Dark. Terrifying. Unknown. Isolated.

Isolated— Alone. So alone. I’m so alone.

Where am I? What’s going on?

How long has it been since I’ve been trapped in this dark decrepit place? A day, two days? I sit here, my wrists and legs bound. I sit upon this chair of wood, as I rot in my shit and piss. I have been given no food and no water. I have had no one to talk to. I hold onto memories, my duty, and my family.

Alone, I’m so alone.

Footsteps— Those are footsteps!

“Ah, it stinks here!”

“This is your first time around a rotten body. I envy your innocence.”

“Silence brute, before I rip your head off.”

“Shut up, both of you.”

A hand reaches out. The warmth of another, but this warmth is ice cold. Fear has overridden my joy for companionship.

What did I do? Where did I go wrong?

At least I’m no longer alone.

The bag upon my head. It’s gone. I blink. Once, twice. My eyes must adjust to the light—

Oh, how I wish I kept them closed.

Bjorn of the Marauders, Freyja of the Dancing Blade, Cedric of the Chains. To be honored with the presence of three renowned Council members as much in a pile of my feces, what an experience.

Ah… Behind them. I see it now. It was you. Damn you, damn you to the hottest fires the Gods can offer!.

“He’s been talking to himself for a while.”

“Well, what do you expect? That’s what happens when you leave a man like this for so long.”

“Hello Berten.”

Oden leaned toward the custodian of the Dancing Blade, trying to ignore the abhorrent stench that permeated the room. He was surrounded by three Council members, so he couldn't help but feel out of place.

Yet, such trivial matters meant nothing in the face of the duty at hand.

The young Marauder clapped his hands sharply, startling the depraved man before him. Berten squealed, his eyes finally focusing for the first time.

"Oden..."

"Back to reality? Calmed down?"

"You bastard, you bastard—"

Berten's tirade ceased abruptly as Oden unveiled an axe of ice.

"For so long, we've had such a great relationship. But you couldn't have made your attempts to generate discord more obvious? I just wonder how many small pigs like you Spears employ for their most mundane tasks."

Shivering, Berten averted his gaze. The man was unwell. "I was born a Dancing Blade. I've always been loyal to the Dancing Blade."

"So why feed me false notes for so long?"

Berten's eyes drifted to Freyja, and realization dawned upon him. He had not connected the dots earlier in his panicked state. For how long had Oden been playing him like a fiddle?

Oden smiled. "Since we first started talking. To be honest, everything about you became useless to me after a week, but I found it amusing to toy with you."

The captured man began muttering to himself once again, and Oden had responded.

"Now, let's try again. Why did you give me those notes?"

Berten let out a heavy breath, "I was born a Dancing Blade. I was chosen by the Order. I serve the Iron Stag. He will free me; he will pass judgment on you."

This was the lifeline Berten had clung to all this time. Without hope, he would have been completely lost. But he believed in the man who embodied fury, inspiration, and wisdom. The greatest man of the greatest clan.

"Varian's not coming, Berten. He doesn't know you. He doesn't care about you. I don't know which Third or Second Division scum recruited you, but they've long forgotten about you now. There's no one coming for you," Oden smiled as he slowly let these words drip from his mouth like venom.

They were words that confirmed doubts. Words that cut sharper than a sword. Words that extinguished hope.

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"I don't have any information worth giving. Just kill me," Berten said, reduced to a shell of a man.

The Winter Warden moved forward, the weight of his presence filling the cold room. “Do you know anything regarding the name Fiore?” he asked.

“I don’t kn—”

The man’s answer was cut short, his throat torn open by the vicious lash of an ice chain. The room fell into a heavy silence. A moment later, a large man stumbled through a jagged hole in the wall. It was Gunnar, one of the elite three Marauders, his broad frame well suited for the work he had done in carving out networks of underground rooms. He had twisted through the bowels of the earth so that the Marauders could slip through the underground unnoticed, attending to any business too secret for the surface.

“Ey, boss,” Gunnar rumbled, looking at the corpse with a raised brow, “we gonna leave him to rot down here?”

Bjorn’s eyes never left the body. “Yes,” he replied, his voice lacking its usual hearty warmth. “Seal the tunnels.”

Freyja, renowned as the Fortress’s most graceful, seemed the most unbothered by the fetid air. She looked over at Cedric, her gaze playful.

“Convinced now?” she asked.

Cedric’s lip curled in disdain, bitterness riding his tone. “I always was,” he growled. “I just never wanted to admit it.”

Oden stood apart from them all, his gaze fixed on the corpse at his feet. His thoughts were tangled, too many to unravel in a single breath, yet each one seemed to pull him deeper into the dark places of his soul. The blood pooled beneath the dead man, spreading across the dirt and rocks. Oden didn’t move until it reached his feet.

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Sorn despised idleness. Nearly alone in the Marauder Hall, he swung his legs over the edge of his bed, restless. Training crossed his mind, but after his earlier loss of control, he hesitated to use his power. Thus, he had spent hours confined to his room, ensnared by his thoughts.

"Hey Sorn, have you seen Oden around?"

Serene's voice broke through his reverie. She appeared disheveled, sweat glistening on her brow, multiple gashes marking her arms, accompanied by a nasty-looking bruise.

"Are you okay?" Sorn blurted out.

"I'll be fine; just a few light scratches. Had to go all out for the last training before the Tournament. Can't have me hurting myself right before, y'know."

"Ah," Sorn responded, uncertain whether to feel relieved or concerned. "Well, Oden mentioned he had some business to attend to when I arrived at the Hall. I haven't heard from him since."

"Gotcha," Serene replied, giving Sorn an extra glance. "I heard what happened at the Training Ground. You doing alright?"

"I'm fine," Sorn replied.

"Y'know, don't let them get in your head. It's a good thing Keilan's gonna participate. Great opportunity to get revenge," Serene said, pumping her fist confidently, her long warrior's braid swaying behind her. Sorn had never seen this side of the Marauder. It appeared that a good training session helped the reserved girl break from her shell.

"Well, I'll be off now," Serene waved goodbye before Sorn could respond.

"Be off where?" Serene yelped in surprise as Oden stood unfazed before her. He smiled widely upon seeing her properly. "Got a good session in, huh?"

Serene glanced at him suspiciously. "No one around here said they've seen you. Did you sneak in?"

"Maybe I did," Oden said. "I just felt a bit gross, so I melted a few blocks for my shower."

"How many?"

"Three."

To take a shower, one had to melt a block of ice with a special heating pad found in the belly of a Merkal, a fluffy lizard-like creature. The pad is activated by physical force, and the more pads a shower has, the higher the water pressure will be. Generally, blocks of ice are thick, so three is quite an impressive number.

The two continued to banter as Sorn watched. Generally, they engaged in quiet, serious discussions. Seeing how the cousins playfully interacted revealed a new side of them to Sorn. Eventually, Oden's demeanor became more serious as he turned towards Sorn.

"Anyways, I came here to tell you something important. Word going around is—"

Another Marauder, one Sorn recognized but couldn't recall the name of, crept behind Oden, whose face became even more solemn.

"They're here for you," he said.

"Who?" Sorn replied, his voice uneasy.

"The First Division."

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The Spears' cheers echoed through the courtyard as they heralded the arrival of Jaron, the Swirling Spear of the First Division. At the forefront stood Harvard, one of the elite three Marauders, his chest puffed with pride, causing his curled blue mustache to twitch with each breath.

Oden navigated through the crowd of Marauders standing at the entrance. They were shouting back at the Spears, and it was clear the situation needed de-escalation. With Sorn and Serene trailing closely behind, Oden halted beside Harvard. This was Sorn's first encounter with a First Division member, at least with the knowledge of their rank. Jaron was a man of modest stature, perhaps slightly shorter than Crystal, yet he exuded an air of unwavering confidence. His gaze met the towering stature of Harvard without a hint of intimidation. As Oden and Sorn approached, Jaron's attention shifted to them, and Harvard stepped back, letting Oden take control of this situation.

"Greetings, Outsider," Jaron said smoothly. "I have been sent to retrieve you by Lord Varian himself. We will offer you hospitality in the Goblet until the night of the Prophecy. This measure ensures your presence will be accounted for."

Oden responded on Sorn's behalf, "This was not part of our agreement."

"No, it is not," Jaron conceded. "But the Iron Stag wills it. Do you intend to defy him?"

"How can I trust anything you say if you change the agreement without prior notice?"

"Do you not trust us? Lord Varian may be many things to you, but is a liar one of them?"

Oden bit his lip, contemplating, before turning to Sorn. "Alright, you go with him."

"Ah—" Sorn began, hoping for more resistance from Oden. The thought of entering the Spear's domain, home to those who despised him most, filled him with dread.

Sensing his hesitation, Serene nudged him forward, causing him to stumble between the two parties. Jaron regarded him with a studious gaze. "Good evening, Sorn. Please stay close to me as we head towards the Goblet."

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The procession to the Goblet was an uneventful affair. Sorn, flanked by Jaron and his group of Spears, trudged through the Fortress with the weight of a prisoner marching to his fate. The Spears maintained their silence, their eyes fixed ahead. Occasionally, passersby would pause, their curious gazes lingering on Sorn, amplifying his discomfort. Yet, the Spears remained indifferent, their posture unwavering as they escorted him with an air of duty.

Upon reaching the base of the Goblet, a blindfold was secured over Sorn's eyes. Deprived of sight, he was led through a complex path of corridors, each step echoing ominously in the silence. After a few minutes, the blindfold was removed, revealing Varian seated upon a throne of molten metal spears. The Iron Stag's gaze bore down upon Sorn, reminiscent of the Trial, yet the smaller size of the setting made it more unsettling.

"Rumor has it that you have developed into quite the fighter." Varian's began. Sorn remained silent, prompting Varian to continue.

"That's one thing those Marauders excel at—combat. While our relationship may be strained, I believe in coexistence. Without military prowess, we cannot hope to triumph on the Promised Day, especially if we falter in the race. You, however, are expendable. Is a mere mortal competing against Elementals? The notion is so blasphemous, it makes my blood boil." Despite the harshness in his words, Varian's demeanor remained composed.

"But time will tell, won't it? Will you rise to the challenge or falter at the first frozen river? I eagerly await the outcome." It became clear to Sorn then—Varian was content right now due to his certainty that Sorn would not survive the Tournament. The realization made Sorn sick.

Unbothered by Sorn's silence, Varian pressed on. "Your presence here ensures you won't flee before the appointed time. You are permitted to roam this floor, but the stairs are forbidden. Do you understand? Now, begone, mortal."

Dismissed, Sorn wandered until he found himself in a vast, empty chamber. One wall was a pane of ice, offering a panoramic view of the outside. The altitude made his stomach churn. As he sat, lost in thought, he couldn't ignore the two guards stationed nearby, their eyes never leaving him.

Isolation gnawed at Sorn. The unfamiliar surroundings made him yearn for the relative comfort of the Marauders' quarters, away from the oppressive scrutiny of those who despised him. Varian's confidence in his demise weighed heavily on his mind. He had trained his powers diligently, but doubt crept in. The more time he spent alive, the clearer it became—he did not want to die.

As his thoughts spiraled, a hand clasped his, halting his tremors.

"Can you not look any more pathetic in my house?"

The voice, tinged with boredom, came from his left. Turning, Sorn recognized the face—the boy from the roof, the Spear's Disappointment. Kaen, Varian's son, who had once ignored him, was now initiating conversation.