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It was customary to have a servant guide a guest to their host when explicitly invited, hence the beautiful lady in front of him. Scoria didn't mind the company, especially when so pretty, though the pageantry was naught but a farce when it came to Bennu. Each hall was perfectly empty, devoid of the slightest ornamentation, lacking even windows to help orient the uninitiated traveller, only the oppressive corridors of bare metal. Yet still, Scoria had the path bridging his room to Bennu's seared into his retinas by this point.

It was early morning. The day star had only barely started cresting the eastern horizon with its cloak of rose to glow the skies. To a fortress of pure iron, to a floor of panel metal sheets with nary a carpet, this left a frigid malice seeping into every hall. Without any shoes allowed under these metal rooves, the building was an acquired taste.

Scoria did not mind the chill; it had become natural at this point to adjust his own temperature to whatever state he preferred. However, the servant in front of him did not share in his refined control. Each step she took sent sharp stings through her bare feet, adding a short, painful skip to her every step. Scoria loathed how the very design of this fortress was oppressive to the lower bloods. The halls, crafted with such deliberate austerity, were a constant reminder to those of tainted lineage of their inferiority.

Scoria quickened his pace to match the servant's and casually draped his arm around her waist. She flinched with surprise at the unexpected gesture, but Scoria heeded her no mind. With only a little more effort, he immersed her logoic body with his, and adjusted her body temperature as well, enveloping her in a soothing warmth that contrasted with the iron halls' freezing ire.

The servant's face flushed a deep red, and she squeaked out with a mild panic shaking her voice. "Prince Scoria, this humble servant does not deserve such consideration." Scoria did not recognize the servant. He tried to memorize every servant he encountered, so she must have been new. This would explain why she was unfamiliar with Scoria's behaviour, even if surely she must have heard the rumours.

"Don't worry about it." Scoria was dismissive of the entire endeavour; he was always uncomfortable with those malicious praises and apologies. The servant recollected herself, and the two weaved through the many indiscernible halls until they arrived at a large window, an arched opening in the metal walls allowing the howling winds to carry in more morning cold.

The servant, still new, took a deep breath, steeling her resolve and approached the window. Outside, just below her perch, a colossal steel link, thicker than her own height, was anchored to the fortress's mighty walls. The immense chain of goliathan steel stretched out toward another distant spire, some fifty links away, its end nearly lost into a thick mist. The wooden door she knew to be somewhere near the chain's end was not even visible.

The spire itself was swallowed on either end by the omnipresent smog of Hearth's skies. To the right, a steel chimney spat a cloud of thick black smoke, which the wind caught, swirling it across the servant's view before it sank lower, consuming the capital city hidden far below. On the left, more monstrous chains disappeared into the brume, their rusted lengths faintly alit with the eerie orange hue of the distant forest fires—invisible through clouded walls but undeniably present.

The servant choked back a cough of burning lungs. Scoria brushed past her and initiated the trek across the bridging chain. The wind howled fiercely, snapping at his robes and whipping his hair wildly, though the chain was so heavy it hardly fluttered. The servant only hesitated a little longer before she had to chase after her prince or else lose him to another descending black smog.

Scoria felt the clamp of a nervous hand into the back of his clothes. It was a massive breach of etiquette, but upon glancing back and seeing the servant's raised eyes refusing to acknowledge the space below, he simply smiled and continued across.

When they finally reached the opposite end, the servant couldn't rush for the door faster if she tried. The door swung uncomfortably outwards, forcing the two to divide bridge space with the moving door and shuffle their way awkwardly around it.

Stepping inside the spire, Scoria couldn't help but smile when he felt the soft blanket of grass tickle between his toes. The inside of the separated tower was nothing like the rest of the fortress. The vast room stretched before him, its walls not of cold iron but of warm, smooth wood, and the ceiling arched with sturdy beams. The entire floor was a blanket of grass, not the ash and bone that littered the forests of the sodality, but actual lush green grass. Intermixed within the grass were a series of small flowers with small flames floating above their blossoming petals and flickering inspirations of growth to its organic support. This single room was an antithesis to the entire sodality; most nobles hated it, Scoria loved it.

The servant tried to announce her lines in the dignified intonation she was trained with, but the pressure of the powerful presences before her betrayed her practice. "Welcoming Prince Scoria Vitiate into the Abode of Bennu Patina the Phoenix."

An old man sat cross-legged in the center of the room. Two long tufts of grey hair jutted from the crest of his head, resembling the distinct plumage of an aging bird. His chin was smooth and well-defined, the result of a recent shave, and his round belly announced his eager indulgence of a charmed retirement. The old man's face was compounded in an uncountable number of wrinkles, but any ill presence of his overdue age was outshined by his brimming smile and bright eyes. He nodded to the servant as she hesitated at the door. Her placid face strained anxiously, but against the elder's disarming mirth, she knew she only delayed the inevitable. The servant bowed to each Phoenix Bennu and Prince Scoria, then turned and left, the weight of the looming chain bridge visible in her cautious steps as she closed the door behind her.

Bennu laughed at the miserable, disappearing servant. "Poor girl. she'll get used to it." Turning his attention back to Scoria, he gestured with an open palm, inviting him to sit. "Scoria! Come have a seat. How have you been?"

Scoria gladly accepted the invitation, settling onto the soft grass across from the old man. The gentle cushion of the dirt was so comforting that he didn't need to rely on his usual temperate manipulations to keep warm. "I've been doing pretty well," he said, a smile tugging at his lips. "I've been practicing some of those tricks you taught me. I think I can get them down by the time The Tournament starts."

The old man barked a hearty laugh, his voice rich with amused delight. "Ah yes, I had heard from some of the servants that you had run off yesterday to 'train' in a 'secret' spot with a girl." He emphasized the words train and secret with exaggerated air quotes, his grin widening with each syllable. The toothy smile was so unrelenting that it somehow seeped beneath Scoria's confidence, planting a seed of uncomfortable guilt.

"I would like to have you know that I actually was training… this time. I was training with Épée. We try to keep our rendezvous hushed since her father would disapprove… of her training!" He punctuated his explanation with a pointed finger at the old man, hoping to cut off any further misunderstandings.

Bennu gave a knowing nod, stroking his freshly shaven chin. "Oh, you were with Épée. She is one of the few good influences around you, so I better not make too much fun. How is she anyway?"

Scoria shifted his posture, easing the weight off his legs. "Relatively well I suppose. She always has her usual complaints, as I'm sure you can imagine. We ended up talking about The Tournament at some point, and she wasn't so confident that she would get invited. What do you think? If anyone knows, it would be you."

"That girl is very skilled indeed but the competition for The Tournament is tough. Only the Chauffer can really tell."

Scoria was taken aback by Bennu's rare uncertainty. Times when Bennu had no answer were extraordinarily infrequent. To see him falter over what Scoria thought was a straightforward question was unsettling. Bennu's doubt regarding Épée sparked a small seed of doubt within himself. Scoria masked his rooting anxiety with a veil of humour. "Why the serious face?" Scoria said with a smirk. "At this rate, you'll have me second-guessing whether I'll be invited to The Tournament."

Bennu's immediate laughter was a soothing balm to the fluttering nerves in his chest. "You shouldn't let yourself be so arrogant, Scoria; there are still many more people more powerful than you and even more so just as powerful. Don't think you can just rest on your laurels because you've earned a little recognition from your old mentor here."

Bennu's reply seemed to spur Scoria's memory. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a paper and pen. "Speaking of you being old and 'recognition-worthy,'" Scoria said with a teasing smile, "could you sign this letter and leave a message like, 'Get well soon,' or something?"

Bennu took the letter and pen, chuckling under his breath. "No need to pretend it's for another. If you wanted my autograph, you could just ask directly."

"No, no, this is for one of Sanguine's friends." Scoria explained, "She is terminally ill, and she's a huge fan of yours. Sanguine asked if I could get your autograph for her."

"Well, if you put it like that," Bennu said with a grin, "then I suppose I have no choice but to oblige." He carefully positioned the letter on his knee, trying to find an angle to let him write without damaging the paper. But as he began writing his message, the tip of the pen pressed too hard, and with a small pop, it punctured the parchment. "Whoops."

"Don't worry about it," Scoria said, brushing off the mistake. "I'm sure Sanguine's friend won't care." He took the pen and paper back, but despite his casual words, the irritation was clear on his face.

It might have surprised nearly everyone—except for those closest to him—but Scoria secretly loved writing letters. He was fiercely protective of the correspondence he kept and the pen pals with whom he exchanged them.

Scoria pocketed the paper and continued. "By the way, I was thinking about Sanguine. I don't know much about previous contestants at The Tournament, but do you think Sanguine could be the youngest person ever invited to The Tournament?"

Bennu raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well, there was this one insect-like mokoi in the third Tournament. It was only two days old when it was invited. I think it was called a vernal bacillus mokoi."

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Scoria's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "It was invited at that young of an age! How have I never heard of this?"

"They only have a three-day life cycle," Bennu explained with a shrug.

Scoria's amazement immediately crumbled into disappointment. "So, it just died before the first round of The Tournament even began?"

Bennu gave a slight shake of his head. "No, it metamorphosed into a beautiful butterfly. Many who witnessed the fight said it was the most spectacular creature they had ever seen." He hummed thoughtfully, a distant look in his eyes. "Frankly, the literature describing that mokoi is absolutely spell-binding. I only wish I could have seen it in my lifetime."

"A creature that powerful even managed to evolve?" Scoria's disbelief was palpable. "Did it win the third Tournament, then?"

"The butterfly form of that species has no combative capabilities." Bennu scoffed, "A pacifistic mokoi; what a thought." the elderly man waved the tangent away, "Anyways, It was immediately destroyed—horribly and painfully. The Chauffer never invited that species again. Surely, you knew it couldn't have won. The three-armed dragon won the third Tournament."

Scoria nodded, realizing how silly it was that he had forgotten something so basic. The mention of the three-armed dragon triggered a thought in his mind—something he had meant to discuss with Bennu. "Oh, and Bennu, one of the people I write to is a Tarragon Monk, actually."

Bennu leaned forward as his interest was piqued. "I didn't know you were communicating with Tarragon monks. How does that even work? Surely there are no couriers under the day star mad enough to cross the cruor swamps."

Scoria furrowed his brows as he was swept into this superfluous tangent. "I don't know actually. It does take forever for us to exchange letters. I usually only get a letter from him twice a year or so. That is a good question, though. I'll ask him next time I write."

Bennu was saddened by the mild disappointment. "Shame, I was curious how that worked."

"Don't worry about it. I'll tell you when I get a reply. Just don't expect an answer any time soon. Anyways, we are getting sidetracked. In the monk's last letter, he mentioned something interesting going on with the dragons—apparently, a young dragon visited the three-armed dragon at his lair. No fight, though."

A complex mix of emotions flickered across Bennu's face—excitement at the thrilling prospect, a thread of concern at the potential danger, and what might have been a touch of regret or longing, though Scoria doubted it, dismissing it as a misread expression. "That could be troubling," Bennu murmured. "Could it be that the dragons are working together on a project? They're usually so solitary, especially the Three-Armed Dragon." He paused, his brow furrowing as the weight of the situation seemed to settle in. "If they're making moves like this, it could be more serious than we realize. You should tell your father as soon as you can. It's best to be prepared. Dragons mobilizing is something we can't afford to let catch us off guard."

Scoria shifted uneasily with an uncomfortable grimace, "It feels a bit wrong using the letter the monk wrote me in reverence of his deities to plan defensive measures against those very same beings."

Bennu placed a reassuring hand on Scoria's shoulder. "I'm sure that monk was fully aware of how you would act. And while the dragons may be deities to the Tarragon, they have not disillusioned themselves into believing they are some kind of merciful protectors. Even the Tarragon monks understand that dragons are dangerous creatures, proud and self-serving, thinking of themselves above all else."

Scoria still felt a gnawing apprehension over how he had handled the delicately confided contents of the monk's letter. However, he also found himself unable to argue against Bennu's perspective. He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly in reluctant acceptance. "I guess you're right," Scoria murmured as he became increasingly aware of the conducting heat that radiated off the metal walls. The natural aesthetic of Bennu's chamber helped mitigate the worst of the shifting climate, but the fortress's internal clock was still announcing the sweltering rise of the day star. "Wow, we really got sidetracked, didn't we? Remember when this was supposed to be a master calling for his pupil?" He shook his head, forcing a smile to re-energize his spirits. "So, what is it that you're going to teach me today?"

Bennu responded, his voice unbothered, as if he hadn't noticed Scoria's subtle attempt to change the subject. "Why the rush? Let us talk some more."

Scoria startled, confused at Bennu's unusual request and equally anxious about moving on with the lesson. He was in no position to argue with his teacher and knew it would do no good to resist. "Um, okay," he replied uncertainly. "What do you want to talk about?"

Bennu's voice remained casual, his expression unreadable. "Do you still love Névé?"

Scoria froze, completely taken off guard. His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, he couldn't find the words. The conversation had shifted from light-hearted to something much heavier, and Bennu—of all people—was the last person Scoria wanted to question him regarding the girl. "Névé?" he said, stalling, his tone defensive. "She was some girl who ran away from the Sodality of Rain, right? Why would I care about a water bug?"

Bennu's eyes remained steady on him, unbothered. "Scoria, you need not lie to me. I am old and tired; I care not for rivalries nor dogma; speak from your heart. Do you love Névé?"

Scoria could not speak for a while, his mind racing. He had a growing suspicion that this was not a simple conversation between master and pupil. He didn't think he was here today to be taught more fire techniques. Nerves resumed their aching flutter within his chest as he readied to answer the question. But answer with what? "I don't know."

He meant to say no, but somehow those were the words that came out instead. It wasn't that the answer was yes, and he wanted it to be no, nor vice versa. It was just that the question was much more complicated than that. After all, this was a person he had not seen for eight years. Simultaneously, it was someone that he hadn't forgotten for eight years.

"What will you do when you meet her at The Tournament?" Bennu asked, his face impassive. His voice gave nothing away. It was impossible to read what his intentions were. Even after learning so much more about his personality over the last few months, Scoria still had no idea what Bennu was trying to ascertain.

"How do you know that she will be invited to The Tournament?" It was a stupid question; it was obvious that she would be invited to The Tournament. Even eight years ago, she probably could have been invited. Even though Scoria knew the answer, he wanted to hear someone else say it.

"I'm sure you have heard the rumours. That Névé has been working with the White Witch." Scoria opened his mouth to try and explain, but no words came. There was nothing to explain with. Bennu raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks, and continued without hesitation. "These rumours have been confirmed, and we do not know for how long she has been with the White Witch in these eight years. I have no doubt that Névé will be invited to The Tournament. In fact, I have no doubt that she will be the most powerful human there. Bennu paused, his eyes locking with Scoria's. "The real question is—what will you do about it?"

Scoria was speechless, overwhelmed by a flood of questions. Névé was powerful, yes—but the strongest human? Even stronger than the Hero of New Heirisson conquest? Why was Bennu so certain? Beyond that, what could Scoria do against someone like that? How was he supposed to face an ally of the White Witch? What would the White Witch do to someone who dared defeat one of her allies? The thought alone sent a chill through him. None of this would matter if Névé had never left. Why, Névé? Why did you leave?

Bennu continued, his voice unshakable. "I will not teach you a new technique today. In fact, I have nothing left to teach you; if you master all that I have taught, then you will know all that I have known and will do all that I have done." He paused, his gaze unwavering. "You're a smart boy, Scoria. I'm sure you realize that I've been setting you up to be the next Phoenix.

A shadow passed over Bennu's face, and his tone grew heavier. "The last thing I have to give you to fully relinquish my title... is the Phoenix ash."

Scoria's breath caught, but Bennu carried on." Many believe the passing of the Phoenix ash is nothing more than a ritual, but in truth, it's tied to the soul sea itself. The ash grows more powerful with each generation, imbibing its wielder with the strength of all those who came before. That's the true nature of the Phoenix power. When you receive the Phoenix ash, save consuming it until your most dire moment, for its activation is spontaneous—and comes with certain... advantages."

Scoria's thoughts were stripped away from Névé as they scrambled to catch up with Bennu. "I didn't realize it was such a big deal. That ritual honestly just weirded me out for the most part, but now I get it. But I thought the Phoenix ash only gets inherited when the previous Phoenix dies. It's times like this when I'm almost annoyed at how healthy you are." He crossed his arms, faking a scowl. "I'm still not willing to accept that you beat me in that hundred-meter dash."

Bennu quipped back with a cheeky grin. "Just because I am capable of beating some soft boy like you does not change the fact that I am old."

Scoria, momentarily taken aback by the jab, scoffed. "What? Soft? I'm jacked! My muscles make all the girls swoon! Also, you're not even that old. Ken the Preeminent is a hundred and twelve."

"I am not he. He boasts wonderous magic and profound essential knowledge to gather his vitality. Any other human in this world would be thankful to have lived to eighty-four; although, if I really tried, I think I could squeeze out another decade or two." Bennu paused, searching carefully for the right words. "Scoria, listen to me. I have done my duties in this world; it is time I pass my legacy. But I am a greedy person. I want to be historical. I refuse to die until I make that happen, and being the old guy that whooped the dude with the jacked muscles at the hundred-meter dash does not quite reach the heights I was hoping for."

Scoria raised an eyebrow at the Phoenix's strange determination towards a goal that the entire continent would unanimously agree that he had already accomplished. "Historical? You already are. You could simply rest on your coattails for the rest of your life, and you would still be the most legendary person in this castle. Leave some world-changing feats for the rest of us."

Bennu shook his head, a wry smile flickering at the edges of his lips. "No, being part of Murugan Squad and fighting mokoi is not where I want my history to lie. Someday, in the far future, such trivial things will be forgotten. What I want... is something much greater—something only you can accomplish for me."

Scoria looked at the Phoenix with a mix of perplexion and jubilation. "Something only I can accomplish? Well, well, of course, I would be willing to help. I cannot wait to tell everyone that the great Phoenix needed my help to do something."

Bennu remained unperturbed by Scoria's teasing. "I want peace between the Sodalities, a reunion of Rain and Cinder. I want what only you and Névé can accomplish."

Scoria was at a loss for words. Within this bastion of nature, nestled within the iron fortress of Cinders, those words were nothing short of treason. Never throughout the entire history of either of the sodalities was peace amongst each other ever thought of as a possibility. Even more worrying was the implied solution for accomplishing this dream.

Bennu spoke again, his tone unwavering. "Névé is an extremely dangerous opponent and even I don't fully understand what she's capable of or what she's willing to do now. But I need you to bring her back—somehow—for the sake of the Sodalities. For this goal, I will do all that I can to provide you with the necessary tools."

"Okay, sure, but even if I master everything you taught me, I wouldn't be confident in my ability to beat her, and that was before you told me she would be the most powerful human in The Tournament. I could keep training to fight her again after The Tournament, but I wouldn't even know how to find her; given that scenario, I don't know if I would be able to accomplish your dream in time."

"You don't understand."

Scoria wanted to say something, but just as he managed to let out his voice, he was interrupted by the chime of a bell. His vision of Bennu was obstructed by what seemed to be a small pink rhombus that grew out of thin air, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other shapes. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards Scoria holding a glowing parchment: It read.

You have been invited to The Tournament You are The Phoenix