Alison's arms spread wide in a gesture of full theatrical grace. He drew a slow breath and released it as sound.
"Standing in the name of the Prosecution—"
His voice filled the arena without strain.
"Mantled under the title: Titan of Valor. Twenty-six Flag Honours. Six Black Campaigns. Thirty-two Spiral Runs. Thirty-two confirmed fatalities."
Silence.
"High Lore — Viren of the Iron Veil. The Eighteenth of the Thirty-Eighth."
The sceptre turned in his hand, pointing toward the Blue Entrance.
Footsteps answered.
Soft. Measured. Echoing from the dark corridor with the unmistakable cadence of a man who had long since stopped being in a hurry.
He emerged into the light.
Tall. Broad. Silver-reinforced armour caught the arena glow, the golden Scarab of House Artyr embedded deep within the chest plate. His cloak drifted behind him as though the ground itself resisted releasing each step. The feathered helm rested beneath one arm.
Behind him walked a veiled woman in midnight silk, a Sol-Glass Crystal burning softly at her throat. Beside her strode Elder Riven Nyxvalis of House Artyr, his expression arranged into the careful neutrality of a man who had recently made decisions he intended never to discuss.
Six knights followed in black cloaks, perfectly spaced, perfectly aligned.
The first carried the Honours Flag.
The second bore a siege hammer whose sheer weight revealed itself in the way he moved.
The remaining four formed a moving wall.
Every eye in the arena followed the procession without even pretending otherwise.
High above, within the stand of House Roa, Elder Myra allowed herself a brief, satisfied smile.
Then she noticed the equipment.
Astral silver plating.
Those were not what she had requisitioned.
The smile vanished before anyone near her could fully register it. Her gaze cut across the arena toward Elder Mirell, whose expression mirrored her own almost instantly.
Riven.
That treacherous fool.
Myra's gaze shifted — seeking another, then another — until it found Garrek already watching her.
She turned away with the composed dignity of someone who had seen nothing worth acknowledging.
"They're planning something," Garrek murmured.
Beside him, Kael leaned back in his seat. "Aren't they always?"
Garrek's gaze drifted back toward Myra, making no effort to conceal it.
"Perhaps."
Below, the procession reached its mark.
The first knight stepped forward and planted the Honours Flag to Viren's left — a branching tree with six wings spread from its frame, the Mantle of the Iron Veil set at its centre.
A second banner followed.
Then a third. And a fourth.
The Wing. The Moon. The Blade.
Two were heavy with Honours.
The Wing was conspicuously bare.
A fifth displayed the crests of foreign Houses — respect earned through favours rendered beyond Nyxvalis borders.
The sixth carried the Imperial crest, already etched with three golden sigils.
The second knight set the siege hammer to Viren's right.
Then his lady approached.
With practiced hands she drew his cloak into place, adjusting its fall with the ease of long repetition. Then she stilled.
For a moment, their foreheads touched.
Brief.
Deliberate.
A private ritual conducted in public without apology.
Then it was done.
She withdrew.
The knights stepped back.
Riven turned away without ceremony.
The procession dispersed to its assigned positions and cleared the arena floor.
At a gesture from the Herald, the array beneath Viren ignited.
Light surged upward — deep blue and dense — spiralling outward into layered rings that spread across the arena floor, humming with the resonance of ancient mechanisms waking from long disuse.
The Elders above went still.
The crowd, already silent, discovered a deeper register of it.
The array processed.
Measured.
Then a sphere of dark blue light erupted beneath the Herald's feet, shooting skyward before bursting into fine threads of ancient Nyxvalis script. Precise. Beautiful. Mercilessly functional.
The words unfolded across the open air above the arena.
Assessment A
Gate Activity: Low
Current Output: Below A-Below Critical (Stable)
Blood Current Levels: 7 / 254 (Normal)
Heart Rate: 42 bpm (Normal)
Blood Circulation: Stable / Current Circulation: Stable
Overall: PASS
Assessment B
Cognitive Function: Standard / High
Exhaustion Levels: Low / Null
Collapse Threshold: 0.003%
Foreign Supplements: None / Anomalies: None
Overall: PASS
Assessment C
Mantle Activity: Null / Mantle Blade Activity: Null
Arcane Grafts: 1
Secondary Augmentations: Standard
Secondary Equipment Assessment: Standard
Overall: PASS
To the crowd, the results were reassuring — clean numbers, a veteran in peak condition carrying immense combat weight.
To the Elders, they marked the arrogance of a fool.
A man too proud to accept aid when it had been offered.
"And now…"
Alison's hand drifted toward the opposite side of the arena.
"Standing in the name of the Accused—"
His eyes gleamed.
"Mantled under the title: The Silver-Eyed Calamity. Zero Honours. Zero recorded missions. The youngest Mantled in thirty-nine generations."
The crowd leaned forward.
Alison's gaze followed the movement, feeding on it.
"Chion Nyxvalis. Eighteenth of the Thirty-Ninth."
The sceptre angled toward the shadowed entrance.
And with it, every expectation in the arena turned toward the dark.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Nothing.
A second passed.
Then another.
Still nothing.
The silence shifted.
Murmurs rippled through the distant rows.
…where is he?
…had he fled?
…could he even flee?
Below, Alison frowned ever so slightly, careful not to let genuine irritation breach the performance. The crowd's attention cut into him as though he were personally responsible for the delay.
He sighed softly, recalibrating.
Then his gaze lifted.
Beyond the Fall of Barbel.
Beyond the arena.
To the dual-moon nexus hanging above the heavens.
A faint smile touched his lips as silver light reflected against crimson eyes.
Seven minutes.
Seven until it reached its peak.
And then — regret.
How poetic.
The smile sharpened.
He raised his hand, extending two fingers — little finger and ring — before snapping.
The crack split through the arena.
Above them, an hourglass of crimson light erupted into existence. Its form stabilised as streams of glowing sand began gathering within the upper chamber.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Alison announced, his composure once again immaculate, "it seems the accused is in no rush… choosing instead to measure his life against the clock."
He allowed the words to linger.
"And thus… we wait."
Another snap.
The sands began to fall.
Across the arena, Viren did not move.
He stood like a pillar driven into stone, silent and disciplined, only his eyes rising to follow the descending sands.
The crowd did not share his restraint.
Low voices spread through the stands — subdued beneath the presence of greater powers, yet impossible to suppress entirely. Glances passed between strangers. Speculation moved in uneven waves. Mockery followed close behind it.
High above, the Elders remained untouched.
No movement.
No reaction.
Not even the courtesy of visible interest in what transpired below.
Garrek remained motionless.
So did the Heavens.
Each occupied by their own silent calculations, all welcoming the additional seconds.
But farther down that same column, the Thirty-Ninth was beginning to unravel.
Not through whispers.
Not through rank.
Through absence.
Of the forty-seven seats meant to be occupied, two remained empty.
One was expected.
The other was not.
At first it passed unnoticed — merely another gap within a failed generation reduced to forty-seven survivors.
Then someone noticed.
Then another.
Eyes began to move.
Quietly at first.
Then more frequently.
Between rows.
Across ranks.
The Thirty-Eighth noticed.
The Thirty-Ninth felt it.
Attention settled upon the empty place.
And did not leave.
Leah sat among them, sixth designation from the top. Her posture remained straight, her expression carefully composed.
To any observer, she appeared calm.
Inside, she was anything but.
Cold sweat gathered beneath her skin as pressure built with every passing second. She was too close to them — too close to the Thirty-Eighth, too close to the upper ranks of her own generation.
Still, she kept her gaze forward.
Feigning ignorance.
Holding perfectly still.
But the glances kept coming.
Sharp.
Lingering.
Curious.
They were beginning to connect the absence.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Where the hell are you, Violet…