middling son of a viscount. She would win easily. My gaze then drifted to the name slated to be her opponent in the Round of Thirty-Two, assuming she won her first fight.
Viktor Vane.
The name itself was unremarkable. But the moment my eyes fell on it, I felt it. A faint, cold, familiar chill, prickling at the edges of my draconic senses. It was a whisper, a trace, like the lingering scent of poison after the vial has been put away. But it was there. The same subtle, nauseating 'wrongness' I had felt from the figure watching Aria in the plaza.
My blood turned to ice. My hand, resting on the parchment, clenched into a fist.
The watcher in the plaza. The sabotage in the novel. And now, Viktor Vane.
They were all connected. The game board was finally clear, and I could see the first move of the enemy. The plot to ruin Aria Thorne had a name.