Sybil and the thralgar launched themselves forward, feet hammering against the platform. The fight would be decided in this exchange—no time for hesitation, no space for error.

  Steel screamed through the air, arcing for Sybil’s throat. "Evade. Roll forward." Sybil dropped, the command guiding his body before his mind caught up. He tucked his shoulder, rolling beneath the incoming blade as it cut through empty space. The rush of displaced air brushed his back, a near miss that could’ve been fatal.

  "Pivot. Roll to the side." He hit the ground, sword braced, and twisted sharply—not to strike, but to slip away again.

  The thralgar had been ready for a counter. He’d prepared to meet Sybil’s blade with his own. But when Sybil vanished instead, shifting beyond reach, confusion flickered across the warrior’s face.

  A heartbeat’s hesitation—that was all Elysian needed. "The leg. Strike." Sybil’s sword flashed. The steel bit deep into the thralgar’s thigh, slicing through muscle. A guttural snarl, a stagger. The thralgar’s knee buckled. Still, he roared through the pain, swinging wildly—too slow.

  "Pivot. Kick the back." Sybil twisted mid-step, weight shifting. The moment his opponent faltered, spine exposed, Sybil drove his boot into the center of his back.

  The impact sent the thralgar sprawling, crashing forward onto the wooden floor. Arms flailed, fingers digging for purchase, but his body refused to obey. His breath came ragged, desperate. Defeat settled over him like a crushing weight.

  Sybil planted his foot on the warrior’s back, sword poised just above him. His shoulders heaved, sweat trickling down his brow, lungs burning from exertion. Then—slowly—his lips curled into a grin, broad and triumphant. The rush of the fight still pulsed through his veins, a wildfire of energy that left him breathless but exhilarated. For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.

  The roar of victory erupted like a wildfire. Clan Draekthar surged forward, fists pumping, voices lifted in triumphant cries. They howled in celebration, their jeers aimed at Gulthram thick with smug satisfaction. But the losing side did not take the defeat quietly. A snarl of guttural syllables tore through the air—Gulthram warriors spitting words that Elysian didn’t understand, but their meaning was clear—resentment, coupled with fury.

  The air shifted. Excitement curdled into something hotter, dangerous.

  A thralgar shoved a Draekthar warrior, snarling through his teeth. Another snapped something sharp and venomous in return. Hands curled into fists. The space between them crackled with hostility.

  Elysian’s stomach turned. This was not just friendly competition anymore.

  Kaerthlyn stepped forward, barking out a command in their native tongue, sharp and forceful. Her voice cut through the noise like a whip, but it barely held. The younger warriors hesitated—only for the older ones to feed the growing fire. It wasn’t just the younger spectators now. The adults—the ones who should know better—had joined in.

  Elysian caught sight of a Draekthar warrior, broad-shouldered and snarling, lunge toward an older Gulthram with a pointed insult. He retaliated by spitting at his feet. The growing aggression leapt like embers catching dry leaves. All it would take was one shove—one strike. One spark.

  Sybil, still high off his victory, turned—and his grin vanished. He paled, eyes flicking between the brewing chaos and Elysian, realization crashing down on him.

  Elysian clenched his teeth, breath steadying.

  ‘Yup. This is getting out of hand. I stroked their competitive spirit, and now it’s burning out of control. If this spiral into a full-on brawl, there will be no talking my way out of it. I am already skating on thin ice with the trolls. If the Draekthar and Gulthram turn on each other here—at the heart of Vel?n Kralvek—it will be my fault. I need to snuff this out—fast.’

  Elysian’s gaze snapped to Thrynzak. The b*stard was watching from the side, arms folded, expression as smug as a fox in a henhouse. Their eyes met. Elysian didn’t need to say a word. His look was clear enough—help me stop this before it explodes. Thrynzak smirked. And did nothing. He just watched, amusement dancing in his eyes, as if delighted to see Elysian struggle under the weight of his own making.

  The noble grit his teeth, pulse hammering. The commotion was getting worse. More voices were rising. The space between the two sides was shrinking. Any second now, fists would fly, and then—

  ‘Where the hell are the leaders? Why aren’t they stopping this?’

  Elysian’s gaze swept over the crowd, pulse ticking faster.

  ‘Someone—anyone—who can put an end to this before it’s too late.’

  But there was no one. Of course, there wasn’t. He barely knew anyone here beyond the handful of faces he’d met today. Everyone else was either too invested in the fight or standing back, waiting—either for blood to spill or for someone else to take charge.

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  ‘Damn this. Do I need to do something crazy—’

  Then the air shifted. "The rootless wins." A voice, deep and commanding, cut through the rising heat of the gathering. It wasn’t a shout. It didn’t need to be. The words struck like a hammer on stone, ringing with weight, authority, and an unmistakable finality.

  The commotion died in an instant. The gathered thralgar and trolls went rigid. Some shuddered outright, others stiffened like prey caught in a predator’s gaze. Even the most defiant of them—those who had been on the verge of throwing the first strike—were frozen in place.

  The crowd parted. Elysian’s stomach dropped. Two figures strode through the opening throng, and he recognized them immediately. How could he not? Vrakdur of Clan Draekthar and Throrak of Clan Gulthram; the leaders of the two allied clans. Their presence alone carried an almost suffocating weight. Though they barely spoke, their mere approach was enough to bend the air itself, as if the air recognized them and yielded.

  ‘This just got worse.’

  Elysian inhaled sharply. He had wanted someone to step in, but he hadn’t wanted them. His gut tightened.

  ‘I’m already on Throrak’s bad side after earlier. Now, I’ve just humiliated his clan by proving a human—one of my own—could best them. If he takes this personally…’

  Elysian exhaled slowly. The shift in the crowd was immediate, and telling.

  Clan Gulthram shrank under Throrak’s scrutiny. Warriors who had been bellowing mere moments ago now stood stiffly, heads down, eyes locked on the ground. Their silence wasn’t out of respect—it was submission. Even Thrynzak, who had been the picture of smug amusement just a breath ago, was now expressionless, his usual bravado stripped away as he stared firmly at his own feet.

  On the other side, the Draekthar warriors stilled, but their posture remained loose, their shoulders squared. Their silence was out of deference, not fear. They acknowledged their leader’s presence, but they did not cower before it.

  Elysian absorbed the contrast immediately—the hierarchy, discipline and control. Gulthram obeyed because they had to while Draekthar followed because they chose to. He tucked the observation away for later. Right now, he had a much bigger problem standing in front of him.

  Throrak exhaled slowly, his eyes sweeping over his warriors—his people—as they stood with eyes downcast, silent beneath the weight of his gaze. His lip curled, amusement laced with something colder, sharper. "This is completely unexpected." His voice was smooth, almost idle, but it carried, pressing into the space. He let the silence stretch, savoring the discomfort. Then, his dark, piercing eyes flicked from Sybil—who tensed under the scrutiny—before settling fully on Elysian. The smirk on his face widened. "Ah… perhaps not entirely unexpected."

  There was something in his tone that made Elysian’s skin prickle. He felt it then—the weight of Throrak’s scrutiny. The thralgar’s stare wasn’t idle. It was assessing, digging past skin and flesh, peeling back layers to see what lay underneath. Elysian averted his gaze immediately.

  ‘Yup. More trouble coming. First the Matriarch, now this? Damn it. This has completely gotten out of hand.’

  Beside Throrak, Vrakdur had noticed exactly where his companion’s attention had landed. The Draekthar leader narrowed his eyes slightly, lips pressing together—before his usual easy smile returned. "Why are you taking such an interest in an ordinary rootless?" Vrakdur asked, his tone light but threaded with something watchful.

  "Ordinary?" Throrak echoed, arching a brow as he turned to him. "Is anything truly ordinary about someone your Matriarch has taken in as a guest? And a rootless, no less?" Vrakdur didn’t answer immediately, and Throrak let out a low, knowing laugh. "From where I stand, the real curiosity is why your Matriarch found a mere rootless worth her attention in the first place."

  Vrakdur chuckled, shaking his head. "When you put it that way, I suppose I can understand your curiosity," he admitted. Then, with a grin, he added, "But if you knew my grandmother the way I do, you might not think much of it."

  Throrak’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Really?" There was an edge to the question—not outright disbelief, but something sharper—calculating.

  Vrakdur realized his mistake immediately. He had called Thaldruna grandmother instead of her formal title—the Matriarch. In an official setting like this, especially between leaders, that was not a casual slip. And Throrak, ever perceptive, had caught it. Instead of deflecting his interest, Vrakdur had only stoked it.

  Suppressing a sigh, Vrakdur leaned into his misstep, straightening as he nodded. "Yes. The Matriarch has lived so long that I doubt there is much left in this world that she hasn’t already seen. Because of that, I’ve noticed she’s taken more interest in the mundane—things others would dismiss as ordinary."

  "Ah," Throrak murmured, a glint of understanding flickering behind his sharp gaze. His smirk returned, this time tinged with quiet amusement. "Now that you mention it, I’ve observed something similar in our Matriarch." He nodded to himself. "You may have a point."

  Vrakdur relaxed—just slightly—as he saw the shift in Throrak’s posture. That was his opening. With a knowing smile, Vrakdur gestured toward the halls beyond the gathering. "Why don’t we leave these young warriors to their competition and continue our discussion elsewhere?"

  Throrak considered the suggestion for a moment, then chuckled, low and thoughtful. "It’s rare that we get to participate in Draen’Volruk." His gaze drifted to the gathering of young warriors, his expression unreadable. After a pause, he exhaled, tilting his head. "If I remember correctly, the last time we were invited to the trial was long before I even became Gulthram’s clan leader." A slow smile crept across his face as he turned to Vrakdur. "Why don’t we stay and watch? See how the young ones fight. Might remind us of our own days when we were their age."

  Vrakdur didn’t hesitate. "The young ones might find it… uncomfortable having us observe so closely." His words were light, his smile polite—but his eyes held no mirth. "Let’s leave them to their business while we tend to ours. After all, there’s still the real festival to come, in honor of Thraugor’s protection and guidance over Kor’Morul and our people." His tone was smooth, reasonable. But Throrak wasn’t fooled.

  The Gulthram leader let the silence stretch between them, watching Vrakdur with open amusement. His smile didn’t waver, but something in his gaze sharpened, eyes crinkling at the corners like a wolf catching an interesting scent. "Vrakdur… why do I feel like you don’t want me watching this fight?"

  The shift was subtle, but immediate. Vrakdur stilled, shoulders tightening for a fraction of a second before he smoothly covered it.

  Throrak saw it. He felt it. He let the tension linger, enjoying the moment before chuckling under his breath. "I’m only joking." The words were easy, tossed out with feigned carelessness, but the glint in his eye said otherwise. Then, with a sweeping gesture, he motioned toward the gathered warriors—still stiff, still holding their breath in the presence of two clan leaders. "Come. Let’s enjoy ourselves. Must you always be so serious, thinking only of duty?"

  Vrakdur’s lips quirked, but his glance toward Elysian was brief and weighted. Then he sighed, rolling his shoulders before following Throrak to a vantage point.

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