Chapter 83: The Grand Arena

The capital appeared on the horizon.

It was massive. Larger than any city he had ever seen. Walls of white stone. Towers that scraped the sky. Banners flying from every rooftop. The Magenta crest. The Storm Crow. The symbols of a hundred noble houses.

The city was called Aurelia in the continent of Valdris.

Warriors had gathered from every corner of the continent.

Knights in gleaming armor. Paladins with holy symbols. Mages with staffs of crystal. Vessels with scars and hard eyes.

Emeric saw them. Studied them. Measured himself against them.

He was ready.

He found an inn.

The sign above the door read The Silver Dawn. A modest establishment that looked clean and quiet from the outside. It was also close to the arena, he was told by the carriage driver.

He pushed through the door.

The innkeeper—a plump woman with kind eyes—looked up from her books.

"Room?"

"Please."

"Name?"

"Emeric Halden."

She wrote it down. Reached for a key.

That was when the hand landed on his shoulder.

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

Emeric didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could smell the ale on the man’s breath. Could feel the weight of his hand. Could hear the laughter of his friends behind him.

"A traveler," the man continued. "Here for the tournament, I bet. Let me guess—you’re one of those Vessels. Think you’re hot shit because you can throw a fireball."

His friends laughed.

The innkeeper’s face went pale. Her hands trembled. She knew these men. She had seen them before.

The man leaned in closer. His voice dropped.

"This city is dangerous, friend. You never know when a bunch of thugs will attack you. Take all your valuables." He paused. "We can protect you. For a price."

His hand moved. Reached into Emeric’s backpack. Lifted a gold coin.

"See? Reasonable, right?"

Emeric moved.

Phantom Step.

One moment, he was standing still. The next, he was behind the man. His hand closed around the thief’s wrist. Twisted.

The man screamed.

The gold coin clattered to the floor. Emeric picked it up. Then he kicked the man—hard—square in the back. The thief flew across the room and crashed into the door frame.

"I hate thieves," Emeric said.

The other three rushed him.

The first one swung a fist. Emeric caught it. Pressed a pressure point in his wrist. The man’s arm went limp.

The second one tried to stab him. Emeric sidestepped. Pressed a point in his shoulder. The man collapsed.

The third one ran. Emeric didn’t chase. He just threw a dagger. It pinned the man’s sleeve to the wall.

"Stay," Emeric said.

The man stayed.

Emeric turned back to the counter.

The innkeeper was staring at him. Her hands were still trembling. But there was something else in her eyes now. Relief. Gratitude. Awe.

He collected the key from her trembling fingers. Dropped a gold coin on the counter.

"For the night. I’ll let you know if I’m renewing."

She swallowed. Nodded.

"Yes, my lord. Let me show you to your room."

The room was small. Clean. A bed. A desk. A window that looked out over the city.

Emeric set his backpack down. The sword wrapped in cloth beside it.

He looked out the window.

The capital stretched before him. Lights flickering. Voices carrying. The distant roar of the crowd from the arena.

Tomorrow, the Trials would begin.

He closed the curtains. Lay down on the bed.

He didn’t sleep. ℯ

The capital was awake before dawn.

Emeric heard it from his room—the distant roar of the crowd, the clatter of carriages, the blare of trumpets. The Trials were not just a tournament. They were an event. A spectacle. A reason for the entire kingdom to stop and watch.

He dressed in silence.

Dark trousers. A deep blue tunic. A leather vest reinforced at the shoulders. His cloak—the Cloak of the Unseen—settled across his shoulders like a second skin. His daggers hung at his hips. The Ring of Regeneration glinted on his finger.

And at his side, the sword.

Still wrapped in cloth. Still unopened. Still waiting.

Bjorn had told him not to open it. That it needed to mature. He didn’t know what that meant. But he trusted the dwarf. He would wait.

He left the inn.

The streets of Aurelia were packed.

People from every corner of Valdris had gathered for the Trials. Merchants hawked their wares from crowded stalls. Children ran between legs, waving flags and shouting names. Beggars held out bowls, hoping for coin. Nobles in fine silks and velvets moved through the crowd like fish through water, their servants clearing the way.

Emeric moved with the current.

He passed knights in gleaming armor. Paladins with holy symbols etched into their breastplates. Mages with staffs of crystal and robes of deep purple. Vessels with scars and hard eyes, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons.

They were all here for the same reason.

Glory. Wealth. A chance to rise.

He kept walking.

---

The Grand Arena rose from the center of the city like a mountain.

It was massive. A colosseum of white stone and black iron. Towers at every corner, flying the banners of the noble houses. Seating for thousands—tiered rows that rose toward the sky. A central arena of packed earth and sand, surrounded by walls enchanted to withstand even the strongest magic.

At the northern end, a raised dais.

The royal box.

It was draped in the colors of House Magenta—deep crimson and gold. Banners hung from the railings. Guards stood at attention. And in the center, two thrones.

The king and queen.

Emeric found a place in the standing crowd near the front. Close enough to see the royal box. Close enough to be seen.

He looked up.

King Aldric Magenta sat in his throne. He was a shell of a man. His skin was pale, almost grey. His cheeks were hollow. His hands trembled as they rested on the arms of the throne. His eyes were distant. Unfocused. He looked like a man who had not long for this world.

Beside him, Queen Sylvia Magenta.

She was radiant.