Of golden eye

And a certain dream

The Bright Lord fills the board…

Pawns and Kings

Knights and Queens

Slain and reborn by the sword…

 

A faint breeze kicks up the dust of the coliseum as Delphius locks eyes with Maelaezel, and the Kingdom of Eltias reverberates with tension. Adjacent to the monarch's box, she smiles, overlooking a scene of both awe and dread. The once-empty seats surrounding them now teem with members of Chao's various royal families, their breaths bated as they bear witness to the grim spectacle unfolding on the hallowed arena floor.

A gasp, heavy with desperation, escapes his assailant's lips as Delphius clutches her tightly. Her gauntlets, like talons, claw frantically at his unyielding grasp that encircles her throat. A battleaxe lies solemnly on the dusty ground, the story of the preluded skirmish beaten into its blade. Tears cascade down the Ascendant’s face, her chestnut complexion now marred by an unsightly shade of purple, as life drains from her fragile form.

High above in the stands, Sonorah’s Lady Simlia kneels in supplication before Maelaezel. Her hands clasp together fervently, beseeching Maelaezel for mercy.

"Maelaezel, please! Aszlinda is one of my most valiant warriors!"

Maelaezel’s tone belies her somber expression as she responds to the highborn in an almost delighted manner.  "I'm sorry, my dear, the situation is no longer in my hands."

A grim smile tugs at Maelaezel's lips as she nods subtly at her vassal on the arena floor. Simlia turns away, seeking solace in the quivering embrace of her own trembling hands, her countenance a fragile veil hiding her profound sadness and lingering shame.

A hundred pairs of eyes converge upon Delphius as he redirects his gaze toward his prey. The Ascendant, though fading, still pleads for her life through her emerald eyes, a color that wanes with each passing moment.

"I wish I could commend your valor in battle," Delphius’s voice reverberates with chilling finality. "However, the flaws in your defense must be rectified before I can permit you to enter the fray once more."

Aszlinda’s life hangs by a thread, she struggles to mouth a single silence-etched plea.

"Please." 

Impermeable to her desperate entreaties, Delphius tightens his grip, channeling the light of Sethir into his hand, driving cracks of light cascading up her neck and across her face. With an act both tragic and irreversible, he crushes Aszlinda's throat, extinguishing the flickering ember of her life.

A deafening silence descends upon the crowd, an eerie shroud that envelops their collective gasps and stifled cries. As Aszlinda's lifeless body crumples to the unforgiving ground, formless wisps of Sethir, like spectral tendrils, flow from the fading cracks on her neck, converging upon Maelaezel's sword spear. The blade, embraced by this haunting cascade of pale radiance, emanates a low hum and a spectral glow.

The coliseum floor stirs with frenzied activity as two attendants rush forward to drag away the corpse of the fallen warrior. The Summa Rudis, an authoritative figure donning an ornate blue and gold robe, takes the stand, his voice booming through the vast arena.

“The next match shall be a clash of titans! Delphius, the indomitable Challenger, shall face Feylania of Icarus! Prepare yourselves, for the spectacle shall commence in a mere fifteen minutes!”

Simlia, her eyes welling with tears, rises from her seat, turning her gaze towards Maelaezel. An innocent smile dances upon Maelaezel's lips, a stark contrast to Simlia's somber profile.

"You have indeed trained him well, my Lady. I wish you and Delphius the utmost success throughout the tournament’s remainder." Simlia's bittersweet voice trembles with restrained emotion. 

"Oh, Simlia, are you not staying to witness the excitement?" Maelaezel responds coyly.

"Forgive me, my Lady. I believe I have witnessed enough death for one day."

With a respectful bow, Simlia swiftly departs from the stands, desperately trying to maintain her composure as she flees the arena. 

Leaning over his right-most armrest, the voice of Gethrum, an older Eltain gentleman adorned in a decorative, navy military garb permeates Maelaezel’s tranquility. 

“Bit of a weak stomach on that one, eh?”

Maelaezel, deeply offended by Gethrum's intrusion, fixes him with an icy gaze, her senses alert to his every movement and expression. The sharp lines etched upon his weathered face speak of countless battles fought, his calloused hands and firm posture attesting to a lifetime of military discipline. She catches her eyes reflecting on his medal-adorned chest. However, his mead-stained breath and gaunt yellow eyes cause the maiden to recoil in disgust. 

"I beg your pardon, who are you again? Maelaezel retorts.

Gethrum, taken aback by Maelaezel's response, bristles with animosity. "Why, I..."

Hylidia, Gethrum's companion, interjects with a gentle reprimand. "Gethrum, please. You are unsettling the poor lady."

Turning her attention to Maelaezel, Hylidia offers a conciliatory smile. "Do forgive my dear Gethrum. He has a tendency to lose his composure at such events."

Maelaezel, with piqued curiosity, raises an eyebrow and muses, "Ah, Gethrum of House Aelthun. That would make you Lady Hylidia, I presume?"

Hylidia’s expression softens at Maelaezel’s response. "Indeed, a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss…?"

"Maelaezel."

Hylidia pauses for a moment in an attempt to determine the proper reply "What an intriguing name you possess. Pray tell, from which family do you hail?"

Maelaezel's gaze turns distant for a moment before she responds cryptically, "Family? It would appear that we have no need for one."

"What!? No family? Then how can you partake in this tournament? You have no bloodline to defend, no glory to uphold! How did they even allow your squire to enter without a battle to his name?" Gethrum exclaims in shock at this sudden revelation. 

Hylidia offers a frustrated whisper to her husband in an attempt to diffuse the tension, "Gethrum, please."

Raising her hand, Maelaezel dismisses Hylidia's concern. "Rest assured, Lord Gethrum, there is much at stake for both my vassal and myself in this so-called 'Tournament of Champions.'"

Her white, satin gloves cover her soft, pale lips as she exhales a faint chuckle. "What a joke…"

"You dare mock the time-honored traditions of House Aelthun, you unblooded, highborn miscreant? Know that the blood and sweat of my ancestors saturate the very foundation of this arena. The coliseum stands as a testament to the sacrifices of my family. You dare spit upon the face of all we have built?!" Gethrum explodes with a fiery passion. 

Unfazed by Gethrum's outburst, Maelaezel meets his fury with steely resolve. "For what it's worth, Gethrum, I merely suggest that this year's so-called 'champions,' compared to my own soldier, are nothing more than expendable pawns. They exist only to be vanquished by my thrall and reborn in the light of something far greater than your feeble comprehension."

Both Gethrum and Hylidia stare at Maelaezel in disbelief whilst she continues her verbal assault.

"And mark my words, as the fights unfold, it will become abundantly clear to you just how inconsequential your so-called strength truly is."

With a sudden jolt, Maelaezel lurches over her chair, pressing her face inches away from Gethrum's own. Her eyes and countenance grow void of color and a maze of light-drenched fissures begin running through her body.

"By day's end, more of your family's blood shall stain this desolate coliseum. Your heart shall twist and break as the agony inflicted by my hand befalls your kin. You and your lineage know nothing of true power, nothing of real battle, nothing of sacrifice. We are not the same, Aelthuns."

A chill runs down Gethrum’s spine as Maelaezel slowly turns back in her seat. The last of Maelaezel’s words ring clear through his mind like the Piety Bell on the day of sacrament. He shuffles his chair and clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. 

"Yes, well, if your Lord even manages to face my Caladin, you shall truly comprehend the indomitable strength of the Eltain lineage." Gethrum stammers.

Maelaezel, a sardonic laugh escaping her lips, replies with a hint of mocking amusement, "Oh, I am quite sure, Gethrum. I am indeed quite sure."

"Your attention please!" announces the Rudis, his voice booming through the grand coliseum. "The next battle will now commence. Please welcome Delphius, the Challenger!"

Emerging into the vast arena, Delphius is met with scarce applause. He gazes up at Maelaezel, their eyes locking in an exchange of intensity and anticipation.

"And now," continues the Rudis, "please welcome our Champion: Feylania of House Sastrugi!"

The crowd erupts into an uproar of cheers and jubilation as a tall, thin, leather-clad huntress emerges gracefully from the shadows of the Coliseum cells.

Her visage is partly obscured by long brown hair, but her piercing blue eyes remain fixed on Delphius as she stands firm on the edges of the arena, sizing up her opponent. Delphius takes note of the sigil sewn into her cuirass, depicting a Menecervine, the emblem of House Sastrugi.

Time himself seems to cease his endless flow, allowing Delphius and Feylania to assess their opposition in the charged silence of the arena. Satisfied, Delphius takes a measured step forward, and the collective breath of the crowd resumes.

Responding, Feylania quickly nocks and fires two arrows. 

Swift and nimble, Delphius expertly dodges both projectiles.

She whistles, and the second bolt swiftly returns, jabbing him behind the knee. 

Unperturbed, he retrieves the arrow and snaps it in half before continuing his deliberate approach. 

Feylania nocks three more arrows, releasing them straight at his head.

He artfully evades the first two, narrowly escaping the third arrow that whizzes past his face. 

Feylania's whistle commands the third arrow to reverse its course, finding its mark in his shoulder this time. Undeterred, Delphius presses on, leaving the arrow in place as he continues his slow advance towards the huntress.

Feylania nocks four more arrows, loosing them one by one. Each shot meets Delphius's swift evasions until the last one again whizzes by him. Catching it this time, he holds it, eliciting fear in Feylania's eyes and causing a collective gasp from the mesmerized crowd. Delphius stands still, briefly studying the arrow, then turns his unwavering gaze back to Feylania, flicking the arrow back at her with such force that a sonic boom echoes through the arena, disintegrating the projectile before it can reach its mark.

Blood drips from Feylania's ears; trembling hands struggle to nock another arrow. A whisper of incantation escapes her lips before she fires the shot straight up into the sky. Moments later, a rain of arrows descends, intended to pin Delphius down. Confidence paints a nervous smile on Feylania's face as she believes she has the upper hand. Yet, unperturbed, Delphius looks up at the hail of projectiles, standing unflinching in their midst.

Gethrum's voice cuts through the tension, "Looks like your boy is finished. That’s Feylania’s signature move. Not a single soul has been spared from that deadly rain."

"Silence, you old fool. Just watch. My favorite part is coming up." Maelaezel commands.

As the arrows seem destined to deliver Delphius's defeat, he springs into action with astounding speed, leaving afterimages in his wake as he deftly evades each individual arrow with mere inches to spare. When the rain of arrows finally subsides, he finds himself face-to-face with the terror-stricken Feylania. Trembling, she drops her bow and raises her hands in a gesture of surrender.

Delphius commends her with a mix of admiration and intrigue, his voice resonating with a low timbre, "Good eye, kid."

Whispering in fear, Feylania asks, "What are you?"

Delphius pulls the arrow from his shoulder, taking a moment to inspect it before shifting his gaze back to Maelaezel, who nods curtly and offers a sly smile.

With an astonishing grip, Delphius crushes the arrow in his hand, then returns his attention to Feylania. To the left and the right, his neck bends, releasing a ripple of pops from within his spine. 

"Let’s hope you never find out."

He takes hold of her head, plunging his fingers deep into her eyes. The coliseum echoes with a bloodcurdling scream that rips through the air, sending waves of guilt through the skin of every spectator. The white flame of Sethir burns deep within Feylania's skull, forming a mosaic of cracks across her face and neck. Finally, with a forceful closure of his hands, Delphius shatters the young huntress's head like a delicate crystal, scattering shards of a once vibrant life onto the dusty floor of the arena.

The arena's revulsion hangs heavy in the air, a tangible presence that makes many spectators avert their eyes from the gruesome sight before them. Those who cannot turn away find their stomachs churning with unease.

Gethrum stands up from his seat, gripping the railing as his mouth hangs open in bewildered disbelief.

"No way..." he mutters, unable to comprehend the horrifying scene unfolding before him.

Maelaezel rises gracefully from her chair, her elegant gown cascading around her as she swiftly smooths its fabric with her hands.

"I hope my words ring a little more clear for you now, Gethrum," she states with authority. Now excuse me, I must take stock of my ward.

Without wasting a moment, Maelaezel walks past the Aelthuns, her demeanor exuding a personal brand of highborn arrogance. Gethrum's eyes, filled with dread, track her departure from the stands until she disappears from view, descending into the contenders' chambers.

In the dimly lit cell, Delphius sits on the cold stone floor, bracing his back against a makeshift bench formed by a stone slab. His head snaps towards the stairs as the faint sound of clicking heels reverberates through the holding area. Recognizing the distinct rhythm of his mistress's gait, he quickly lifts himself from the floor and assumes an attentive posture on the slab.

"My Lady, what brings you down here?"

Maelaezel takes one final step into the chamber, wasting no time scrutinizing her apprentice's appearance. The pungent odor of rust wafting from his armor twists Maelaezel's features into a harsh grimace.

"Have you no pity for that poor girl you brought home, Delphius?" she chastises.

"What do you mean?" 

Maelaezel's gaze remains fixed on the stains adorning his armor. "Your obliviousness astounds me, you absolute buffoon of a man. That unfortunate girl will have to spend the entire night trying to rid your armor of these unsightly stains."

Delphius sits in repentant silence, unable to craft a response. 

"Oh? Silent now, are we? Good," Maelaezel remarks. "For the sake of that poor girl and the reputation we uphold, I implore you to be less barbaric in your victories. We are here to set an example, Delphius."

"I thought we were here for-"

"Yes, yes, I am well aware of our purpose," Maelaezel interjects.

"Forgive me, my Lady," he replies, solemnly hanging his head in reflection. 

Maelaezel releases a deep sigh, her frustration momentarily subsiding. With a slow clap of her hands, she conjures a spear, its shaft materializing within the space between her palms. With a flourish of her wrist, she completes the weapon and presents it to Delphius, who stands in response.

"I am grateful, my Lady, but I have little need for a weapon. These foes are of little consequence," Delphius remarks.

Maelaezel's eyes narrow at his unsatisfactory response. "Are you determined to remain so dense in the face of my impending absence, Delphius?" she questions. "This weapon is not merely for the battles at hand. It is to ensure your appearance remains impeccable, as any warrior of my body will remain, even on the bloodied field of combat."

Delphius strides towards Maelaezel, his grip firm on the spear's base, as he looks directly into her achromatic irises. "Understood," he says, resolved.

Maelaezel nods, acknowledging his acceptance. She relinquishes the spear, and Delphius takes it into both hands. He inspects the weapon, familiarizing himself with its weight and balance, before securely fastening it to his back. Satisfied with his readiness, Maelaezel turns to leave. Without casting a glance in his direction, she inquires of Delphius once more as she approaches the stairs to exit.

"That last one, the huntress, she would make a good scout, don't you think? She seemed quite powerful," she muses, her words betraying a hint of curiosity.

Delphius ponders her question.  "I believe so, my Lady," he replies, oblivious to the flicker of emotion in his mistress's words

Maelaezel pauses her ascent for a moment, lost in deep contemplation. Finally, she asks,

"Are you alright, Delphius?"

Delphius stands in stunned silence, uncertain of how to acknowledge Maelaezel's unexpected interest in his well-being.

Deciding it best not to notice her sudden concern he replies in his typical composed manner "Yes, my Lady."

Maelaezel gazes into the light pouring down into the expanse, a myriad of emotions playing across her features. A response lingers on her lips, but she hesitates, her satin-gloved hands clenched into fists. Eventually, she relents, turning away from him and retracing her steps to rejoin the audience without uttering another word.