The Crucible was different now.
No cheers.
No jeering.
No drunken bets.
Just the slow, grinding hunger of something old and dying, waiting to be fed again.
---
I stood at the edge of the blood-blackened boards, cloak heavy on my shoulders, sword loose in my hand.
The bell above the muster ground tolled once.
The survivors gathered.
No more than ten of us now.
Broken.
Bleeding.
Breathing harder than before.
---
The herald's voice cracked across the cold morning air.
---
"Second rounds! Number **877**, Atlas Westenra! Step forward!"
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I moved.
---
Across from me, a lean swordsman in dark blue plate shifted his weight, stretching his neck with a slow, easy pop.
No name.
No history.
Just another grave waiting to be dug.
---
The bell tolled.
The match began.
---
He came fast — no hesitation.
A spinning cut aimed for my ribs.
---
I slipped the first strike.
Parried the second.
Felt the third kiss across my shoulder — a shallow line of fire.
---
He pressed harder.
Speed.
Precision.
A storm trying to drown me.
---
Good.
---
I breathed.
Sank low.
Found the rhythm hidden inside the chaos.
---
His pattern broke at the fifth strike — too wide, too slow.
I stepped inside the arc of his blade.
---
Pommel to the chin.
Knee to the gut.
Blade across his thigh.
---
He dropped, gasping.
Blood spraying across the boards.
---
I placed my sword lightly against his throat.
Waited.
---
The herald called it.
"Victor — Atlas Westenra!"
---
I stepped away before the clerk even reached to lift my hand.
---
No glory.
No boasting.
Just breathing.
Bleeding.
Waiting.
---
The matches continued.
One after another.
Fewer and fewer.
---
And then her name was called.
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"Number **802**, Serenya Velinthra!
Versus Number **711**, Caelis Drayne of the Frost Marches!"
---
The crowd shifted.
Tension thick enough to taste.
---
Caelis Drayne.
The monster.
The half-step Platinum hidden among the golden rank.
The dark star the other kingdoms had pinned their hopes on.
---
I leaned forward slightly, watching.
Breath caught in my chest without permission.
---
Serenya stepped onto the field.
Gray cloak rippling.
Sword gleaming.
Face carved from ice.
---
Caelis was already there.
Tall.
Broad.
Armor black as void.
Eyes cold as a starless night.
---
No words.
No gestures.
Just blades raised.
Breath held.
---
The bell tolled.
---
Caelis moved first — not a charge, not a wild strike.
A slow, deliberate step forward.
A high guard, blade humming with quiet power.
---
Serenya didn't flinch.
She moved like snow falling —
—step, pivot, breath—
—cutting the air without wasting a heartbeat.
---
Their blades kissed once.
Twice.
Three times.
Sharp, clean notes across the silent field.
---
Each clash heavier than the last.
---
Serenya pressed inside —
—cut low for his knee.
Caelis countered, blade slashing across her guard.
---
Steel screamed.
Sparks scattered.
---
Serenya's foot slipped slightly in the blood-slicked boards.
---
A heartbeat.
A mistake.
---
Caelis moved.
Faster than I would have believed possible for something so heavy.
---
His sword crashed against her guard.
Bone-shaking.
Blood-wrenching.
---
Serenya staggered.
Righted herself.
---
Came again.
---
She fought like a storm held tight inside a teacup — furious and disciplined at once.
But Caelis was the ocean.
The tide.
The slow, grinding weight of inevitability.
---
Blow after blow drove her back.
Every parry heavier.
Every breath shorter.
---
I saw it.
Saw the strain in her shoulders.
The tremor in her fingers.
The crack forming behind the ice of her eyes.
---
She lunged once more —
—a beautiful, desperate strike meant to sever the chain.
---
Caelis shifted aside.
Effortless.
Inevitable.
---
His blade swept low.
Caught her behind the knee.
---
Serenya gasped.
Fell.
---
The tip of Caelis's sword touched her throat before she could rise.
---
The herald's voice was raw.
"Victor — Caelis Drayne!"
---
A ripple ran through the muster grounds.
Not cheers.
Not jeers.
A low, hungry sound.
The sound wolves made when they scented fresh meat.
---
Caelis stepped back.
Lowered his sword.
Didn't gloat.
Didn't speak.
Just nodded once — sharp, almost respectful.
Then turned away.
---
Serenya lay still for a moment longer.
Breathing hard.
Staring at the gray sky.
---
Then she rose.
Sword in hand.
Pride intact.
Dignity unbroken.
---
She walked off the field without limping.
Without bowing her head.
Without looking back.
---
I watched her go.
Felt something heavy and cold settle behind my ribs.
---
Not pity.
Not fear.
Just... the understanding of how close the storm had come to swallowing her whole.
---
The herald's voice rang out again.
---
"Three remain!"
---
I stepped forward.
Stood beside Serenya.
Beside Caelis.
---
The final blades.
The last fangs in the Crucible's maw.
---
The air vibrated with tension.
Coins flashed between trembling fingers.
Odds shouted.
Bets placed.
---
But none of it mattered.
Not now.
---
I looked at Caelis.
He looked at me.
---
And in his eyes, I saw it.
---
Not rivalry.
Not respect.
Hatred.
Pure.
Raw.
Simple.
---
The will to kill me.
Not defeat.
Not humble.
Not warn.
Kill.
---
I breathed out slowly.
Rolled my shoulders.
Felt the crack in my ribs shift and burn.
---
Good.
---
Better to see the storm coming.
Better to know the knife before it finds your back.
---
Tomorrow, we would fight.
Tomorrow, the Crucible would drink deeper than ever.
---
But tonight...
---
Tonight, the wolves sharpened their teeth.