“Caelith,” the man calls, his voice a drawl. “I thought that was you skulking on the edges.”
The chamber hushes. Heads turn. Zeriel stills mid-step. His entire frame goes taut, predatory stillness radiating from him like a wolf catching the scent of blood.
“Malvric,” he says, his voice low and serrated.
The man approaches, his glacial eyes flicking over Zeriel with cold familiarity before settling on me. His gaze crawls over my skin.
“Blaise Malvric,” he introduces himself with a bow that manages to mock. “Champion of Crosnia.” His gaze slides back to Zeriel.
Zeriel's posture shifts almost imperceptibly, his shoulders squaring. I can practically feel the tension radiating from him, though his face remains stone-like.
“I see the Ironhold has been kind to you,” Blaise continues, his voice carrying the cultured accent of the inner provinces. “A personal ward now?”
The air between the two men crackles with something beyondrivalry. It's suddenly suffocating, like the pressure of shared history, or blood debts unpaid.
“And I see you're still leaning on your family’s name rather than skill,” Zeriel replies, his tone somehow both cutting and deceptively light.
A murmur ripples through the gathered champions and their entourages. Blaise's smile doesn't falter, but something dangerous flickers in his eyes.
“Bold words from a man whose family name is synonymous with treason.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Tell me—how is Celisse these days? Does she know about your new companion?”
Zeriel moves like a strike of lightning. His fist connects with Blaise’s jaw, the crack echoing off stone. Blaise staggers, wipes blood from his lip—then laughs, cruel and cold.
“And there he is. The real Zeriel Caelith. Always just beneath the surface.”
Zeriel lunges, but Blaise sidesteps, grabbing Zeriel's arm and using his momentum to slam him against the wall. I back away, heart hammering as the two men collide with brutal force.
“Stop!” someone shouts, but neither man pays any attention.
They break apart, circling each other like wolves. Blood trickles from Blaise's split lip, but his smile only widens, revealing crimson-stained teeth. “Come now, Caelith. Is this really about what I said, or about what I did?”
Zeriel’s fist connects with Blaise's stomach, doubling him over, but Blaise retaliates with an upward strike to Zeriel's chin that makes him stagger a step back.
The fight ignites. Brutal, vicious. Too fast to follow, each champion unleashing their full power on the other. This isn’t performance—it’s personal.
I press myself against the wall, watching in horror as the men tear into each other.
Zeriel slams Blaise to the ground, straddling him and landing a blow to his face. Blood sprays with the impact, but Blaise blocksthe second punch, still taunting him with words I can no longer hear over the noise of the crowd.
Something jerks my attention sideways: a flicker of movement at the very edge of my sight, too quick and too deliberate to ignore. The metal sconces lining the wall I’m backed against. They’re… moving. I blink, thinking I’m imagining it. But I still see it. Sconces trembling against their moorings, subtly but definitely moving, as if in the grip of an earthquake only they can feel.
What is happening?
Blaise manages to buck Zeriel off, rolling away and coming up with a hidden blade that gleams in the torchlight. The crowd gasps, but Zeriel is unfazed, circling, his eyes fixed on the weapon.
“There's always something hidden with you, isn't there, Malvric?” Zeriel growls, blood leaking from a gash above his eye.
“Says the man with so many secrets,” Blaise replies, twirling the blade. “Shall we compare notes?”
Before Zeriel can respond, Blaise attacks, the blade slicing through air where Zeriel's throat had been a moment before. Zeriel counters with a savage kick that connects with Blaise's knee, sending him off-balance. In the split second of advantage, Zeriel seizes Blaise's wrist, twisting until the blade clatters to the floor. Then he tackles Blaise with the force of a battering ram. They crash into a table, splintering wood and sending goblets flying, before rolling across the floor, a tangle of limbs and rage, each seeking to destroy the other with a ferocity that transcends mere competition. This is pain, deep and visceral. I see it in every brutal strike, every snarled word. Especially Zeriel’s.
I suddenly notice that the blade, which stopped skidding three feet away from me, has joined the sconces in subtly trembling. But nothing else is moving.How… How…I look around me, but nobody else seems to have noticed, everyone positioned more centrally in the room, too absorbed in the fight.
“Enough!” A commanding voice cuts through the chaos as armored guards flood the chamber, forcibly dragging the two championsapart.
“Save it for the tournament, gentlemen,” the head guard snaps, his voice like ice. “You'll have plenty of opportunity to kill each other there.”
Zeriel stops struggling against the guards' grip, but his eyes remain locked on Blaise, whose blood covers half his face, turning his features into a crimson mask.
