There are those, in idle moments, who ponder the nature of the Nygmar. Dwellers of the deep, neither beast nor kin, they stand apart from the true races of the empire. They lack the grace of the Silkborn, the resilience of humankind, the divinity of the Numen. Not even the greenskins, wicked and wily, would claim them as cunning. Even their sightless kin possess gifts denied to them. And yet— Where others waver, the Nygmar do not. Where others doubt, the Nygmar believe. With unceasing, unquestioning zeal, they surrender themselves to the Crimson Heart, their bloody god, and in His name, they will someday rise. Sulphen protect our souls.
– Archscholar Aurelian Vethis, On the Lesser Orders and the Divine Chain
Aslavain: Twenty-Four Days After the Summer Solstice
Sylva trailed Hadrian and Casselia through the open flap of the great tent, its worn canvas belying the immensity within. Beyond the modest entrance lay an arena that stretched wider than it appeared from the outside—a cavernous expanse with vaulted ceilings and gently sloping ground that cradled secrets of ancient contests.
At the center of the arena, a duel unfolded with ferocious clarity. On one side, a Bal fighter clad in a billowing fur cloak swung a heavy axe with bone-crunching force; his every movement stirred a palpable charge in the air. Opposite him, a lithe combatant danced through the fray, wielding a bone blade as he frantically dodged the axe. He was already glowing with a vibrant yellow light.
The tent pulsed with a symphony of voices and shifting moods as Sylva’s eyes roamed over the crowd. Here, candidates and Eidolons mingled in unexpected ways—a carefully orchestrated chaos of ambition and tradition.
In one corner, a small circle of figures in embroidered silks leaned in close, their conversation low and urgent. One man, his robe subtly patterned with faded sigils, traced a finger along the hilt of his wooden blade as he whispered to a woman whose eyes flashed with quiet intensity beneath a delicate veil.
A short distance away, a motley group gathered around a scarred veteran, an Eidolon she guessed, draped in worn leather and fur. He recounted a battle from years past with a half-smile and a tired glint in his eyes, while beside him, a young fighter with more scars than words responded with loud, raucous laughter—the cadence of their banter blending seamlessly with the clash of the duel at the center.
Elsewhere, near the fringes of the noise, two Dion stood out—not by their silence, but by the quiet intensity of their exchange. One, with a shock of silver hair and eyes that seemed to see beyond the present moment, consulted with a trader whose stall boasted fabrics that shimmered like captured twilight and trinkets that whispered of distant, sunlit bazaars. The Dion’s skeletal companion—a animated bird with carved rubies for eyes and onyx claws—shifted with an almost sentient curiosity, its gemstone eyes reflecting an otherworldly light.
The air itself thrummed with these interwoven threads of purpose—a living tapestry where every soft murmur or boisterous laugh carried the weight of unspoken stories. Sylva felt the pull of each narrative, a reminder that here, in the Dornogor arena, every person was both a spectator and a participant in something far larger than any single duel or whispered strategy.
“Come,” Krinka said, tugging Sylva aside as they weaved through the shifting clusters toward a row of seats near the shimmering barrier. Just then, the duel snapped to a climax—the Bal fighter’s axe came to an abrupt halt against a rippling shield of Sulphen that cocooned his opponent. The lithe combatant, momentarily bathed in a wash of red, darted away from the halted blow. In the charged silence that followed, a presence filled the arena.
From amidst the cacophony emerged a thin, commanding figure who stood above the fighting pit as though this was her solemn duty. She wore a suit of silver armor so brilliantly forged that it caught every stray glimmer of light, distorting the inky swirls of Sulphen that danced about her in Sylva’s vision. With a graceful, measured motion, she raised one hand, and her voice—clear, cool, and unyielding—cut through the residual din.
“I pronounce, by the impartial veil’s mandate, that Noyan of Clan Sary stands victorious in this duel. Isadine of the Ivory Halls, you are to exit the arena immediately.”
Her words were not raised, yet they carried the weight of an unspoken edict. Sylva’s gaze was magnetically drawn to the armor’s shifting luster. It wasn’t simply the polished metal that fascinated her—it was the way the Sulphen gathered at its edges, as if drawn to a hidden, inexorable power. Every inch of the womans gear seemed to whisper of duty and an unyielding commitment to balance.
The armor’s pauldrons, carved with the intricate profile of a veiled figure, were particularly arresting. Each sculpted face bore eyes turned outward, as though guarding the soul of justice itself, and beneath each was etched a silent promise: In the Veil’s Darkness, Every Soul Is Equal. In that moment, Sylva understood that this was no mere officer of the law but a Knight of the Veil—a true Justicar whose very presence could reshape the auras around her.
Krinka leaned in, his tone hushed but insistent. “Don’t stare too long,” he murmured, glancing sideways at a vibrant, parrot-like creature perched on a woman in a blue silk robe. “The Justicar’s armor exudes an aura of the veil—too much exposure might skew your thoughts with its relentless drive for balance.”
Sylva’s pulse quickened as she found herself unable to look away. Each time she met the shifting light on the engraved pauldrons, she felt a quiet pull, as if the armor’s steady brilliance were urging her to surrender to a higher, impartial order. The Sulphen’s glow swirled around the carvings, deepening its meaning until she felt her own sense of self wane, replaced by a sudden, almost alien clarity.
“Sylva,” Krinka repeated softly, steadying her with a gentle but firm grip on her arm. “Keep your focus on me.” His eyes searched hers, urging her to anchor herself against the lure of that overwhelming presence. “Justicars carry the veil’s legacy wherever they go. Their armor doesn’t just protect—it transforms. If you aren’t cautious, you might find your thoughts bending to that endless pursuit of justice.”
In that suspended moment, the roar of the duel and the murmurs of the crowd faded into the background. Sylva stood torn between the allure of the Justicar’s enigmatic authority and Krinka’s urgent command. She drew her gaze away, focusing on Casselia and Hadrian as they approached the very same Justicar.
“I have heard of the Veil, of course I have,” Sylva murmured, her voice soft with wonder, “but to actually feel it…” She paused, her eyes magnetically drawn back to the engraved pauldrons, as though the etched image itself whispered promises of balance and fate.
Krinka’s tone dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur as he scanned the bustling crowd with practiced ease. “Alsarana despises that sensation above all else. The Veil was crafted by the Titan of Justice—to secure equity and balance for those dwelling beneath its expansive mantle. Though the Titan perished in the Blood Wars, the Veil endures, casting its impartial gaze upon us all.” He paused before meeting her eyes with a fierce intensity. “Casselia has plans for you, Sylva. She intends for you to train with the Justicars eventually.”
“Train with them? Me?” Sylva’s breath caught in her throat, a mixture of astonishment and anticipation tightening her chest. For so long, her destiny had seemed set for Eisentor—the City of Woven Word—where a different kind of skill was prized. The notion of training with one of the traveling arbiters had never even flitted through her mind. Yet, as her eyes returned to the shimmering armor—its shifting luster melding with the swirling Sulphen—a profound calm seeped into her, as if the very promise of justice were inviting her to step into a new role.
Krinka’s gaze softened for a moment, and he added, “I suspect you’ll find the teachings of the Justicars far more… agreeable than Als or even myself. The Veil judges us more harshly than we deserve; its influence is relentless, an ever-present force pushing for equality. We haven’t directly defied the Justicars—few organizations dare—but our relations haven’t been pristine, not since the days of the Marquis of Bone.”
He shook his head as if dismissing an unwelcome memory, then continued, “Now, Casselia and Hadrian are preparing to descend for the next bout, and I have my own tasks to see to before our training this afternoon. Casselia is prone to stirring the pot after every bout, so I suggest you pick a few promising candidates among the gathered contenders for the upcoming challenges.”
Sylva’s eyes narrowed slightly as uncertainty crept in. “You’re not staying?” she asked, her tone tinged with disappointment. She had expected the [Historian] to remain by her side—to help parse the flow of the fight and the personalities of those mingling nearby. The thought of facing these complexities alone unsettled her.
Krinka offered a small, reassuring smile. “Casselia remains—and tonight, I’m here to answer any questions you have.” With one last lingering glance at the imposing Justicar, he rose and departed, leaving Sylva alone on the bench, her mind abuzz with the promises and burdens of a destiny newly hinted at.
Once Krinka melted into the throng, Sylva allowed her gaze to drift across the vast tapestry of the arena’s denizens. To her, the Eidolons were like an undercurrent—a chorus of subtle hues and pulsing Sulphen, each radiating its own tale. One shimmer spoke of herders united in gentle consensus, their auras soft and harmonious, while another glowed with the solitary intensity of relentless hunters. Some Eidolons bore the burnished marks of hard-won battles, their light a testimony to countless clashes; others, quieter and more tentative, seemed content to merely observe. A few, cloaked in deliberately muted glows, hinted at secrets kept hidden from prying eyes, but most revealed their nature in a vivid, unguarded display.
In contrast, the candidates often felt like mere shadows amid these vibrant displays—until a few groups caught her discerning eye. In one secluded section, a cluster of men and women bore burn scars across arms, legs, and even faces—a tapestry of raised, discolored flesh that marked them as the Penitent, devout worshipers of fire and servants to the Sunborn. Their auras blazed with an almost tangible heat, a fierce energy that Sylva found unsettling. She recognized with a start that these were companions of Hadrian’s opponent, each pulse of Sulphen echoing the raw, unyielding power of fire and pyromancy.
Not far from them, a tall, thin man with pallid skin stood amid a semicircle of candidates accompanied by necromantic constructs. Skeletal remnants—birds, dogs, even a lemur—moved in eerie parodies of life around him. The unmistakable aura of [Necromancers] hung heavy in the air, a morbid counterpoint to the living chaos of the arena. Nearby, a diminutive figure, scarcely half the height of his peers and draped in vivid crimson robes, sat motionless. The Sulphen encircling him seemed almost predatory—hungry for conflict and blood—and Sylva quickly averted her eyes, unsettled by the palpable violence in his aura.
“Mind if I take this seat?” a gentle voice interrupted Sylva’s thoughts. She turned to see a pudgy woman clad in intricately woven robes of ivory thread, her bright blue eyes warm and inviting as she extended a hand. “Pardon, we haven’t met yet—I’m Valentine. And you, my dear, are one of the few in this tent who exude enough potential to justify my time.”
After a brief pause, Sylva stood and accepted the handshake with a measured smile. “I’m Sylva of Clan Strenath,” she introduced herself, her voice steady. As she settled onto the bench beside Valentine, she couldn’t help but notice the quiet power in the Sulphen that enveloped her new companion—a gentle radiance that spoke of long, arduous hours spent perfecting a craft merging the art of death with the sanctity of bone. Dion—maybe even one of the rare members of the Blood—Sylva thought after taking in the aura.
“Why are you in Dornogor?” Sylva inquired, glancing around before returning her gaze to Valentine. “I didn’t expect to find so many Necromancers in the City of Beasts.”
Valentine’s smile shifted into one of knowing amusement. “The bones are a benefit, certainly. But mainly, I’ve heard there’ll be real competition this cycle. Word is, multiple sets of [Venerate] are stirring up trouble. Supposedly, the [Squire of Carven Bone] duels daily at noon—and if he loses, his title passes to the victor.” For a moment, excitement lit her features, only to be tempered as she added, “But then, the [Venerate] training him decreed that mentees of other [Venerate] aren’t eligible for this little challenge. Seems a tad cowardly, don’t you think? Though, what do I know.”
“That seems more than fair,” Sylva replied with a playful lilt, matching Valentine’s casual tone. “The [Squire] worked hard for that honor—it’s almost generous to offer others the chance to steal it away.”
“We all worked hard to get here,” Valentine scoffed. “Do you truly believe one of us mere humans could work harder than such a refined Silkborn as yourself?” Sylva found something in that line of reasoning appealing. “Rovan made a poor choice this year. Despite making the correct decision to ignore the Numen applicants, he still failed to find talent who could take up his true mantle.”
“And which of the [Venerate] are you training under?” Sylva asked, suddenly very interested in the candidate next to her.
“Oh, I am sure you haven’t heard of them,” Valentine said. “They aren’t nearly as important as a mentor like the [Archivist] or—crypts forbid—the Crownless herself.”
“Chanvar of the Warriors Blood wouldn’t be your mentor, would he?” Sylva asked, her gaze flicking to the tall man surrounded by [Necromancers]. “Not that you seem like you would need training from a warrior,” she added, no longer feeling the need to avoid conflict. She was confident that this woman was not her ally.
“We take what we can get,” Valentine said with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “It is merely for our time in Aslavain, and then man has a bone affinity befitting a [Venerate] of the empire. You should see him when he lifts his veil; it makes me want to strip the flesh from the nearest bone just to witness their glory.”
Valentine turned to Sylva, meeting her gaze and ensuring that her next words would be taken seriously. “You don’t need to waste your talents with them, Sylva. Your emerald robes—they speak of Eisentor and of a duty to your sect that you are abandoning. And for what? Some Kiel nobody who won’t even be able to use the skills offered by the [Squire of Carven Bone]?”
Sylva prepared to respond, but Valentine continued uninterrupted, giving her no moment to interject. “Do you really need some Bal barbarian, unable even to contain his rage? You speak to me of the honor that I always heard defined the Sect of Silken Grace, and yet here you stand on the cusp of abandoning it. You don’t intend to go to Eisentor. You intend to betray your clan—not that that is unexpected for someone working with the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown]. Their oaths are worth as much as yours, it seems.”
Valentine paused just long enough for Sylva to register the insult before her smile returned and she stood. “Now, it seems like the battle is about to begin, and I don’t want to distract you from your teammates’ first duel. Let’s hope he can live up to the hype.” Valentine turned as though intending to leave without letting Sylva get a word in edgewise. Sylva’s words cut through the air—sharp, crisp, and enough to ensure that only Valentine could hear them.
“You’re a good fit for Meris. You are bold, imperious, and clearly capable. And yet,” Sylva said, looking at the woman with a pity that cut like a wound, “you still don’t get it.”
Valentine paused in her movement away from Sylva, hesitating as she waited for an explanation. “You think that Rovan Khal chose some nobody Kiel to be his champion? That the [Triumvirate of the Broken Crown] chose that same nobody Kiel to mentor? It seems that you have the same weakness as Meris. Your pride blinds you to the truth before your eyes.” Sylva turned as Hadrian and Zelvarn emerged from doors at either side of the arena and the Justicar began to speak, announcing the start of the duel.
Sylva focused her gaze on Hadrian, dismissing Valentine as though the woman were no longer worth her time. “Now, watch and understand.”
Hadrian strode onto the sandy arena floor with deliberate steps, every movement a reminder of the training his parents had instilled in him.
He sensed Casselia in the room behind him—or at least close enough. After hours of training with her as she seamlessly shifted between combat styles and auras, he had come to realize that her true aura radiated steady confidence. He wasn’t sure if her presence was grand enough to register on Sylva’s new Silkborn perception, but he knew it was more than mere imagination. With her guidance, he felt unnaturally focused and alert—a feeling reminiscent of the overwhelming emotions once forced upon him by Luminaries’ fire, though he welcomed this newfound clarity.
Upon entering the arena, he spotted Sylva in the crowd alongside a woman he didn’t recognize immersed in quiet conversation. For a fleeting moment, he wondered about Krinka’s whereabouts, but quickly dismissed the thought. Now, nothing mattered but the fight ahead.
At the center, a woman in silver armor—her shoulders intricately carved with the image of a veiled figure—commanded the space. Hadrian felt Casselia’s warm, steady aura yield to the cold, impartial presence emanating from her. There was no doubt in his mind: she was the arbiter of the duel.
Opposite him stood the man he had chosen the night before—a shirtless figure whose rippling burn scars absorbed and refracted the arena’s light. Zelvarn gripped a shuttered lantern in one hand and a dueling rapier in the other, his calm gaze locking with Hadrian’s as they advanced toward the ring’s center.
A part of him longed to greet Zelvarn—to share a smile or a few words, as was customary in Cutra, where even combatants were not foes by nature. Yet Hadrian stifled that impulse. This was no familiar village square; soon, the name of Cutra would echo across the empire. Today, he would make his home proud.
At the arena’s center, Hadrian halted before the arbiter, locking eyes with Zelvarn. The woman recited the duel’s rules and explained the arena’s protections—nothing new beyond Casselia’s earlier briefing. When her routine speech ended, she stepped back, leaving the two combatants in tense silence as they awaited the gong’s call.
Hadrian was aware that outsiders might dismiss him as naive—an unschooled boy from the treetops who knew little of imperial politics or history. Yet when it came to combat with a peer, he was in his element. This was what Cutra had prepared him for, and he would not falter.
Zelvarn gripped the lantern as if it were an extension of his will. With deliberate motion, he slid off the cover, unveiling a blue flame dancing on a long wick. Adjusting his hold on the rapier, he assumed a combat stance, the raised lantern a silent ward against any encroaching threat.
Hadrian unsheathed the wooden sword Casselia had entrusted to him, with matching daggers secured at his hip for backup. He gripped the sword firmly, one hand ready while the other remained free. Though Casselia had warned him against using his bone weapons until they could challenge foreign control, he believed this fight—against a Penitent fire worshiper like Zelvarn—did not warrant that risk.
Then, with the resounding blast of a gong, the fight erupted into a burst of motion.
Hadrian surged forward, summoning a bone dagger into his open hand with a soft pop. At his command, his robe billowed, unleashing dense bursts of fog. In mere moments—before the gong’s echo faded—the dagger was already slicing through the air.
Zelvarn’s eyes followed Hadrian as he twisted gracefully to evade the airborne dagger. With each nimble dodge, the light from his lantern flared brighter. Hadrian felt the fire’s insistent push—a primal warning, as if a predator lurked rather than an equal opponent. Yet he shrugged off the flame’s feeble attempt at intimidation; this was no longer the Luminaries’ magic that once overwhelmed his senses.
Only a heartbeat later, a second dagger surged toward the spot where Hadrian anticipated Zelvarn would be. Zelvarn’s eyes widened in recognition of the threat; with a swift, precise slash of his sword, he deflected the dagger at the very last moment. The movement was not random—it was a perfectly executed pattern, a skill, Hadrian realized with sudden clarity.
A third dagger followed, blocked by another swift, decisive slash—confirming Hadrian’s growing suspicions about Zelvarn’s skill. Moving in a dance-like, yet determined manner, Hadrian advanced with three rapid steps before sidestepping as yet another dagger flashed toward the Penitent, who smoothly dodged the attack.
Closing the distance, Hadrian swung his wooden blade—feeling a thrum in his palm as a rapier deflected it. The lantern in Zelvarn’s hand blazed a warning; instinct screamed at him to retreat, for the lantern swung toward him like a club. Pivoting swiftly, he ducked beneath the strike, his sword snapping out to force the rapier into a defensive parry.
Hadrian felt the fog surge from his robe, each billow echoing the steady beat of his heart. He could almost hear his blood thump with every burst that veiled the arena. It didn’t unsettle him; he sensed the fog clinging to Zelvarn’s legs as the latter shifted and stepped back, drawing in a measured, deep breath.
Zelvarn exhaled a cone of blue flame, its searing heat flooding the arena and attempting to overwhelm Hadrian’s emotions. The raw terror in that fire nearly made him falter—his heart ached for the man who bore such anguish. What hardships had Zelvarn endured to summon such pure, unbridled fear?
Hadrian dove to the side, evading the encroaching flames as the swirling fog around him seemed to try and muffle their significance. Recovering swiftly, he summoned another bone dagger, letting its blade burst forth as his momentum continued.
In a flash, Zelvarn’s shield erupted in brilliant yellow as the Sulphen deflected Hadrian’s blade, halting it from piercing deep into his thigh. Startled, Zelvarn recoiled, but Hadrian was already closing the gap. His sword arced forward in a decisive strike even as Zelvarn frantically parried, the lantern held high like a makeshift shield. With a calculated move, Hadrian’s blade dipped beneath the lantern’s rim in a swift horizontal slash that Zelvarn tried to deflect.
In that instant, Zelvarn’s shield flared in brilliant orange as Hadrian’s blade, deflected by the swirling Sulphen, skittered harmlessly away. For a heartbeat, the arena held its breath as Zelvarn staggered back, his eyes wide with the shock of the near loss. Sensing the opening, Hadrian pressed forward with renewed determination, every step echoing the countless hours of training that had led him to this decisive moment.
Hadrian was about to end the fight when he felt a whisper of power fill the fog around him. The blue fire that Zelvarn had breathed clung to the mist, seeming to spark and swirl within it. He could feel every pulse of emotion as the fire fought against the fog from his robe and lost. Zelvarn stumbled back as the fog filling the arena began to spark with a blue fire that spoke of deep fear.
Zelvarn looked wildly between Hadrian and the sparking fog, confusion and fear evident in his wild eyes. Hadrian stepped forwards, swinging his blade in a low arc that drew Zelvarn’s rapier downwards to block. The spear Hadrian summoned and thrust with his free hand collided with Zelvarn’s glowing shield in a burst of crimson light.
The steady murmurs of the crowd faded into a hushed, silence as Hadrian stood, chest heaving and heart pounding in triumphant cadence. Every beat of his heart recalled the teachings of Cutra, the relentless discipline of his parents, and the sacrifices that had molded him into the warrior he was today. In that luminous aftermath, as Zelvarn’s form was shrouded in the fading red light, Hadrian silently vowed that this moment marked only the beginning of a destiny written in fire and bone.
He glanced over his shoulder and smiled as he saw Sylva’s standing form and wide, almost predatory grin. In that moment, he was certain that he had made Cutra and his friends proud. It was all that Hadrian had ever wanted.
Valentine of the Carvers Blood strode away from Sylva as the fight between the [Squire] and Penitent was beginning. She wasn’t concerned about missing the fight—not in an arena the size of Dornogor’s. It would take another handful of breaths for the Justicar to begin, more than enough time for her to position herself outside Sylva’s line of sight. She walked with certainty toward where Ulthgavar awaited her. It wasn’t difficult to identify Ulthgavar’s presence in the tent; his blood robes had filled entire chambers and hallways in Bonehold’s labyrinth with the sickly scent of iron and life essence. In an area like this, the robes practically screamed at those attuned to listen.
A gong sounded as she began to ascend the staircase toward Ulthgavar, prompting her to slow and turn to watch the fight. Hadrian gripped a single wooden blade with one hand and stood calmly, his Fog Robe swirling around him almost as though in anticipation. Valentine absently wondered if they could manipulate the terms of the deal so that Meris could win the robe as well as Hadrian’s class. Not that she thought such an endeavor was worthy of her political capital. If Meris wanted a Fog Robe, he could earn it himself. It wasn’t as though she would be the one to gain access to the garment.
As the fight started, the robe exploded in bursts of fog, pulsing outward in heaving gusts that slowly covered the arena floor with gray mist. Hadrian moved like a dancer through the mist, his footsteps seeming lighter than air as he pivoted. Valentine didn’t even see the first of the bone daggers until after the Penitent had deflected the knife. By the time the second and third knives had been parried, she began to suspect that this would be a far shorter fight than she had hoped.
Hadrian seemed to slide across the arena floor as he reached Zelvarn with a thrust that was deflected by the lantern, which the Penitent held like a shield. Valentine absently wondered what type of flame Zelvarn cultivated. The Penitent tended to choose a single type of flame—an “aspect of the Radiant Flame,” if you believed their religious prattle—and cultivate that flame to the exclusion of all else. She had never understood such a lack of ambition. Why settle for merely a single aspect of the greater whole?
As Zelvarn breathed out a cone of blue fire, Valentine felt a subtle sense of fear permeate the arena. The arena’s protections ensured that no harmful effects of the flame could breach the barriers, though they were designed to allow only cursory impressions so the audience could follow the fight. Fear was a fitting emotion for the Penitent man to cultivate. Valentine had always suspected that the Penitent were more afraid of displeasing Sunborn than of truly achieving greatness, and Zelvarn seemed content to follow in the august footsteps of the cowards who had come before him.
Hadrian dodged the flame and maintained pressure as though the fire had no effect at all—a quality she could respect. It wasn’t easy to ignore the almost feral intensity of a fire meant for the battlefield, yet Hadrian looked no more disturbed than when he had entered the tent. Valentine leaned forward, suddenly intent on the fight as the fog appeared to capture the blue flames. The fog pulsed with ripples of blue fire and sparks that cascaded in a torrent far stronger than the glow from Zelvarn’s lantern.
Heartbeats later, the fight was over and Hadrian turned back toward the door he had come from as the Justicar pronounced him the victor and the fog quickly dispersed under her gaze. Valentine turned, striding furiously toward Ulthgavar’s seated form as the Blind held a basket of bones that he was meticulously breaking and sucking the marrow from. She sat, suppressing a flinch at the sound of a snap followed by a slurping noise.
“Are you done?” she asked, her voice as calm as a pool of ice. “I need to understand what we saw just now.”
Ulthgavar drew another deep, slurping pull from the broken bone in his hands before tossing it back into the basket with casual ease. He turned to her, and she eased her sudden unease. She still wasn’t used to interacting with one of the Blind. Valentine had been trained since childhood to read the microexpressions in her adversaries’ eyes. The subtle dilation and constriction of pupils, the meaning behind different blinks, and even the importance of sensing the presence of the Sulphen through the eyes—all proved useless when speaking with the Blind. Valentine suspected that her inability to control her impressions bothered her most about Ulthgavar’s lack of eyes and eyebrows. Not that her unease mattered, as long as he remained her teammate. He spoke in a soft tone, the edges of his words curling upward as if every utterance were a threat.
“The Sulphen recognized the [Squires] excellence and awarded him for it. What is simpler than that?” Ulthgavar grabbed another bone from the bucket at his side, snapping it with a sudden movement that sent shards of bone flying in all directions. Valentine flexed her will, and the shards moving toward her dropped to the floor as if their motion had been halted. Ulthgavar took another deep slurp of the marrow before continuing.
“He has a Legacy Skill related to Luminaries Fire. Is it any surprise that the tricks of the Penitent didn’t work on him? His combat art is the Veil of the Fogflare Moth, so it’s hardly unexpected that the Sulphen would appreciate the blend of his fog with the Penitent’s fire. It’s his new skill that we need to keep our eyes on.”
“New Skill?” Valentine asked, expectantly. A surge of frustration raced through her as Ulthgavar dropped his newest bone into the bucket and grabbed another, repeating the process of cracking and sucking on it while she waited. She was certain it was intentional, though she had yet to understand much of what Ulthgavar hoped to achieve with his actions.
“[Infuse Fog] is what the contract labels the ability, though the skill feels far closer to a Luminary skill than to one of Rovan’s ilk.”
“He is wasting his potential,” Valentine growled. “The [Squire of Carven Bone] seems uninterested in bone or carving at all. He does not deserve the power that was given him. We shall take it from him.”
“Valentine, Valentine, Valentine,” Chanvar’s sharp rebuke pulled her attention to the approaching skeletal man. She felt like an apprentice caught gossiping at his words, and a surge of anger welled up within her. She was far too old and far too capable to be treated like a mere child. “We have a solution to your woes already,” Chanvar continued. “Meris will beat that upstart two days hence, and you can take the class from him from there. We both know that with the gift of his new sword from our benefactor, Meris will win the dual—it’s why we started this farce in the first place.”
“Come now, Chanvar,” Ulthgavar said with a grin that exposed his sharpened teeth. “Hadrian just beat that penitent boy in a matter of heartbeats, and you can tell as well as I that Zelvarn was far from incompetent. Of all the Penitent in this tent, he has to be the strongest. You have so much confidence in our personal pile of silk.”
“You know as well as I that the Penitent is hardly the best group against which to compare Hadrian,” Chanvar replied, echoing Ulthgavar’s words with a smile that accentuated the sharp angles of his cheekbones until they seemed ready to break the skin. “The best of the Gondarians fled to the Silklands to make the great push toward reclaiming Hirion, while only the cowards stayed to worship at the feet of the Sunborn. Even all this time later, I find the old truths still hold true. Luminaries outperform the Penitent because cowardice is passed down in the blood. Besides, the [Squire] was always going to win; the Crownless would never have set up this challenge otherwise.”
“You argue our point, Chanvar,” Valentine said coolly. “Hadrian is capable and Meris’ victory is far from assured. What if Meris fails?”
“The Silkborn has been trained with a sword since he awoke two decades ago. His Lifestring was infused with the instincts and memories of blademasters and generals trained and honored by the Sect of Silken Grace. Moreover, he now wields a blade capable of causing true fear in the [Squires]’ heart—not that paltry fire’s attempt. You both underestimate your own teammate. Meris will win, and then you will all win the contest for the true prize of Dornogor this cycle. Our benefactor has declared that nothing less will be acceptable, and we dare not fall short of their expectations.”
“You still haven’t told us who this mysterious benefactor is,” Valentine said, no longer interested in continuing the argument at hand. She had been less than impressed with Meris ever since Chanvar insisted he join her Triumvirate. The Silkborn man was more arrogant than even some of the Blood—though that, she thought, was hardly deserved. When did they start valuing silk more than the true heritage of blood and bone? As far as she could tell, the choice hadn’t even been Chanvar’s; it had been passed down from some higher power in the Dion hierarchy. Valentine absently wondered if her parents were interfering. Who else would have the authority to command the Blood like this?
“I have not. You will earn that secret when you have earned real trust.” Chanvar looked around the tent, his face twisting into a grimace at the sight of a plainly dressed, dark-skinned woman standing near the Justicar and scanning the crowd. The woman gestured across the tent, and Sylva rose and moved in her direction as though summoned. After a moment’s hushed conversation, Sylva rose, gestured with her hand in an incantation, and spoke, her voice carrying easily across the tent as though amplified.
“[The Squire of Carven Bone] desires a real challenge following that display of dual combat. If you believe you may fare better, approach now and we shall determine the next challengers under the Justicar’s gaze, for none shall claim this has been unfairly done.”
As the tent began to stir with excitement and figures rose to approach and accept the challenge, Ulthgavar grabbed another bone from the bucket at his side, cracked it, and began to suck on the marrow. Valentine began to contemplate. No matter how confident Chanvar was in Meris’ performance, she was unwilling to risk her future on someone else’s success. She began tallying the bribes already tendered and those that would be needed next. At the very least, she would ensure that Hadrian wasn’t ready for Meris when the time came.
She would be the [Squire of Carven Bone], one way or another.