Sry short chapter!(^-^;
The city rose out of the mist like a broken god's crown.
Sothryn.
The Crucible.
I stood at the crest of the old road, breathing the sour tang of stone and steel carried on the autumn wind.
The walls stretched for miles—scarred black by ancient fires, patched with crude newer stones that didn't match the originals.
Above them, pennants flapped in the gray sky: the colors of a dozen kingdoms, a hundred noble houses, a thousand dead promises.
---
The gates yawned open, wide enough to march an army through.
Probably would, soon enough.
Guards in mismatched armor eyed the incoming crowds like farmers watching storm clouds.
No banners flew on their spears.
No loyalty.
Just survival.
---
I adjusted the strap of my pack across my shoulder and started down the road.
The crowd thickened the closer I got—swordsmen in battered mail, mages in pale robes, merchants hawking charms that wouldn't stop a real blade.
The air buzzed with tension.
False smiles.
Loose hands near hilts.
Every step a negotiation you didn't realize you were making.
---
Inside the city, it was worse.
The streets overflowed—warriors boasting over ale-stained tables, scribes hustling back and forth with scrolls tucked under their arms, healers sharpening needles and bartering for fresh bandages.
Everywhere, the smell of old blood.
Not visible.
Not obvious.
But thick in the cracks of the stone if you knew how to breathe deep enough.
---
The Crucible had been built for one purpose:
to gather the strongest and break them against each other.
Once it had been sacred.
Now it was just... hungry.
---
I found the quarter assigned for visiting swordsmen.
A cramped warren of barracks and lean-tos stitched together against the western wall.
At least the roof didn't leak.
Yet.
---
My assigned room was barely bigger than a closet.
A narrow cot shoved against the wall.
A single trunk with a cracked iron lock.
A small window no wider than my forearm slit open the gray light into a thin blade across the floor.
---
I dropped my pack.
Sat on the cot.
Let the silence settle.
---
From here, I could hear the city breathing.
The low murmur of a thousand ambitions sharpening themselves.
The distant ring of steel against steel.
The barking of instructors.
The prayers of those too weak to admit their fear aloud.
---
I closed my eyes.
Let the sounds fill me.
Let the weight of the place settle into my bones.
---
They would come for me.
Not just in the arena.
Not just with sanctioned matches and official duels.
---
The nobles hated me.
I could feel it already in the way the couriers whispered when they saw my name scratched on the registry.
**Atlas Westenra.**
No grand House now.
Just a ruin wearing a name.
---
To them, I was a sickness.
A rot that dared to survive when it should have bled out quietly.
A reminder that bloodlines weren't enough.
---
I smiled without meaning to.
Let them hate.
Hate made people stupid.
Made them sloppy.
Made them weak.
---
I leaned back against the cold stone wall, feeling the ache in my ribs stir from the long walk.
The bruises under my skin from the last assassin still hadn't fully faded.
The scar across my thigh still ached in the rain.
---
Good.
Pain was real.
Pain reminded you that you were still breathing.
Still fighting.
---
Someone banged a pot down in the hall.
A roar of laughter followed.
The tension didn't ease.
It just hid deeper.
---
They thought the Continental Duels would decide the future.
Crown new heroes.
Unite the kingdoms.
---
Fools.
The Crucible wasn't a coronation.
It was a furnace.
And furnaces didn't make kings.
They made ashes.
---
I reached into my coat pocket.
Fingers brushed against the small silver ring I'd taken off the dead mage on the road.
Still cold.
Still heavy.
---
A broken chain symbol etched into the band.
A quiet reminder:
Freedom was a myth.
Everyone was chained to something.
Honor.
Pride.
Fear.
---
Me?
I was chained to the simple, stupid, savage will to outlive everyone who said I shouldn't.
---
The Crucible would take many things from me.
I knew that.
My blood.
My breath.
Maybe even what scraps of mercy I had left.
---
But it wouldn't take my fangs.
Not until they shattered them trying.
---
The bell atop the Tower of Arms tolled once.
A deep, heavy note that vibrated through the stone and into my chest.
A signal.
The opening of the first muster.
Registration for the initial matches.
---
I stood.
Rolled my shoulders.
Checked the weight of my sword at my hip.
Flexed my fingers once, twice.
---
Then I stepped out into the gray-lit hall.
Out into the Crucible's shadow.
Out into war.