Mist drifts around our ankles, catching the glow from thetrees in faint ribbons of color. The air tastes different here. Richer, heavier, charged with something that makes my skin prickle in a different way than iron.
A man in the formal attire of an imperial supervisor steps forward. His uniform bears an emblem of a sinuous dragon with luminous markings, coiled around what appears to be a lantern. The same emblem as Raine Selwyn, Champion of the Twilight Forests.
“Champions and friends of champions,” he announces, his voice carrying across the clearing with practiced authority. “Welcome to the Twilight Forests.”
I glance at Zeriel, whose eyes are sweeping the perimeter with careful assessment. The Twilight Forests. The name stirs a distant memory. Stories I’d heard as a child, the odd map of the empire I’d glimpsed with its fourteen provinces. This one lies far from the Capital, one of the outer territories, known for rare resources… and other things I don’t recall.
The supervisor continues as the other champions file out behind us. “I am Overseer Pellvorn. I'll be coordinating your stay in this province.”
As the last of the champions emerges, I spot the local champion among the officials gathered to one side. Raine Selwyn, long-limbed and poised, her features stark in the forest’s glow, her black hair merging with the shadows like it belongs to them.
“This year's tournament,” Overseer Pellvorn announces, “will be quite unique. Rather than confining the events to a single arena, we'll be showcasing the glory of the empire by traveling to selected provinces for each stage. What better way to celebrate our diverse land?”
Murmurs ripple through the gathered champions.
“Unprecedented,” I hear Damiar of the Mountain Territories breathe behind me.
I glance at Zeriel, and his expression confirms he’s thinking the same. I’d thought the Emperor’s Tournament had always beenheld in the Imperial Coliseum, where the court can watch in comfort and convenience.
“We begin here, in the Twilight Forests,” Pellvorn continues. “Tomorrow morning, the preliminaries will commence in the Umbral Arena. Despite not participating, attendance is mandatory for all champions and their entourages.” His gaze sweeps over us. “I suggest you all get an early night. The forest can be... disorienting for newcomers.”
Only now do I notice the structures circling the clearing: a dozen wooden lodges, elegant in their lines yet unmistakably utilitarian, their walls threaded with faintly glowing fungi, their windows protected by bars. Above each door hangs a provincial emblem, stark against the wood.
“Your accommodations,” Pellvorn says, his tone almost pleasant. “Comfortable, though far from indulgent. This is, after all, a tournament of skill… not comfort.”
With that, Pellvorn inclines his head in a nod, signaling our dismissal.
The champions immediately begin to disperse toward their assigned lodges.
Zeriel is the first to spot ours, closest to the clearing's edge, marked with the Capital's imperial emblem. We follow the narrow path to it, our steps sinking soundlessly into the moss.
Inside, the space is larger than I expect. A main living area, a small kitchen nook, and three separate bedrooms. The furniture is simple but well-crafted, the walls adorned with tapestries depicting forest scenes that seem to shift subtly when viewed from different angles.
Zeriel secures the door behind us, checking the locks before examining each room methodically.
I sink onto a cushioned chair, my legs still unsteady from the journey. “Why move the tournament around? And why start here, of all places?” I say quietly.
He shakes his head, then pauses by the window, gazing out atthe glowing forest. “This province has always been... different. Less controlled.”
Meaning close to the unrest?We’ll find out more tomorrow, whether we want to or not.
I watch Zeriel, the blue-green light from outside casting strange shadows across his face. Our interrupted conversation in his quarters feels like it happened in another lifetime, but questions still burn within me.
I wait for him to collect a jug of water from the kitchen and pour a glass for each of us. Then he faces the window, drinking deeply.
“Zeriel,” I start, and the sound of his name makes him pause mid-sip. “Just… about your family. Were they really guilty of the treason?”
His shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t turn right away, as though bracing against the question. When he finally does, it’s slow, reluctant. Not the careful composure of someone rehearsing a lie, but like a man dragged into a room he never wanted to enter. He sets his glass down with deliberate control.
“No.” The word is low. Clipped. Final.
I wait, but he offers nothing more. “Then what happened?”
His jaw works, muscle flexing. When he speaks again, the words sound carved out of him. “House Malvric happened. We were getting too close to the emperor’s inner circle. Too much sway for their liking. They planted evidence. Claimed we were smuggling weapons along with rebel factions.” His voice flattens, controlled, but I see his hands curl slightly at his sides, betraying the restraint. “By the time my father realized what they’d done, the verdict was already written.”
The words land heavy in my chest, raw with conviction. If he’s lying, it’s buried so deep even he can’t see it anymore.
“And… Celisse?” I press, quieter.
