Beneath the Arena, the claws of hell finally began to recede.
Panic dissolved into procedure. Temperatures dropped. Steam thinned into drifting haze. Leaks were sealed. Fractured mechanisms restored. Scorched metal cooled beneath waves of stabilised current as the systems, one by one, returned to rhythm.
At the center of it all, the Core pulsed steadily.
Ancient. Immense. Alive.
The old man watched it in silence, satisfaction settling faintly into the lines of his weathered face.
Behind him, uneven footsteps approached through the haze.
The engineer returned.
His robes were blackened now. One sleeve half burned away entirely, exposing flesh blistered red from wrist to elbow. His hands trembled despite every effort to still them. Yet his posture remained upright as he crossed the final stretch of platform and lowered himself into a bow.
Silent. Respect before pain.
In his outstretched hands, the system report.
The old man accepted the report without immediately looking at it. His gaze lingered upon the rhythmic pulse of the Core a moment longer before finally lowering toward the figures etched across the page.
His eyes moved once across the report. Then again.
A faint shift touched his expression.
"How long?"
The engineer swallowed against the dryness in his throat.
"An hour," he answered quietly. "Perhaps two."
The old man's gaze lifted from the report, drifting once more toward the wounded machinery all around them. Smoke, steam, damaged platforms and a half-dead team.
"You are generous in your estimate," he said softly. "Forty-three minutes."
The engineer's jaw tightened. The report was returned to him.
"Transfer the findings to the ground teams," the old man continued. "Have the Elder informed, and request her presence here."
The engineer bowed once. "As you command."
He turned to leave.
"Wait."
The younger man stopped instantly. The old man's gaze lowered toward the burns crawling across the engineer's exposed arm. Then farther below, toward the specialists still moving through smoke and heat, carrying the injured between stations.
Some walked. Some did not.
"Requisition healers from House Oryn as well."
The engineer blinked once. Then, despite the pain twisting visibly across his face, relief touched him in the form of a faint smile.
"Understood."
This bow came deeper than the last.
Then he disappeared back into the haze.
---
Above, the spectacle remained suspended in uneasy stillness.
Only the orbiting observation spheres continued to move, drifting slowly around the colossal dome of geometric current encasing the Arena.
Atop the dome, Alison.
Flat on his back. One leg crossed lazily over the other, feigning ignorance over the task he'd already been given. His crimson gaze strolled casually, following the observation spheres, one finger idly tracing the frozen face of the Calamity General, only inches away from where the dome peaked.
Ugly thing, he thought to himself.
Below, no one laughed. No one even seemed to acknowledge his existence from where he lay. All eyes remained fixed upon the two silhouettes trapped within the projection.
Still unmoving.
Higher above, the true battle was setting in.
Garrek felt it everywhere his gaze turned. Schemes. Agendas. Calculations. All pressed into a Pre-historic box, where the line between collapse and doom was more or less the same thing.
His unease deepened.
From the Thirty-Eighth. From the Elders. And more concerningly—from the Thirty-Ninth. Everywhere, coordination; nowhere a clear picture or answer.
His eyes started marking. Anything that made his pulse twitch was marked. At least four among the Thirty-Ninth, three within the Thirty-Eighth. Then the Elders, and their armies of minions.
His fingers tapped once against the armrest.
It wasn't possible. He would need assistance.
The realization settled bitterly in his chest. Resentfully so. Soon, he would require all Three Heavens.
Garrek exhaled slowly and leaned back into his seat, his gaze returning toward the unmoving silhouettes suspended within the dome.
---
By now, word of the system report had reached the Elders.
Meris rose from her throne and vanished beneath the stands. Insurance against doom, should the worst come to pass.
Above, the rest remained as they were, confidence bordering on arrogance. Nothing was going to change the inevitable. Not a red-blood warming the seat of the Patriarch, not a blundering fool of an Elder who couldn't get his asset to follow orders properly, or even a nuisance of a boy who'd caused them sleepless nights.
This would be a short fight. They had made certain of it.
All that remained now was the clash.
***************
Within, the world had been rendered in shades of black and white.
Shattered pillars drifted through the heavens, the bones of a broken kingdom. Entire masses of earth and unnamed history floated silently above the field, ready to bear witness to ruin.
It was cold. Colder than the Vale.
Winds whispered endlessly across the wasteland, carrying low, haunting hums through the ash-darkened expanse. Grey fog smothered the horizon. Embers drifted endlessly, their glow mimicked faintly by cracked pillars and the rock masses that loomed above, working desperately to shed light on what waited below.
To the north.
A lone flag. Untouched. Six wings stretched from its branching frame, fluttering beneath the endless wind. The plaques etched into its surface cast a light steadily devoured beneath ashfall and glowing embers.
Beside it, Viren Nyxvalis.
Tall. Immovable.
Silver armour, untouched beneath the storm, reflecting the monochrome world around him in fractured shades of pale light. Across his chest, the golden mark of House Artyr—the Hands that led him here. In the left crook of his arm, a feathered helm. The golden strands woven from the mane of a sun-ape. It fell with one swing.
In his right, his hand rested on the hammer that bashed its skull in. Gregor. Its head buried beneath ash where his feet had sunk under his own weight.
His eyes glowed faintly. Hair bound tightly beneath loving hands. Braids of the unbroken Shield.
He said nothing. Wasn't going to.
To the far south. Another flag.
Obsidian black. Six wings. One silver mark. A Mantle, nothing more.
Beside it, Chion Nyxvalis.
Cloaked in black. An arrogant silhouette whose edges blurred within the gloom that surrounded him. To his right, a blade. Long. Too long. Not his.
Hanging above his neck, heresy embedded with gold.
His frame small, a speck whose weight barely pushed the ash down beneath his feet. He was calm. His heart steady, and dying.
Silver met silver across the wasteland.
The current circling the Trial thickened with each second that passed. Intent maturing into inevitable violence.
Tradition demanded word before blood.
Chion spoke first.
"By your word, Senior—show me the worth of a dog of the Council."
The helm in his crook slid into place. Every gap, sealed. His expression shifting beneath the gesture. Disgust coiled in his veins. He had only one word.
"You're still small, boy."
Nothing more.
Across the wasteland, Chion smiled. Insult received with a smile.
"Well," he replied softly. "I am twelve."
The reaction was immediate. Rage. Viren's grip tightened once around Gregor.
Ash rose.
Two moved.
The first doctrine of Nyxvalis Combat fulfilled: No pride exists in allowing an enemy the first swing.