The Last Phoenix lifted his arm, pointing upwards.
“To the North, the Black Tortoise remains idle and unmoving.”
He shifted his hand, pointing to his left.
“To the West, the White Tiger remains outcasted. They will soon be done anticipating.”
With a sharp movement, he pointed to his right.
“To the East, the Azure Dragon roars, waiting for a chance to unleash its jaws at our throats.”
Finally, he pointed downward, his voice remaining confident.
“And to the South, the Vermillion Bird flies away, making its final escape.”
His voice suddenly became lower, but it mattered not as every word he spoke was also being echoed in the beaks of the Emperor’s ice birds.
The crimson walls begin to crumble.
Frost claims the throne, only for it to be reclaimed.
A rightful heir emerges from the cascade.
Shadows waltz among your people, mumbling spells.
The wheel of fate spins around again.
Escaped petals drift through the icy wind.
The roses have long decayed.
To those wading through a sea of darkness.
The roots of the throne must keep your gaze.
When the remnants of the past strike back.
The people will engage in a lost spite.
The order crumbled.
All due to the second and his dragon’s flight
The arrival of a radiant arc illuminates the concealed.
Games woven upon lies.
The spear that pierces to the sound of the rhythm
Clashing with the fiery streaks that bequeath death
From the abyss, the heir is sent to claim the crown.
And the sun’s bird is reborn.
The seven forged by the frozen hand—
Just as the next verse began to roll from his lips, a spear whistled through the air. It struck true, its point sinking deep into the head of the Last Phoenix, a flash of crimson staining the night as the old man immediately fell to the floor. Then the spear, guided by something unseen, twisted mid-flight, changing its course. It hurtled toward Sorn, its deadly tip aimed straight at his chest, its velocity too high for Sorn to even perceive the projectile.
“I didn’t expect him to go for the geezer first.”
Sorn blinked, and there was Aran, appearing in front of him as if he had anticipated this entire situation. The spear, once brilliant and imposing, was now nothing more than a crushed ruin in Aran’s grip, the pole of ice now shattered into fragments. Sorn’s gaze snapped to Varian, whose towering figure stood a fair distance behind Aran. Varian’s eyes were locked on him, unblinking, his face a portrait of cold fury. The calm mask was gone, replaced by an open, unfiltered hostility.
The air seemed to thicken, and before Sorn could even take a breath, an axe pressed sharp and unforgiving against one side of Varian’s throat, while a needle-thin blade kissed the other. Bjorn and Freyja, moving like shadows, flanked Varian on either side, their weapons raised high and aimed with lethal intent. Their presence was a warning. No movement would be tolerated from Varian. One twitch and his head would be no more.
A sudden, sharp snap cut through the stillness like a crack of thunder, and Cedric had gotten up from his throne and walked before Varian. In his hands, a chain of ice unfurled, its frigid coils glowing a pale blue. It slithered through the air, twisting like a serpent, its razor-sharp links extending long enough to strike at any who dared come too close. The chain hissed with menace, repeating snapping sounds as it danced in the air.
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“You confuse me, Cedric,” Varian’s voice was thick with the weight of disappointment.
Cedric’s gaze never wavered, his voice cutting through the tension with an edge sharp enough to sever steel. “I’ve given you grace for too long, older brother,” he said. “But tonight, that ends. I’m done with your silence. I will have answers, or you won’t leave this place alive. What did you do to Fiore?”
For a long moment, Varian stood unmoving. The entire world had drawn in a single, collective breath, waiting for the moment to pass. The seconds stretched into eternity, and time itself seemed to pause.
And then, the chaos descended.
Automatic Defense, one of Varian’s secret spells activated without warning. Spears of malicious ice formed around him, generating faster than any could perceive. They were aimed with perfect precision at those who possessed intentions to harm him. Freyja’s arm moved in a flash, her weapon deflecting one of the spears with a practiced flick of her wrist, sending it spiraling harmlessly away. Bjorn twisted just enough to avoid the brunt of the attack, but not without the spear grazing his shoulder, tearing a thin, bloody line across his flesh.
Varian surged forward, his body a blur. He was past Cedric in an instant, but Freyja was already upon him, her blade drawn, her eyes fierce with resolve. The two were moments from clashing when a voice, loud and commanding, rang out from the bird speakers above, cutting through the rising storm of violence.
“STOP!”
Below, in the rows of the audience, unrest stirred. Small uprisings and bitter infightings broke out among the rival clans, as those loyal to their respective leaders followed suit, mirroring the chaos unfolding above. The air was thick with tension, as whispers and shouts filled the space. But just as the bickering and discord seemed on the verge of consuming the crowd, the voice rumbled through the air, a single word shaking the very bones of all who heard it.
The command was not just heard but felt, deep in their chests, a voice that made blood hum and the breath freeze. Every head in the room turned instinctively, drawn to the source of the voice. There, on the stage, stood the Emperor. His shoes were soaked in the blood of the Last Phoenix. The frozen heads of the birds began to melt, their icy forms dissolving into nothingness.
The old man slowly turned toward Varian. Varian, in return, locked eyes with him, his gaze filled with quiet fury. Freyja had stepped back, retreating to stand among the other Council members. The space between Varian and the Emperor was now empty, with nothing separating the ruler of the Fortress from the leader of the Council.
The Emperor’s voice came again. "For what purpose do you create such an outburst?"
As the words left his lips, a spear formed behind Varian. The weapon aimed itself directly at Sorn, its tip gleaming with malice. In a fluid motion, Aran stepped forward, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the outsider. He stood between Sorn and the weapon, his eyes locked on Varian with the quiet promise of violence should the need arise.
Varian, however, did not flinch. His gaze shifted once more to the Emperor. The old man had made no motion, no gesture since his question had been asked. The air hung heavy with the weight of the moment, as all eyes now rested on the confrontation between these two men.
“Did you not hear the Prophecy?” Varian’s voice lashed out, dripping with disdain. “Who do you think the boy in the abyss is? Do you truly intend to let that pest fulfill his destiny and overtake you?” He almost spat the words, his anger palpable.
The Emperor's eyes remained steady. “You misunderstand, Varian,” he said softly. “Your tendency to jump to conclusions, even at such a senior position, disappoints me. Sorn is not the true heir.”
Varian’s jaw clenched, his voice rising, almost a shout now. “Then who is?”
The Emperor’s silence was the only response. Varian’s eyes narrowed even further, the simmering fury inside him intensifying with every passing moment.
“I will not have this any longer,” Varian growled. “I don’t understand why you insist on making me suffer like this, but I cannot allow—”
“Oh, dear Varian,” the Emperor interrupted, his voice suddenly soft, almost amused. “But you will.”
Before Varian could react, the air around him seemed to freeze. A massive swan of ice materialized from nothingness, its wings spreading wide, encircling Varian in a frozen prison. The creature’s long neck arched gracefully down toward the Emperor, so long that it reached from the top of the stage to where the Emperor stood. The swan moved with a life of its own, its eyes cold and unblinking as it trapped Varian within its crystalline wings.
The Emperor smiled calmly, as though this were all part of a game. He reached out, stroking the swan’s neck before he began to walk toward Varian, his steps measured.
“You will do as I say, understand?” The Emperor’s voice dropped to a low whisper, so quiet that only Varian could hear it.
Varian, struggling within the trap, managed to turn his head, his gaze defiant even as the frozen creature held him tight. “The swan of sealing. I didn’t think you still had this in you.”
“Do you trust me, Varian?” The Emperor asked.
Varian didn’t flinch. “No.”
“But you realize now,” the Emperor continued, his smile almost fond, “you must trust me.”
Varian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he said nothing. The silence stretched between them. Then, in a blink, the swan of ice vanished, dissolving into nothingness as quickly as it had appeared. The grip that had held Varian in place was gone.
The Emperor, flanked by Flaren, began to walk away. Varian’s gaze followed him, but his attention was drawn to Flaren, who walked beside the Emperor with a casual ease. Flaren had once been a prodigy of Varian’s clan, now he was aligning himself with the Emperor without even a glance in Varian’s direction.
Varian’s eyes shifted toward the other members of the Council. Lyra had not moved from her original position, still in her designated chair. Bjorn had already left, and the number of Marauders in the audience had also run thin. Freyja had settled back beside Lyra, speaking softly with her, their conversation a murmur against the growing tension. Cedric still stood at the edge of the upper platform, his eyes locked on Varian with a simmering glare, but making no move.
As Varian lingered, two figures leaped up beside him. Faron and Radan, both of his First Division. Faron’s brow furrowed as he addressed his superior. “What are we to do now?” he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
Varian took a deep breath and turned, his mind calculating the next steps. Without hesitation, he began to walk off the stage, his subordinates falling in line behind him. He hopped down from the edge, his eyes fixed ahead, already focused on what needed to be done.
“We begin preparing for the Tournament,” Varian replied simply.
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Sorn stood at the top of the towering ice cylinder, a dizzying height that made the ground seem like a distant memory. The wind tugged at his clothes, and from this height, the world seemed small, almost fragile. If he stretched his hand far enough, perhaps he could even grasp the stars. He felt a vague unease, a queasiness that curled in his stomach as he stared off the edge.
Aran sat a few meters away, his figure. The two of them had ascended in silence the moment the Emperor had summoned his swan of sealing. A floating platform of ice had waited for them, and it carried them upward, rising steadily as they stepped onto it. It was the highest Sorn had been since his fall from the sky, a height that felt unnatural, almost as if the ground had slipped away beneath him.
Aran had not spoken much since their arrival, but suddenly he began to speak. "I have two daughters,"
Sorn blinked, caught off guard. "Huh?" he replied, unsure what had prompted this sudden revelation.
"I don’t think of them often," Aran continued, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "I guess you're around the same age as them, and seeing you and how scared you are; I suppose that’s how they’ve been feeling since I abandoned them." He paused. "I don’t even know if they’ll be in the Tournament."
The words hung between them. For a moment, Sorn didn’t know how to respond. The stoic man was showing a side of himself Sorn had never thought to see. Aran stood up, as he walked beside Sorn to the edge of the cylinder, gazing down at the vast expanse below, his shoulders straight and unmoving as he took in the scene.
"And now it begins," Aran said. He turned to Sorn with one final glance. "I wish you the best of luck."
Before Sorn could respond, a flurry of movement caught his eye. Ice platforms, like shimmering mirrors, shot up from the surrounding arena. Figures stood upon each, each person a solitary silhouette against the frozen landscape. They leaped off their platforms, landing gracefully on the edge of the circular arena.
Sorn barely had time to comprehend the scene before he turned back to find Aran, only to see the man tumble off the edge of the cylinder. Sorn’s heart skipped a beat as he watched him fall, wondering why the man had done that, and if he was okay.
But before he could even finish processing a thought, a sudden rush of pressure gripped his body. His vision blurred, and in the next instant, he found himself bound, his limbs restrained by invisible force, his vision obscured by an unknown object. Panic surged through him, but it was quickly swallowed by the realization that this was it, the first stage had begun.