Liora's voice echoed like a persistent ghost in the hollow chambers of Dot's mind: *"Keep going. Sooner or later, life will give you a reason to, Just keep living Dot."*
Dot clenched his jaw, fury boiling beneath his skin. All he had ever tasted was death—its metallic tang on his tongue, its cold weight draped across his shoulders like an unshakeable shadow. It followed him through every battlefield, every blood-soaked night. *Why should someone like me ever deserve a reason to live?* The question burned in his thoughts, sharp and merciless.
Boldr rose abruptly from his seat, summoned by the king's urgent call. Without a backward glance, he strode away, his heavy boots echoing down the corridor. Moments later, the stone platform beneath Dot groaned open with a low, grinding rumble. Chains clinked as guards shoved him forward. He stepped into the descending chamber; the platform sealed above him like a tomb lid, plunging him into suffocating darkness.
**The Capital**
Sylric and Yiva arrived in the heart of the sprawling capital just as the morning sun crested the high walls. The streets thrummed with life—merchants hawking spiced meats, children darting between legs, and everywhere the restless murmur of a crowd drawn by spectacle. Word had spread like wildfire: a trial by combat would decide the fate of the accused. The great stadium loomed ahead, its tiered stone seats already filling with eager spectators.
Yiva without warning, she broke into a run, weaving through the throng toward the best vantage points high in the stands. "Come on!" she called over her shoulder.
Sylric hesitated, scanning the sea of faces for her bright hair. For a heartbeat he lost her. Then, shaking off the distraction, he turned and slipped away in the opposite direction—toward shadowed alleys and forbidden doors.
**The Cells**
In the damp underbelly of the palace, iron keys clanged as guards secured Dren in his cell. He sank onto the cold stone bench, silent, staring straight ahead. Across the narrow corridor, in the opposite cell, Vespers stood rigid against the bars, her knuckles white around the iron.
"That bastard," she hissed to herself, voice low and venomous. "How dare he turn on me. He'll pay. I swear it."
"Shut up," Dren muttered, resting his head against the rough wall. "I need absolute quiet."
Vespers whirled toward him. "This is *your* fault, you know. Guards! Move me to another cell—anywhere away from this traitor!"
Dren gave a tired chuckle that held no humor. "What's the use? You're still getting exactly what you want. You want the kid dead. It's only a matter of time before Boldr finishes the job."
Vespers yanked at her chains, metal scraping against stone. "I'm going to escape this pit. I'll contact the Allthing council. They'll burn this whole rotten court to the ground."
**the palace**
Sylric moved like a wraith through the castle's forgotten passages. Torchlight flickered on damp walls as he dispatched two guards with swift, silent precision—one felled by a precise strike to the throat, the other crumpling under a chokehold. Their bodies slumped quietly to the stone.
Far below his feet lay the prison block. He could almost feel the pulse of the cells beneath him—Dren's weary resignation, Vespers' seething rage.
**Somewhere in the Palace**
Boldr pushed open a heavy oak door. Inside the dim royal bedchamber, the king lay propped against silk pillows, his once-mighty frame wasted by illness. Servants and healers hovered like anxious shadows.
"Out," Boldr commanded, voice low but iron-hard.
They fled without protest, robes whispering as they vanished.
The king managed a weak, rattling laugh that dissolved into a wet cough. "I see you've taken a liking to bossing people around."
Boldr approached the bedside. "It's more fun than ruling the way you do. Look at you—death has you in its grip, brother."
Another cough wracked the king's body. "I'm tired of fighting. I want to rest."
"Don't say that." Boldr's voice stern, just slightly. "That's a bad omen."
"You know I have what Father had." The king's eyes, fever-bright, met his brother's. "The same wasting sickness. I'm done."
Boldr leaned closer. "The old man wasn't half as strong as you. Just keep fighting."
"Brother… the gods chose you for war, and me for peace so they say, I've lived a peaceful life am done. The king rasped
"No more." The king reached out a trembling hand. "I called you here because of the dreams—recurring, vivid, closer to death with every night. Promise me something, Arthur."
Boldr stiffened at the use of his true name.
"When I'm gone, train my eldest son to lead. He's foolish now, reckless—but time will temper him. He'll be needed. A war is coming, worse than anything we've faced."
"The Green Woods skirmish?" Boldr scoffed. "Their army is rabble. Chickenshit compared to ours."
The king shook his head slowly. "Not them. Something deeper. You feel it too—the end approaching, the unworldly reign, the rise of the Infernal Monarch. Promise me."
Boldr looked away, jaw tight. The room seemed to grow colder.
**The Stadium**
Thousands packed the great stadium, a roaring sea of faces under the open sky. Thunderous drums rolled across the arena, shaking the stone benches. Yiva had claimed a high seat, leaning forward, eyes wide with anticipation.
The massive wooden gates—tall as giants—creaked open. Silence fell like a blade. The accused emerged: Dot, wrists still bound in heavy chains, stepping into blinding sunlight.
The judge's voice boomed. "We gather to judge by trial of combat the man known as Dot, the Accused! Charged with the massacre of innocents! Let the gods decide his guilt!"
The crowd erupted. "Kill him! Kill the monster!"
Another gate groaned open. Dot turned, eyes narrowing. His opponent stepped forth.
Boldr strode into the arena, a towering figure clad in dark armor, hefting a monstrous double-headed axe that gleamed wickedly in the light. The stands exploded in cheers and screams.
Dot's gaze locked on him, fury blazing. Boldr swung the axe in a casual arc; the sheer force of the swing snapped Dot's chains like thread. Iron links clattered to the sand.
"Give him a weapon," Boldr ordered.
A guard hurried forward, Dot's sword in his hands.
Boldr planted his feet, axe resting on one shoulder. "One more time, kid. How do you plead for your crimes?"
Dot spat blood onto the sand. "Go to hell."
A feral smile curved Boldr's lips. He raised the axe high.
With a single, thunderous swing, he unleashed a shockwave of raw power. The air itself screamed. The invisible force slammed into Dot like a battering ram, hurling him backward. His body crashed against the far wall of the arena with bone-jarring impact, then slid down in a heap.
Dot coughed, crimson flecking his lips. Pain exploded through his ribs. His vision blurred as darkness crept in at the edges.
*What kind of monster is this?*
The world tilted, and unconsciousness claimed him.
To be continued