there was only a smooth expanse of skin, yet he moved with the confidence of one who could see clearly.

The hall held its breath as the newcomer made his way directly to Zellrid. A tense silence reigned, broken only by the soft tread of the blind man’s boots on stone. When he finally came to a stop before Zellrid, a smile spread across his scarred face.

"It has been so long," the man said, his voice carrying easily through the silent hall, "son of Thorgar."

Zellrid's eye widened for a fraction of a second before his face settled back into its usual stoic mask. He straightened, squaring his shoulders as he faced the newcomer.

"Zonarc," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Bold of you to show your face here, after what you did to the Grandmaster."

The blind man's smile widened, sharp as a knife's edge. "Ah, Zellrid. Still holding onto old grudges, I see. Or should I say... you see, and I don't?" He gestured to his eyeless face with his single hand, chuckling softly.

Ordeon's massive frame tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his weapon. "You've got some nerve, traitor. Give me one reason why I shouldn't end you where you stand."

Zonarc's head tilted, as if considering the threat. "Now, now, Ordeon. Is that any way to treat a man seeking redemption? I've changed. Why, I even took my own sight, just to be... less than I was." His voice dripped with false humility.

"Some rules shouldn't be broken, Zonarc," Ordeon growled. "Consider yourself lucky I haven't killed you yet."

The tension in the hall was palpable, every Larian present coiled like a spring, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Zonarc's smile never faltered. "Ah, but you'll want to hear why I'm really here. You see, my little feathered friend delivered some rather interesting news two days ago." He paused, letting the anticipation build. "It seems our dear Zellrid has quite the price on his head. One million gold pieces, offered by the Kings of the North themselves."

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Murmurs of disbelief and shock filled the air.

Aerovind, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly choked on his drink. He sputtered, wiping ale from his chin as he stared at Zonarc incredulously. "I'm sorry, did you say one million gold pieces? For this grumpy, one-eyed bastard?" He jerked a thumb at Zellrid. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but isn't that a bit... excessive?"

Zonarc's eyeless gaze seemed to find Aerovind unerringly. "Oh? And who might you be, golden eyes?"

"Someone who's wondering if protecting our brooding friend here might be considered an act of war," Aerovind replied, his usual smirk returning. "Not that I'm opposed to a little international incident now and then, but it does seem like overkill."

Ordeon's brow furrowed. "An alliance between the North... it hasn't been seen since the Age of Ghouls."

"Ah, but times are changing," Zonarc interjected smoothly. "The Emperian king, the smartest ruler alive... he's making moves, gentlemen. Big moves."

Zellrid's eye narrowed. "You're dancing around something, Zonarc. What aren't you telling us?"

Zonarc's smile turned predatory. "Well, since you asked so nicely... I'm here on business, you see. A contract, to be precise. From your dear old dad, Thorgar himself."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Zellrid's hand tightened on his weapon, his knuckles turning white.

"Now, now," Zonarc continued, raising his hand in a placating gesture. "Before you do anything rash, hear me out. I can break this contract... if you'll let me rejoin the Nightstalkers. Let me die with honor in the next Purging Games."

Aerovind whistled low. "Well, isn't this a charming family reunion? Zellrid, my friend, your father has an interesting way of reaching out. Most people just send a card."

Zellrid remained silent, his single eye boring into Zonarc's eyeless face.

Zellrid's mouth opened, a refusal on his lips, but Ordeon's booming voice cut through the tension like a thunderclap.

"Alright," Ordeon declared, silencing the hall.

Panic erupted among the Nightstalkers, voices rising in a cacophony of disbelief and anger. Ordeon's eyes flashed dangerously, and he slammed his fist on the nearest table, splintering the wood.

"ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. The hall fell silent instantly. "I am your leader, and my word is final. Zonarc will participate in the games, but until then..." He turned to the eyeless man, his gaze hard. "You are not welcome here. Leave, now."

Zonarc bowed with exaggerated courtesy. "As you wish." He turned to leave, but paused, his head tilting towards Aerovind and Ela. "Oh, and yellow eyes? You might want to keep a closer eye on that little one. Beelzebub has been... restless lately."

Aerovind's ever-present smirk vanished, replaced by a snarl of pure rage. The air around him shimmered with heat as he took a menacing step towards Zonarc. "What did you say?"

Zonarc's smile widened as he faced Aerovind, their auras clashing violently. The stone floor beneath their feet cracked, the pressure of their power palpable to everyone in the room.

Suddenly, a faint whisper echoed in Aerovind's mind. "Not now, partner," Typhon's voice rumbled from the red sword at his hip. "This one... he's an avatar of Satan, the Wrath Devil himself. Bide your time."

With visible effort, Aerovind reined in his fury. His yellow eyes blazed as he leaned in close to Zonarc. "You've made this personal, you eyeless bastard," he hissed. "Remember this moment when I'm standing over your broken body, because I don't leave debts unpaid."

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Zonarc's smile never faltered as he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the stunned silence of the hall.

Zellrid let out a long, weary sigh as the doors closed behind Zonarc. Ordeon wiped sweat from his brow, the pressure of the confrontation leaving even him shaken.

"Alright, show's over," Ordeon announced, his voice gruff. "Party's done. Everyone back to work. We've got a lot to prepare for."

As the Nightstalkers began to disperse, muttering amongst themselves, Zellrid turned to Aerovind. "You alright?" he asked, concern evident in his usually gruff voice.

Aerovind's trademark smirk returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, just peachy. But your friend here has definitely made an enemy."

The dawn broke over the Nightstalkers' stronghold, painting the sky in hues of amber and crimson. Within the fortress's imposing walls, the clash of steel against steel rang out from the training grounds.

Aerovind stood in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by nine burly Nightstalkers. In his hands, he held an unfamiliar weapon—a pair of wickedly sharp swords connected by a length of chain. His usual smirk was replaced by a look of intense concentration as he attempted to master the unwieldy armament.

"Come on, yellow-eyes!" Ordeon's booming voice carried across the yard. "You're thinking too much. Let the weapon become an extension of yourself!"

Aerovind's brow furrowed as he whirled the chained swords around his body. The blades whistled through the air, narrowly missing his own limbs. "Extension of myself, he says," Aerovind muttered. "I prefer my extremities attached, thank you very much."

One of the Nightstalkers lunged forward, his own chained swords singing through the air. Aerovind reacted on instinct, one blade deflecting the attack while the other snaked around his opponent's weapon. With a sharp tug, he disarmed the Nightstalker, sending him sprawling to the ground.

A moment of stunned silence fell over the courtyard, broken by Aerovind's triumphant whoop. "Ha! Did you see that? I'm a natural!"

Ordeon's laughter boomed across the yard. "Not bad, yellow-eyes. Not bad at all. You might just survive the games after all."

As the training session wound down, Aerovind approached Ordeon, twirling the chained swords with newfound confidence. "I've got to hand it to you, big guy. These are something else. Bit like trying to dance with an angry cat, but I think I'm getting the hang of it."

Ordeon's scarred face split into a grin. "Glad you like them. They've saved my hide more times than I can count."

Aerovind's expression grew serious, his yellow eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Speaking of saving hides... tell me about Zonarc. What's his deal?"

Ordeon's smile faded, replaced by a grim look. "Zonarc... now there's a name that brings back memories. Not all of them pleasant."

The Nightstalker leader led Aerovind to a quieter corner of the courtyard, his voice low as he began his tale. "Zonarc was a prodigy, a natural-born killer with skills that put the rest of us to shame. In the Purging Games four years ago, he tore through the competition like they were made of parchment."

Aerovind listened intently, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen.

Ordeon continued, his eyes distant with memory. "It wasn't just his physical prowess. Zonarc had a technique, something he called the 'Kai Zone.' When he used it, it was like he could see every move before it happened. No one could touch him."

"In the final round, he faced off against our Grandmaster. It should have been an even match, experience against raw talent. But Zonarc..." Ordeon's massive fists clenched. "He didn't just defeat the Grandmaster. He humiliated him, toyed with him like a cat with a mouse. And then, when the Grandmaster yielded, Zonarc killed him anyway."

Aerovind's eyes widened. "Damn. No wonder you all looked ready to gut him on the spot."

Ordeon nodded grimly. "That's not even the half of it. There are whispers that Zonarc is more than just a skilled fighter. Some say he's a Celestial Nightstalker a rare breed that carries the blood of both the devilish and angelic tribes."

"Well, that explains the charming personality," Aerovind quipped, though his tone lacked its usual mirth. "Listen, Ordeon. I need to be in these Purging Games. Zonarc has something I need."

Ordeon raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what might that be?"

Aerovind's grin returned, sharp and dangerous. "Let's just say it's a personal matter. Now, about that payment we discussed..."

"Ah, yes. The Key of Eternity." Ordeon nodded. "It's in a steel chest in my quarters. But remember, it's useless without—"

"The blood of each avatar of the demon gods," Aerovind finished. "I know. I've already got one—Mammon's. Just six more to go."

Ordeon studied Aerovind for a long moment before reaching into his pocket and producing a small, ornate key. "Here. Whenever you're ready to claim it, it's yours."

Aerovind pocketed the key with a nod of thanks. As he turned to leave, Ordeon called out, "Aerovind. Whatever game you're playing... be careful. Zonarc isn't someone to be trifled with."

The yellow-eyed traveler's smirk widened. "Ordeon, my friend, trifling is what I do best."

----------------------------------------

Meanwhile, in a dimly lit chamber within the fortress, Zellrid lay awake, his single eye fixed on the stone ceiling above. Beside him, Lyra slumbered peacefully, her lithe form pressed against his side, her arms wrapped possessively around his torso.

Zellrid's calloused fingers absently played with a lock of Lyra's hair, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and worries. The bounty on his head, the looming threat of the eldritch presence in his mind, Zonarc's unexpected return—it all weighed heavily upon him.

Lyra stirred, her eyes fluttering open to meet Zellrid's gaze. A soft smile graced her lips as she pressed closer to him. "Good morning, my love," she murmured, her voice still husky with sleep.

Zellrid's stern features softened as he looked down at her. "Morning," he rumbled, his voice a low growl.

Lyra's hands began to wander, tracing the scars that criss crossed Zellrid's muscled chest. "You're thinking too loudly again," she teased, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Perhaps I can help quiet your mind?"

A rare smile tugged at the corner of Zellrid's mouth as he rolled over, pinning Lyra beneath him. "Is that so?" he said, his eye darkening with desire.

Lyra arched her neck, baring her creamy white throat to him. "I've been known to be... resourceful," she purred, running her nails lightly down his back.

Zellrid growled low in his chest, his self-control shattering like glass. His lips found hers in a crushing kiss, their tongues dancing together in a sensual tango as their clothing fell away in a flurry of fabric.

His hands gripped her hips, marveling at the way her curves molded to his hard muscles. Lyra's nails raked down his back, eliciting a low groan from him.

Soft moans and sighs filled the chamber as Zellrid and Lyra became lost in each other's arms, their bodies moving in perfect harmony.

When they finally lay spent, Lyra's head resting on Zellrid's chest, she spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Zellrid... when all of this is over, will you marry me?"

Zellrid's hand, which had been lazily stroking her back, stilled for a moment. Then, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. "I promise," he said softly.

Lyra's arms tightened around him, her smile radiant. "I love you," she whispered fervently. "In every universe, whatever you are."

Zellrid's throat tightened with emotion. "And I love you," he replied, his usual gruffness softened by genuine affection.

“Wakey wakey cyclops.”

Their moment of peace was shattered by a thunderous knocking at the chamber door. "Rise and shine, lovebirds!" Aerovind's cheerful voice rang out. "Time to face the day, unless you two are too busy facing each other!"

Zellrid groaned, burying his face in the pillow. "I'm going to kill him," he muttered.

Lyra laughed, pressing a quick kiss to Zellrid's cheek before sliding out of bed. "No, you won't. You like him too much."