Kaen stood over Sorn, casting a shadow that blended with the moonlight filtering through the windows. Sorn glanced up at the young boy. Their only encounter hadn’t left Sorn with the best impression. There was a deliberate avoidance in Kaen’s attitude that convinced Sorn to keep away. Now, seemingly by his own volition, Kaen was staring at him from about a mere meter away.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Kaen said.
"Well, your father wishes to ensure my death tomorrow," Sorn’s reply was a bit more sarcastic than he had intended.
Kaen nodded. He lowered himself in a single motion, settling beside Sorn, his gaze drifting to the same darkened sky that Sorn had been observing for hours.
The proximity of Varian’s child drew Sorn away from his spiraling thoughts. He studied the boy, noting his calm demeanor.
"Aren't you afraid?" Sorn ventured.
"Afraid of what?" Kaen's tone was devoid of mockery, a genuine question.
"The Tournament."
"Why would I be?"
Sorn marveled at the boy's composure. At fifteen, Kaen faced a similar fate to Sorn. According to Oden, he too was a pawn in his father's game, destined to depart from life. Yet, where Sorn felt angst, Kaen exhibited tranquility.
"I'm scared," Sorn confessed. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the weight of his dread pressing down. "I've trained hard, and I have capable allies, but I don't want to die."
Kaen turned his gaze upon Sorn, peeling his eyes away from the sky to look at the black-haired boy. "I approached you because of your defeated eyes," he said. "But you're even more pathetic than I imagined."
Sorn recoiled a bit, stung by the blunt assessment. He grappled with his emotions, uncertain if he should feel insulted by such an analysis.
Kaen's expression bore into Sorn as he talked. "With an attitude like yours, you'll die instantly. You've lost before the battle's started." He gestured around the room, his finger tracing an arc that encompassed the walls. "Every Spear lives here, and their mentalities in battle are far more advanced than yours."
Rising to his feet, Kaen continued to speak. "You said you've worked hard, right? Just trust in that, and you'll be fine. Or you'll die fighting. Either way, it's better than succumbing to your cowardice. So don't let anybody know your weakness. Especially your enemy."
Sorn watched as the boy departed, his silhouette diminishing into the shadows of the adjoining chamber. A guard, stationed nearby, cast a questioning glance toward Kaen. After a brief exchange, the sentry stepped aside, permitting the young Spear to vanish from sight.
The following day stretched interminably. Confined within the same austere room, Sorn oscillated between pacing the stone floor, gazing through the window, and sleeping. His only companions in this period were the watchful guards and a silent boy who delivered small meals.
The earlier interaction with Kaen lingered in Sorn's mind. While his anxiety remained, he found himself better equipped to banish the more insidious thoughts that were gnawing at him earlier. Some of him yearned to express gratitude, but Kaen did not reappear.
As the night of the Prophecy drew near, the weight of solitude was finally broken by the arrival of someone Sorn recognized well.
"You’ve kept pace," came the gruff voice of the Swirling Spear of the First Division. "You’ll follow me until I tell you otherwise."
Jaron, without a word, handed him a blindfold. Sorn accepted without hesitation, slipping it over his eyes. They moved in silence, the world narrowing to the echo of their footfalls until they made it out of the Goblet. When the blindfold came off, the surrounding snow was bathed in the fading light of dusk. A mere quarter hour had passed before they reached the stage. It was a vast, empty thing of ice. The setting sun bled across the surface, spilling fiery orange and rich purples, a fleeting moment of warmth before the Prophecy.
The stage was empty, save for a single podium and a set of stairs leading up to another platform. Atop the higher platform, five chairs rested in solemn arrangement, their design a reflection of the Council’s meeting hall, a cruel reminder of the past trial Sorn endured and almost died in. Beyond the stage rose a towering wall of ice.
"Go behind those chairs," Jaron instructed, his hand gesturing toward the icy backdrop. "There’s a hole within the wall. Wait there until you are told otherwise."
Wordlessly, Sorn obeyed, stepping into the shadowed recess behind the chairs. There, he found two figures awaiting him. Their presence was imposing, both in stature and reputation.
One was a hulking figure, with a broad shoulder and chest, yet still smaller than most Marauders Sorn had encountered. The other was a slighter man, but no less formidable for it. His long hair hung loosely about his face, his eyes bored and distant, as if the world had long ceased to hold his interest. But even in that indifference, there was a sharpness that could not be ignored.
The Emperor’s Royal Guard was a powerful force that Sorn had heard many rumors about in the Marauder Hall. The fact that it took but two of them to stand watch over the entire Guard spoke volumes of their strength.
Sorn recognized these two from the trial, though their names lay just beyond the reach of his memory. It was the larger man who chose to break the silence, sparing Sorn the effort of fumbling for their identities.
“Hello, Sorn,” the man’s voice was a heavy stone cast into an abyss. “I am Aran, of the Royal Guard, formerly leader of the Turtles. And this,” he gestured to the second man, his large arm sweeping toward the silent figure beside him, “is Flaren, one of the Second Division of the Spears.”
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Flaren’s gaze slid toward Sorn. His voice, when it came, was almost a drawl. “No need to look so frightened,” he said, “I couldn’t care less about you.”
Sorn, taken aback by the mention of the man’s former clan, found himself briefly flustered, but he quickly himself before speaking again. “So what exactly is happening here?”
“Is it not obvious?” Aran asked, his voice flat. “We are waiting.”
The three of them spent the rest of their time in silence. Slowly, like a distant tide creeping in, the murmurs of a growing crowd began to reach Sorn’s ears. Though the looming chairs ahead obscured much of his view, the sound of hundreds of voices meant that an audience was gathering. It wasn’t long before Sorn could hear the rustling of the Council members settling into their seats. They weren’t speaking much, only exchanging brief greetings, but the air between them was taut with unspoken tension. Leaders of the Fortress, each with their ambitions, each with their secrets.
Suddenly, the stillness in the backstage was broken by a voice—old and raspy in a way that made Sorn flinch.
"In such a gloomy and dark world," it croaked, "how do you expect to find the guiding light of hope?"
Sorn’s gaze snapped toward the source of the voice. The Emperor had arrived. The man’s figure was hunched and frail, his silver crown gleaming. He was draped in a robe that glowed faintly, but the most striking thing about him was his sharp eyes, belying the frailty of his body. Behind him stood two children, a boy, and a girl, both no older than ten or twelve, their small hands clutching at the hem of his robe.
"Off with you two," the Emperor said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Go find a place in the audience." The children bowed low and then scampered off into the distance, escaping the room like mice scurrying towards a meal.
The Emperor’s gaze then shifted to Sorn, and for the first time, their eyes met. It was a curious thing, the way the Emperor regarded him. It was not as an enemy or an inconvenience that Sorn had grown to expect, but with the familiarity of an old friend.
“This is our first true conversation, isn’t it?” the Emperor remarked with a faint smile. He paused for a moment, his gaze softening as he looked toward the children who had now disappeared into the crowd. “Those two... they are orphaned siblings. They’ve done much to help me in my old age. It is thanks to them that I am still able to walk on my own two feet today.”
Sorn nodded, though he didn’t ask and didn’t care either. More importantly, Crystal’s father, the Emperor, the most powerful man in the Fortress—did not seem to view Sorn as a mere nuisance to be stamped out. There was something in the Emperor’s gaze and voice that suggested he saw more than a pest. It was a welcomed notion that strengthened Sorn’s soul.
The Emperor’s smile flickered, sudden and sharp. Aran and Flaren dropped to their knees, bowing low, prostrating themselves before the shadows. Sorn could feel it then, a strange shift in the air A presence was nearing, though he couldn’t tell who else could command such a reaction from the Royal Guard. Aran and Flaren had barely stirred at the Emperor’s arrival, but now, as they knelt, their bodies almost touched the cold floor.
“So, you awaken from your slumber,” the Emperor said, a grin spreading across his weathered face. The shadows seemed to part like a curtain, revealing the source of the disturbance. A foot, gnarled and ugly, emerged from the darkness, encased in a simple sandal. Then, inch by inch, the rest of the figure stepped into vie.
The man who appeared was somehow older than the Emperor. He seemed to barely stand at all, his frail form trembling with age, the stick of ice he clutched shaking violently as though it might snap at any moment. His body was hunched, every movement labored. As Aran moved to offer assistance, the elder raised a hand, his expression grim.
“The Last Phoenix will not be violated by a lowly, sinful man like yourself,” he rasped, his voice a whisper of authority. His eyes, though barely open, seemed to take in everything around him.
He turned his head slowly toward the Emperor. “The stars have given me many hints,” he murmured, a deep conviction in his voice. “Tonight will be revolutionary.”
The Emperor nodded. “I look forward to it.”
With a slight gesture, the Emperor beckoned the strange figure forward, and together, the two ancient men stepped out onto the stage. Sorn could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Aran, still kneeling, straightened slightly and turned his attention to Sorn.
“Go on,” Aran said, his voice low but commanding. “Follow them. We’ll stay back here.”
Sorn nodded and stepped toward the crevice in the wall, the cold air rushing over him as he emerged into the open. The night sky stretched endlessly above him, a canvas of dark blues and purples. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the crowd, stretching farther than he could see, a sea of faces. Every single one of them was focused on the stage, focused on him.
Sorn fell into step behind the two old men, though it took every ounce of his willpower not to hurry. Their pace was painfully slow, only adding to the unease that churned in his gut.
He didn’t turn his head to glance behind him, but the feeling of eyes upon him was unmistakable. He could feel the gazes of the Council members like needles in his back.
Now, standing at the edge of the stage, Sorn was surrounded by every Ice Elemental in the Fortress. He didn’t want to look out over them, and he didn’t want to sift through their faces. Their blue hair, all of them with the same pale hue, blended in a strange, undulating sea. He could hear the quiet rustle of breath, the shifting of feet, the barely contained excitement that thrummed through the crowd. Murmurs were abundant, but he couldn’t make sense of any of them.
For the first time, Sorn allowed himself to glance behind him. His eyes caught sight of Varian, his eyes unyielding, like a statue staring down from the peak of a mountain. Sorn turned back to the two ancient figures ahead, grateful for the distraction.
The old men had halted before the podium now, their slow steps bringing them to a place of prominence. The Emperor, still standing with the fragility of age about him, raised his hands with a silent authority.
And then, as if the air itself had been shaped by his will, a strange sight unfolded. Ice, cold and glimmering, began to form high above the crowd. Two birdlike heads emerged, twisting and curling into shape, their jagged edges gleaming in the dim light. They hung suspended in the air for a moment, watching over the audience with grace. Then, slowly, they began to split, doubling and redoubling, forming two long rows that stretched across the entire expanse of the gathered crowd. Each ice head, curved and perfect, mirrored the others, until the rows reached the very ends of the audience, filling.
When the Emperor spoke again, his voice carried with an unnatural resonance, amplified through the rows of ice birds. The sound echoed through the hollow shapes, reverberating to allow the entire audience to hear his every word.
“Welcome, all,” the Emperor began. “My beloved sons and daughters, you stand here today as descendants of our first Emperor, Aelon, may his soul rest with the Gods.”
A murmur rose from the crowd, and a prayer of reverence whispered in harmony.
“As you know, Aelon left us a legacy and we have been tasked with an undertaking beyond our imagination. We are to reclaim the endless power Seraph left behind after his valiant victory against the King of Demons, and we have only three years to prepare.”
The Emperor’s words hung in the air, a weight that settled deep within the chests of the audience members. He paused then, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces, allowing the murmurs to settle, letting the gravity of his speech seep in. The crowd shifted restlessly, a quiet wave of concern passing between them.
“You may be concerned, or anxious upon hearing this,” the Emperor continued, his voice softening with an almost fatherly calm. “We have never met our enemies, and we will not meet them until our final battle. The unknown, as we all know, is a terrifying thing. But my people,” he said, his tone rising, “you must not fear. For the Gods have chosen us.”
His words seemed to ripple through the air. “For many years, the sky has been our closest companion, offering us guidance, telling us of our fate. And today,” the Emperor’s eyes glinted, “today is the final day the sky will speak to us. And we will receive much information indeed. And most importantly—”
With a sudden movement, the Emperor placed a hand on Sorn’s shoulder, guiding him forward. Sorn stumbled slightly as he was pushed to the very edge of the stage, the sharp chill of the air brushing against his skin. He blinked against the sea of unfamiliar faces, all turned toward him, their eyes wide and expectant, studying him like some rare and fascinating creature.
The Emperor stood beside him, one hand resting lightly on Sorn’s back, a proud smile on his face. “This boy, Sorn,” the Emperor declared, his voice booming across the crowd, “was a gift from the sky. He fell into our lands by the will of the Gods. If the Gods truly intend to favor us to the very end,” the Emperor’s smile widened, “then they will tell us good fortune regarding this boy. And we will use whatever is given to us to the best of our advantage.”
The audience stood in silence as the final echoes of the Emperor's words died away within the beaks of his ice birds. Then, he spoke again.
“Now, I invite my oldest companion. It is fate itself that has allowed him to reach the age of two hundred and fifty. The Last Phoenix of the Pythia Clan will give you the final Prophecy.”
It was only then that Sorn noticed the Last Phoenix had been looking into the sky the entire time, muttering to himself under his breath. Then, with a sudden fluidity, he stepped forward, moving with a grace that seemed entirely at odds with his ancient form. His eyes, though clouded with age, appeared distant, as though the man were possessed by something far beyond mortal understanding.
“I will now begin the Prophecy,” he said, his voice a chill in the air.